Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  I slice into the tenderloin. Suddenly a searing pain flares through my entire hand and up my arm. I let out a sharp cry and drop the knife. Dean is beside me in less than a second, reaching out to grab my wrist.

  “Liv?” Tyler hurries toward me.

  “Back off.” Dean growls the order at him. Tyler skids to a halt.

  “Oh, Jesus, Liv.” Charlotte stares at my hand. “Someone call 911!”

  I start to protest that it’s not that bad, but then I look down and see what appears to be a river of blood pooling onto the cutting board, over the knife and the raw meat.

  My blood.

  Dizziness swamps me. I sway against Dean. He grabs a dishtowel and wraps it around my hand, then guides me to a chair. The other students huddle around, buzzing with concern. Dean presses the towel tight against my hand to stem the flow of blood.

  “Everyone, step back, please,” Tyler calls. “The medics are on their way.”

  The crowd eases away to give me room to breathe. My head spins, the pain starting to throb. There’s blood on my apron.

  Within minutes, two paramedics arrive, and then I lose track of what happens—tightness on my hand, a blood pressure cuff, lots of questions. Someone puts my legs up on a chair.

  Dean moves back to let the paramedics work, but keeps his hand tight on my shoulder as he confers with them. I hear the words blood loss, deep cut, and nerve damage, all of which seize my chest with fear.

  “Dean?” My own voice sounds very far away.

  “Right here.” He lowers his head close to my ear. “Hang in there, beauty.”

  The paramedics bandage the wound and suggest I go to the ER. I don’t want to go to the ER.

  Dean hauls me up against him. His arm around my shoulders might be the only thing keeping me upright.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’m taking you.”

  There’s a lot more talking, voices rising with concern, and next thing I know I’m in the backseat of Dean’s car with Charlotte by my side. Dean drives to the nearest hospital and stops at the emergency entrance. After a brief discussion, Charlotte goes to park his car in the regular lot while Dean and I go inside.

  In the ER, he leaves me briefly to fill out the paperwork before I’m led to an examination area. A doctor and nurse ask more questions, all of which Dean answers, and then they unwrap the wound and clean it with a stinging solution that makes me yelp.

  I stare at the cut, which looks huge and gaping red. “What… what about nerve damage? The medics said…”

  “We’ll check for that, Mrs. West.”

  After an injection of anesthetic, the doctor sutures the wound, then asks me to move my hand in various positions, hold a pen, flex my fingers this way and that. He bandages my hand again with gauze and tape and writes up a prescription for pain medication.

  Dean talks with the doctor for a few minutes, but by now I’m so drained I don’t bother to listen. If it’s good news, I’ll know soon enough. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to know yet.

  George has brought my satchel to the hospital, and he and Charlotte are in the waiting room when we finally emerge. Dean gives them the update, assuring them I’ll be fine, and thanks them for accompanying us.

  “Did someone turn off my stove?” I ask George. It seems like an important question to ask.

  “I did,” he says. “We got your station cleaned and sanitized, too. Everyone will be glad to know you’re okay.”

  Finally Dean and I head home. In blessed silence. I stare out the dark window, seeing both our reflections in the glass.

  He has to help me undress since I can’t use my left hand. I feel sort of silly just standing there while he pulls off my apron, still caked with dried blood, and unfastens my skirt and blouse. His movements are gentle but impersonal, and once I’m in my nightgown I sink onto the sofa with a sigh of exhaustion.

  Dean rests his hands on his hips, his eyebrows drawn together. “Need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “No.” My eyes are getting heavy. “But thanks.”

  I don’t remember anything after that. I wake when a gray, wet light filters through the curtains. Rain splashes against the windowsills, patters onto the roof.

  Sometime during the night, Dean put my quilt over me. I burrow back under its familiar warmth and watch raindrops race each other down the window.

  “How do you feel?” Dean’s voice is soft.

  I look to where he’s sitting in the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. He’s still wearing his trousers and shirt from last night, only now both are abominably wrinkled. I push myself onto one elbow, then wince as pain spirals up my arm.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Do you want a pain pill?” he asks.

  “Yes, please.”

  Dean brings me a glass of water and the medication, then crouches beside the sofa. He reaches out to push my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. I look at him, the angles of his face that I know so well, the shape of his mouth and thick-lashed eyes.

  “Did you sit there all night?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “You smell really bad.”

  He grins and pushes up to standing. “You’ll be okay if I take a shower?”

  “Please do.”

  While he’s gone, I head into the guest bathroom to pee. I manage to wash my good hand and splash water on my face. I look wretched, pale and gaunt with bruised circles ringing my eyes and my hair a tangled mess.

  Good thing I don’t plan to go anywhere or see anyone for days. Maybe ever again.

  Feeling incredibly sorry for myself, I head back to the living room, pausing once to breathe through a wave of dizziness. When Dean emerges from the shower—freshly shaved, dressed in worn jeans and a clean white T-shirt—I’m curled back up on the sofa.

  “What did the doctor say?” I finally ask. “About permanent damage?”

