Author: Tara Sue Me

But if we weren’t going to have smoking-hot sex in front of the fireplace, we were still in my library—and speaking of libraries…

“Did the library come with the house or is it something you had added when you bought it?” I asked.

“I didn’t buy this house. I inherited it.”

“This was your parents’ house? You grew up here?”

“Yes. I’ve made major renovations.” He raised an eyebrow. “Like the playroom.”

I scooted closer to him. “Has it been hard to live here?”

He shook his head. “I thought it would be, but I’ve redone so much, it doesn’t resemble my childhood home anymore. The library is very much the same as it was then, though.”

I looked around, taking in the vast number of books, and took a sip of brandy. It warmed my throat as I swallowed. “Your parents must have loved books.”

“My parents were avid collectors. And they traveled frequently.” He waved toward the section of the library that held maps and atlases. “Many of the books they found overseas. Some had been in their families for generations.”

“My mom liked to read, but mostly she just went for popular fiction.” I hugged my knees to my chest, surprised he was talking about his parents, but not wanting him to feel pressured.

“There’s a place for popular fiction in every library. After all, today’s popular fiction may very well be tomorrow’s classic.”

I giggled. “This from the man who said no one reads classics.”

“That wasn’t me,” he said, holding a hand to his chest. “That was Mark Twain. Just because I quoted him doesn’t mean I agree with him.”

The brandy worked its way through my body, making me feel all warm and relaxed. He was right—one glass did the trick.

“Tell me more about your parents,” I said, feeling brave. Or maybe it was the brandy.

“The afternoon they died,” he started, and I sat up straighter. I hadn’t meant for him to tell me about that. “We were on our way home from the theater. It had been snowing. Dad was driving. Mom was laughing about something. It was very normal. I suppose it usually is.”

He grew quiet then and I tried not to make any sort of movement. I didn’t want to do anything to impede his story.

“He swerved to miss a deer,” he said softly. “The car went down an embankment and flipped—” he squinted “—I think it flipped. It was a long time ago and I try not to think about it.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I’m fine. It helps to talk. Todd’s always told me to talk more.”

The wood in the fireplace settled and shot sparks upward. Apollo rolled over onto his back. I wondered for a few minutes whether Nathaniel would continue or not.

“I don’t remember everything,” he said. “I remember the screaming. The shouts to make sure I was okay. Their moans. The soft whispers they had for each other. A hand reached back to me.” He stared into the fire. “And then nothing.”

I blinked back tears, picturing it all too clearly in my mind. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“They used a crane to pull the car out. Mom and Dad had been gone for some time by then, but like I said, I don’t remember it all.”

I wanted to ask more questions. How long was he stuck in the car with them? If he had been hurt at all? But I felt so honored he had shared that much with me, I didn’t want to push it.

“Linda’s been wonderful. I owe her so much,” he said.

I could only nod.

“She was very supportive. And growing up with Jackson helped.” He smiled. “Todd, too. And Elaina, when she moved nearby.”

I wanted to reach for his hand, to soothe him somehow, but I wasn’t sure how it would be received, so I held still. “Your family’s the best.”

“They are more than I deserve,” he said, standing. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get back to my work now.”

“And I need to start dinner.” I reached for his glass. “I’ll take that for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking deep into my eyes, and I knew he meant for more than taking his glass.

Over dinner he asked about my parents and I filled him in on my mom and dad. I talked about Dad’s work as a contractor. I watched Nathaniel’s eyes closely as I talked about my mother, looking for some sign of recognition, but either he didn’t remember her and the house or else he was a very good actor. He did look surprised when I mentioned her passing. For a second, I thought he was going to ask me something, but he quickly changed the subject.

That night I dreamt of Nathaniel playing the piano, but I knew where the music came from now and, in my dream, I ran to the library. He was there, sitting at the piano. When he saw me, he held out his hand and whispered, “Abby.”

But he disappeared before I reached him.

On Tuesday, I decided I needed more of a plan. The snow had abated, but not enough for anyone to spend a lot of time outside. That meant another day stuck inside. I had dusted the house and washed the sheets the day before, and I really didn’t feel like cleaning anymore.

Nathaniel cooked pancakes for breakfast, so I was up for lunch. Maybe I’d start lunch.

Lunch…

I walked into the kitchen and dug through the cabinets. Finding what I needed, I set out a cutting board and a few sauté pans.

I went back to the living room, where Nathaniel sat at his desk. He looked up as I entered.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Will you help me with lunch?”

“Can you give me ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes will be perfect.”

Once I returned to the kitchen, I realized I’d forgotten the onions. I opened a far cabinet where I knew the onions were. I squatted down to find them.

What the…?

When Nathaniel walked in later, he found me at the counter, head on top of my hands, looking at two label-less cans.

“Abigail?”

