Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(79)
I rolled over, cued up the Sound of the Country app I’d downloaded in anticipation of this exact event, put in my earplugs, and let my guy fall asleep to the sound of freakin’ crickets . . . just like in the country.
Give me sirens, horns honking, and drunk people walking home any day of the week.
Dawn came early and swiftly. And so did I. Did you think he wasn’t going to go for eight? Oh my, yes he did, and before the sun was even fully up.
I could get used to getting up early on Sunday mornings if this was the wake-up call. My toes pointing and back arching, he thrust into me from behind, spreading me wide, stroking me with his fingers as he drove deep. He made me say his name over and over again, made me come over and over again, then finally collapsed against me, pulling me on top of him in a tangle of tired limbs and messy hair.
Afterward, he kept murmuring eight with a look of pure male satisfaction. Rolling my eyes, I snuggled back into his side to catch a few more z’s.
But by nine, he had to go. Football practice, he said, and with more kisses and a promise to spend the night again next weekend, he was gone. And I had a brunch to get to.
When I pushed open the door at my parents’ townhouse, Todd said, “Oh boy, are you in trouble.”
“Hello to you, too,” I replied with a frown. No Mom yet. No Dad. And . . . did I smell something burning? “How bad is it?”
“Four brunches in a f*cking row?” He looked at me incredulously. “Did you suffer some kind of brain injury up there in the sticks?”
I sighed. “I’d better go ahead and get this over with.”
“One day when I have kids, I’ll tell them about their brave Aunt Natalie—the aunt they never got a chance to meet,” he said, taking my coat with all the ceremony of a general sending a soldier into a final battle.
As he walked away whistling taps, I faced the kitchen with foreboding. I’d broken the cardinal rule of this family, and not even my father was going to believe the brunch-skips were all work-related.
I took several steps forward, cocking my head and listening for signs of anything that could be taken as a good omen, that my parents were in a good mood this morning, and that other than some good-natured ribbing they’d be glad to see me, hand me a bagel and schmear and the lifestyle section of the Times, and everything would go back to normal.
Then I heard my mother tell my father that if he burned another bagel, she’d use the paring knife on something he really didn’t want unattached from his body.
Oh boy.
I stepped on a squeaky floorboard right outside the kitchen and then froze, wondering if they’d heard it.
My mother’s footsteps rang out across the kitchen floor, sounding like she was trying to crash her heel through to the cellar below. Each stride sounded familiar, and not in a good way. I knew the sound of those heels well.
She was wearing her Chanel pumps. Pumps reserved for serious moments, like when I’d been caught smoking in eighth grade and she was called to the headmaster’s office. Moments like when tenth-grade Todd and his twelfth-grade girlfriend got caught with their pants down in our attic, and my mother had the girl’s parents over to discuss why this could never happen again. Pumps reserved for board meetings, for social functions with people she didn’t like but was required to play nice with . . . and funerals.
The swinging door to the kitchen flew open, and there was my mother. Smiling. Which was the scariest part of all . . .
“Natalie, so nice of you to show up. Care to tell us all about this cheese maker you’ve been running around with?”
Here it comes . . .
Chapter 19
I lasted two days. Then I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew when Roxie held her cooking class, I knew Oscar went to it, and I knew I could get up there, get to class, get a quickie in afterward, and be back in the city by midnight.
“Holy shit!” I squealed to myself as I sat on the train, nearly bouncing off the walls with the excitement of sneaking off to the country for a midweek tryst with my . . . boyfriend.
Officially I was writing this off as market research, just another way I was going above and beyond on the Bailey Falls campaign to make sure I was highlighting everything that could bring in revenue for the town.
Hee-hee-hee . . .
Every other time Roxie hosted one of her Zombie Pickle classes, I’d been busy and hadn’t had a chance to come up and take part in the class. I wanted to take the class because it was another way to spend time with my new friends and check out my best friend in action . . . and see my caveman.
Zombie Pickle class started out with just her and her boys (Leo, Chad, and Logan). She wanted to teach people how to do things in the kitchen that everyone’s grandmother knew how to do, but that most young professionals didn’t have a clue how to do. Canning vegetables. Making jam. Cooking from scratch with a little bit of fun and love. As well as knowing how to make pickles so that if the zombie apocalypse ever hit upstate New York, Bailey Falls would be able to weather the storm as long as someone kept planting cucumbers.
Her classes were a hit right from the beginning. Everyone from teens to the retired was heading to the diner for the classes and spreading the word on social media.
When I’d decided at the last minute to come up for class, Oscar was thrilled at the prospect of getting a little midweek nooky.
Roxie was less than thrilled. “It’s not that I don’t love you; it’s that kitchens don’t love you,” she said as I raced across town to Grand Central to catch the train.