  “Your mobility is good, but because of the depth of the cut, you might have some numbness in your fingers for a while. They’ll be able to tell more when the wound heals.” He pauses. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Not really. The knife just slipped, I guess. I still have trouble remembering how to hold the damn things properly.”

  I flex the fingers of my right hand. Dean returns to the chair beside the sofa. He’s close enough that I can smell the soap-and-shampoo scent of him. I could use a shower too, but I don’t want to move.

  We’re quiet for a few minutes before he says, “It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I shouldn’t have barged into your class like that.” He drags a hand through his hair, self-directed anger flashing in his eyes. “It upset you, threw off your concentration.”

  That’s true, but I don’t bother acknowledging it. We’ve punished each other enough.

  I reach out and put my good hand on his knee. “Forget it, Dean. We both made mistakes.”

  “Did I scare him, do you think?”

  I manage a hoarse laugh. “Yes. You definitely did.”

  “Good.” He puts his large hand over mine, his fingers tightening. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  Silence falls. I turn my palm upward so we can lock our fingers together. As I watch the rain spilling down the window, I realize nothing between me and Dean will ever be the same again.

  A strange calm settles in my heart. Maybe Dean needs to see me as more than his ever-faithful wife and the girl he needs to protect. And maybe I need to see him as more than my unwavering husband and the man who effortlessly takes care of everything.

  Maybe this was meant to happen, this discovery of cracks where now a different, new light can shine through.

  Part III

  CHAPTER 20

  Dean

  She didn’t turn away. She could have—she had the perfect reason to—but she didn’t. Instead she looked right at me when I cro
uched beside her and touched the sleeve of her gray sweatshirt. Instead she brushed the dirt from her hands and told me she was okay. Instead she asked me about medieval knights while I stood between her and the busy street and tried not to stare at her curved body.

  Instead she stepped toward me. I had the strange thought that she wanted to come even closer.

  ***

  November 20

  I run outside a lot these days. Usually when the weather gets cold, I work out at the gym, play basketball, or run the indoor track at the university. Not this year. First thing in the morning, I put in five or six miles through town.

  Liv is still asleep when I leave. She sleeps hard. She has ever since we got married. Before that, she slept restlessly, tossing and turning, waking often. Now my getting up, shuffling around the bedroom, turning on the bathroom light—none of it stirs her. The smell of coffee, though, that gets her going.

  I press a kiss to her hair before I leave. I love her hair—thick, straight, shiny. I could spend hours nuzzling her hair, touching it. A sweet scent drifts from her, vanilla and something fruity. Peaches maybe. She always smells good.

  She doesn’t move. I pull on my running shoes and head out the front door.

  Mirror Lake is still, silent, only a few lights shining. My shoes slam against the road as I pick up the pace. Down Emerald Street, a path along the lake, back up into a residential neighborhood of refurbished old houses.

  Thoughts that crowd my head all day, when I can’t shove them aside, whip away the faster I run.

  Run. Run. Don’t think. Don’t imagine. Don’t remember.

  Cold air hits me, the sharp sting of wind. Ice in my lungs. The grayness of dawn. My mind empties. For an hour, there’s only muscles burning, chest expanding, blood pumping. Into town again, past shops, restaurants, the movie theater.

  It’s a good run, almost seven miles. I walk the final blocks home. A bakery on Avalon Street is just opening its doors. I stop to buy a bag of muffins.

  The lights are still off in the apartment when I get home. I shower and dress in trousers, shirt, and tie before going to make coffee.

  The pot’s almost full when Liv emerges, pushing her hair away from her face. She’s bundled in a robe that has enough padding to keep her warm in an avalanche.

  She gives me a sleepy half-smile and pulls out a chair at the table. I add cream and sugar to a cup of coffee and hand it to her.

  “Thanks.” She takes a sip and sighs with bliss. The breathy sound makes my cock twitch.

  I turn away from her to pour myself a cup of coffee. We haven’t had sex in weeks, since before she kissed that bastard. Neither of us has mentioned it. I assume she hasn’t been interested, especially after the accident.

  Her left hand rests on the table. The doctor removed the stitches yesterday, and now a scar mars the skin of her palm. I can’t stand that she got hurt so badly. That it was my fault.

  My throat constricts. I fight down a wave of anger.

  “Working at the bookstore today?” I ask.

  “No, but I have a shift at the Historical Museum,” Liv says. “We’re putting together a quilt exhibition along with things like spinning wheels and looms. Oh, you know that old Victorian house over on Tulip Street, the Langdon House? The Historical Society decorates it every Christmas as part of the holiday festival and tour. Trees, lights, ornaments, the works. Samantha asked me to help with that this year too.”

  I glance at her, my anger draining at the pride in her brown eyes. Since we moved to Mirror Lake, Liv has struggled to find a place for herself, and now she seems to have found it. She loves working at the Historical Museum and the bookstore, and with her newfound interest in cooking…

  Shit.

  I slide a hand to the back of Liv’s neck and bend to kiss her. She makes a little noise of surprised pleasure and opens her mouth to let me in. I tighten my grip on her neck. She gets it, and leans in for a harder kiss.