I stared at the cans. “I’m trying to decide what someone like you is doing with label-less cans in their kitchen.”

“The small one is Italian peppers.” He walked closer to me. “The larger one holds the remains of the last nosy submissive who bugged me about my label-less cans.”

I looked up. “Sign?”

“Sign.” He smiled.

“Seriously, what are you doing with label-less cans in your cabinets? Doesn’t that break about a hundred different rules of yours?”

He picked up the larger can. “The small one really is peppers from Italy. The larger one should be tomatoes from the same company. I ordered them online.”

“What happened to the labels?”

“They came that way.” He set down the large can and picked up the smaller one. “They probably are peppers and tomatoes, but I’ve been hesitant to open them and never sent them back. What if they’re pickled cow tongues? I don’t have enough faith, I guess.”

“All of life is faith. Just because something has a label doesn’t mean it’s always going to match the inside. Trust me, sometimes it takes more faith to believe the label.” I took the can from him and shook it. “Don’t be afraid of what’s on the inside. I can make a masterpiece with the insides.”

He cupped my cheek and I watched his eyes as another brick fell. “I bet you could,” he said, then dropped his hand. “Now, what do you need my help with?”

I opened the box of arborio rice. “I want to do a mushroom risotto, but I can’t stir the rice and cook everything else at the same time. Can you stir?”

“Mushroom risotto? I’d be happy to stir.”

“You might want to take that sweater off. It’ll probably get hot in here.”

He raised an eyebrow, but shrugged out of his sweater. He wore a black T-shirt underneath.

Oh yes, much better. Thank you.

“I’ll chop up the mushrooms and onions,” I said. “You start the rice.”

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

I put a hand on my hip. “It’s my kitchen.”

“No.” He pushed me against the counter, a hand resting on either side of me. He rocked his h*ps and I felt his erection through his jeans. “I said the kitchen table was yours. The remainder of the kitchen is mine.”

Fuck. Me.

“Now,” he said. “What was that about the rice?” He turned the burner on and poured extra virgin olive oil around the pan.

I stood still for several seconds until I could move my limbs again. I took two wineglasses and held up the white wine for Nathaniel to see.

“Yes, please,” he said.

I poured us both a glass and got busy chopping the onions.

“You ready for this?” I said, once the onions were diced, but not really meaning the onions.

“I’m always ready.”

I looked down and could tell he wasn’t talking about onions either. His erection had grown another inch. And he was stuck stirring rice.

I wasn’t.

Poor baby.

I leaned in close, pushed myself under his arm, and poured the onions into the pan. “There you go,” I said, making sure my backside brushed against his groin.

I needed to dice the mushrooms, but I decided to be just a little evil. Okay, scratch that, I decided to be a lot evil.

“What me to get that chicken stock for you?” I reached under his arm and grabbed the fresh stock. I poured a bit into the sauté pan, my arm knocking his bicep for the shortest second.

A line of sweat formed on his forehead and he took a sip of wine.

My evil plan was working.

I slid over to the countertop and started on the mushrooms. Chopping them into little pieces, piling them up nice and neat. Taking an occasional sip from my own wineglass.

A mushroom accidentally fell to the floor. It rolled over to where Nathaniel was stuck at the stove. Stirring.

“Oops,” I said. “Let me get that.”

I strolled over to him and squeezed in between the stove and his body, noticing that time had not helped his little problem at all. I picked up the mushroom and grabbed on to Nathaniel’s waist to help myself back up. The little brush to his groin was another accident.

What can I say? I’m very accident-prone.

But I didn’t say that because Nathaniel was trying really hard to concentrate on the risotto and well, who needed words anyway?

I opened the oven and put in the chicken breasts. They would be ready the same time as the risotto was if everything went as planned. I passed the mushrooms to Nathaniel and took another sip of wine while leaning against the counter. My job was over, so I didn’t have anything better to do than to enjoy Nathaniel’s muscles working.

It really was getting a bit hot in the kitchen. So I stripped off my own sweater, revealing the little white tank top underneath. There was still a lot of chicken broth in the pitcher beside Nathaniel, but the risotto was coming along nicely. Almost done. I sneaked back between the stove and Nathaniel, and lifted the pitcher.

“Need more?” I asked.

“Just a touch.”

I poured a bit into the pan, but, oops, some got on me. White shirt. And double oops, I forgot to put on a bra.

“Damn,” I said. “Would you look at that?”

He was.

“I guess I need to take this off before the stain sets. It could be a problem.” I turned around and went over to the sink, stripping off the shirt as I went.

The oven clicked off the same time the stove burner did. I heard the sauté pan being moved and the oven door swung open.

Two seconds later, Nathaniel grabbed me by the waist and swung me around. “I’ve got a bigger problem for you.”

I looked down. Hell, yes, he did. Those jeans couldn’t be comfortable.