Bait (Wake, #1)(97)
It was a home. It even felt like one to me.
Grant and I had renovated an entire house, but it didn't have a feeling like this place did. It didn't have any of the natural charm. It didn't have the notched wood in the pantry marking every inch of two boy's lives. It didn't have the calendar with birthdays and anniversaries scribbled down months in advance.
My heart was heavy for Casey, and Cory, too. But Casey mostly. Cory was starting his own family and he had Micah, who no doubt would be supporting and caring after he'd lost his mother. But Casey seemed to be alone.
I didn't have time to think about those things. It wasn't the best time to talk to him about how I'd made such a terrible mistake. And how if only he could give me some time, I was going to ask Grant for a divorce.
But I couldn't do it right away. We'd only been married a few months. But crying on your honeymoon behind big black sunglasses, and saying it was just a bad hangover wasn't normal newlywed behavior. It had instantly felt wrong. It felt like an injustice, to both me, Casey and Grant.
I loved Grant. I cared for him a lot. But I never felt as powerfully consumed by him as I did by Casey. Sadly, it took seeing the grass on the other side of the fence to prove to myself it was greener.
But all of these thoughts were for another time. Another day. I prayed Casey would allow us to have them. Even though, he didn't owe me anything.
I heard him at the door just as the broth was beginning to boil with the potatoes I'd quickly cut up. So I wiped my hands on the apron I'd found hanging in the pantry, and went to open the door for him.
“All done?”
“Yep, probably not as good as you would have done, but to be fair I'm not a chef.”
“This is very true.”
“It looks better in here.”
I looked around and agreed. It did.
“It wasn't that bad, I told you,” I repeated, even though my initial reaction was shock when we came inside earlier.
“Whatever, it was bad. Thank you. It even smells better in here. What is on the stove?” He talked as he walked over to the pot that was perched atop the six-burner range. Like I’d said, his mom's kitchen was pretty amazing.
He still didn’t have a shirt on and I could see how the sun had scorched him badly. “Just a quick soup and some chicken, then we'll take a bath. Wash your hands and sit down.” I took the corn, rinsed it, and then stood them on their ends, running a sharp blade down the long sides scalping the cob. “Need another beer?”
“Yeah, I'll take one, but I can get it. Are you ready?”
“Sensuous,” I said playing his game from our former life.
He chuckled and it was music to my ears. He seemed different than when I'd first showed up. Hopefully, he decided not to hate my guts like I deserved. I'd made a decision before I even got on a plane to California that even if he hated me I would help him somehow. I had to. So, now with the change in his attitude, it seemed like things might be all right. And all right was better, because we were at least in the same room. Fighting or otherwise. If we did fight, it would be because he was right and I had been so very wrong.
I couldn’t concentrate on that in that moment though. I just needed to be there. For him.
He opened the cold bottle of honey-brown lager and placed it where my empty stood. After discarding the old one, he took a sip and sat across from me, watching as I cooked. We were both quiet, but there wasn't the monstrous tension from before.
With us, sometimes it was like dipping your foot into a very hot bath, you had to go in slowly or it would scald you. We were readjusting. Something we actually were good at.
He cleared his throat and asked, “So you're in town for work?” as he traced imaginary circles on the counter top not meeting my gaze.
“Well sort of,” I answered. “Do you know where there's a colander?”
He pointed to above my head behind me and I turned to locate it. It was nestled atop the cabinet, along with some matching handmade, I guessed, pottery bowls. They were beautiful. The paint was blue and it faded into a teal green color at the bottom. They looked like they were fired when they were still wet, because each had unique drippings down the sides.
I turned around, but knew that it would be a stretch. I wasn't super short, but it was up way high.
I'd met Deb a few times and she wasn't taller than me. I assumed there was a footstool or a step ladder close by, but when I didn't find one with one glance around, I decided to make a go of it and pray I didn't drop his mother’s beautiful colander.
I got as close to the cabinet as I could and firmly grounded my left hand on the counter top, stretching my right arm as high as it would go while pushing myself up as high as I could with the other. Two hands startled me when I felt them wrap around my hips and lift me into the air like I was but a feather.
Casey steadily held me up high so that I could clutch the dish with both of my hands and held me there until I said, “Got it.”
His body was close to mine and I felt his hot skin through my T-shirt on my way back down to the floor. My body reacted like it always had with him. I grew warm and tingly, and my panties were beginning to dampen. That was familiar.
I felt my lungs beg for more air and I had to cough to clear passage for the influx of oxygen they demanded.
Casey must have taken that as a sign that I was good to go, but he didn't move away completely. Left were his hands, still firmly holding me by the waist.