I smirk, looking down into those eyes. And I’m possessed with the sudden urge to kiss her. Thoroughly.
But I shake it off—kissing in the kitchen isn’t what Sofia and I do. Instead, I confirm her inquiry about my limitless talents. “Not one.”
“Why don’t you ever grill in DC?”
“I don’t know—no time, I guess. And I forgot how much fun it is.” I stir the tin a few more times, then scoop some up with the spoon. Sofia stares at my mouth as I blow on it.
“Taste this.”
Her soft pink tongue ventures out first, hesitantly sampling, followed by her lips that wrap around the head of the spoon. When she moans, Christ, it goes straight to my dick—gets me thinking of other moans and other heads.
“Mmm . . . I would happily lick that sauce off anything you put it on.”
Dangerous words. I grip the counter to stop myself from laying her back on it.
Maybe kissing in the kitchen is something we should start doing.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” I tell her. “There’s crushed hot peppers in it. Might burn the skin.”
Grinning like a she-devil, she hands me back the spoon. “Guess I’ll stick to chocolate sauce, then.” She turns and walks out, hips swinging.
Hmm . . . a little burn could might absolutely be worth it.
15
Stanton
By the time we get to the Monroes’, half the town is already there. After church everybody always lands at someone’s home, bringing food and settling in for an afternoon of barbecue, drinking, and conversation. Throughout the yard, there are clusters of people talking and laughing, groups of kids running and shouting. Presley joins a herd as soon as we enter the yard. Nana eyes the whole affair from her spot on the porch like a watchful, gun-toting gargoyle. Typical Sunday.
I pass my tray of sauce to June, who brings it to her husband, stationed at the meat-laden grill, surrounded by fragrant smoke so thick he could be Alice Cooper in concert. Ruby—Jenny’s sister—brings me a beer and a hug. Like her parents’ home, the years go by, but Ruby stays the same. Same flaming red hair, same wild laugh, same piece-of-shit scraggily bearded boyfriend—just with a different name. This one’s Duke or Dick, doesn’t really matter—none of them stick around long, and that’s really for the best.
I introduce her to Sofia and can tell right away Ruby doesn’t like her—for the simple fact that she’s here with me. Even though the whole town seems to be gung-fucking-ho about the wedding, Ruby obviously thinks there’s a chance Jenn could change her mind. So she’s not going to get friendly with a woman whom she views as her sister’s potential competition.
I look around for Jenny but don’t see her.
As we walk to get Sofia a drink, I introduce her each time we’re stopped—which is often. There’s the tan-skinned, blond Mrs. Mosely. I went to school with her girls, but their mother was the one all the boys were interested in. Guys used to fight over who’d offer to mow her lawn first—just for the chance to see her catching the sun in her bikini in the backyard. Then there’s Gabe Swanson, the town historian and bookshop owner—one of the nicest and most fucking boring men I’ve ever known. After I pour Sofia a mint julep at the checkered-cloth-covered drink table, we turn and see the smiling face of Pastor Thompson approach.
“Good to see ya, Stanton.”
“You too, Pastor.” I sip my beer. “It was a fine service today.”
“I thought you might like it.” He taps my arm with a shaky hand. “How long’s it been since you’ve been home?”
I scratch the back of my neck, trying to recall. Until a honey-toned voice I’d know anywhere recalls for me.
“Fourteen months, twelve days.”
I turn to my right, and Jenny’s there, wearing a white eyelet dress now, her hair pulled back with a yellow ribbon, looking like an angel . . . with the body of a devil underneath. My favorite kind.
Ass Face is there too. Unfortunately.
“That can’t be right,” I correct. “I spent Christmas with Presley.”