  Her mouth is full, soft. One of the first things I noticed about her as she stood in front of me on the busy sidewalk. Probably one of the first things other men—

  Stop.

  I straighten and run my hand through Liv’s hair. My heartbeat’s kicked up a notch. I sit at the table and open the paper. Swallow some coffee, eat a muffin. Chew, swallow. Swallow, chew.

  Don’t think about him.

  Him and her.

  I push the paper aside and stand. She looks up.

  “I need to head out early,” I say. “I’ll see you this evening. Call if you need me.”

  She smiles. “I always need you.”

  For now, her words are enough. Enough to diminish the fire of jealousy I can’t put out. But I have no idea what’ll make it flare again.

  ***

  Work is a predictable routine, though I’m edgy about my grad students these days after Liv told me about Maggie Hamilton’s insinuations. I haven’t seen Maggie since she left town a few weeks ago.

  When she gets back, I’ll tell her to find another advisor or change majors altogether. She should never have been accepted into the program to begin with, so I don’t feel bad about dismissing her.

  Today I give a morning lecture, teach a grad seminar, and hold office hours. A few students trickle in—one complaining about her essay grade, another asking if he can revise his paper, a third with some genuinely interesting questions about music and liturgy.

  With ten minutes to go, a sharp knock sounds on the door. Kelsey walks in, dressed in a tailored suit and heels, the blue streak in her frosted blond hair almost glowing.

  Kelsey. Sharp, feisty, brilliant. Too blunt for her own good, but that’s one of the reasons I like her. Impossible to bullshit Kelsey. And you know you’re never getting any bullshit from her.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask.

  She frowns and flops into a chair, peering at me through her rimless glasses. “We have a lunch date. You forgot?”

  I look at my desk calendar. “Yeah. Guess I did. Sorry.”

  “Well, now you’re paying.”

  “Deal.” I stand and shrug into my suit jacket. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere off-campus so I can bitch about my research team without worrying that someone’s going to overhear.” She looks me over. “And since you’re paying, somewhere expensive.”

  We end up at a ridiculous French place with low lights and linen tablecloths. The hushed atmosphere doesn’t stop Kelsey from launching into a tirade about the ineptitude of her team, the lazy grad students, and the lack of proper equipment.

  She exhausts herself before the entrees arrive, then spears a fork into her salmon and gives me a penetrating look.

  I know what’s coming.

  “You and Liv worked out your troubles, huh?” she says. “That’s what she told me, anyway.”

  “So why are you asking me?” I have no idea how much Liv told Kelsey about what happened. I do know Liv, though, and she wouldn’t spill all the sordid details, not even to Kelsey. She’s too private.

  But I also know Liv needed someone to talk to during the whole fucked-up mess. And since I wasn’t around, she’d naturally go to Kelsey.

  “You’re the one who first told me you and she were in a rough patch,” Kelsey reminds me. “Was it all because Liv started thinking about having kids?”

  Was that all? I don’t even know.

  I do know that when Liv told me early on she didn’t want children, I was relieved. I like kids, but after everything that went down with Helen—not to mention my doubts about being a decent father—I was fine with the idea of just me and Liv. More than fine. It was what I wanted.

  “It’s natural, you know,” Kelsey tells me. “That Liv would change her mind. Biological clock and all.”

  My insides tighten. “Yeah.”

  “She seemed upset that you weren’t on board.”

  “There was nothing to be on board about,” I snap. “Liv didn’t even know if she wanted kids. She still doesn’t. And what business is thi
s of yours anyway?”

  Kelsey doesn’t flinch at the snarl in my voice. “It’s my business because you two have always been the most freakishly happy couple I’ve ever known. And God knows, if you two can’t make it, what hope do the rest of us have?”

  Great. No pressure there.

  “It’s fine,” I lie. “We worked it out.”

  “Why don’t you want a baby?” she asks.

  A black fear rises in my chest, swamp-like, dragging bitter memories along with it. I grab my water and take a gulp, shake my head.

  “Leave it, Kelsey.”

  She understands the hard, “back off” tone and shrugs. We eat in silence for a couple of minutes. All the troubles of recent months, not to mention this new crap with Maggie Hamilton, roil inside me.

  I can’t tell Kelsey any of it. She doesn’t know about Helen either because Kelsey and I lost touch when we were in grad school. I’d been too mired in a shitty marriage and excessive work to maintain contact with my old friends.

  And I’m too fucking embarrassed to tell Kelsey about Maggie’s lies. What if Kelsey wondered about them the way Liv did?

  Christ. All I need is the two most important women in my life doubting me.

  “Okay, I’ll back off.” Kelsey looks at her plate and uses her fork to make a little design with her carrots. “Just… you know, I love you two assholes and want you to be happy. So I’m here if either of you needs me.”

  Two specks of color appear on her cheeks. I can’t help a faint smile.

  “Thanks.”

  She frowns. “But don’t tell anyone I said shit like that. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell everyone what a hard-ass you are.”

  “I’d better be, considering the amount of time I spend on the elliptical machine.”

  ***

  “I’m making chicken piccata,” Liv calls from the kitchen. “Does it smell good?”

  “Smells great.” It does too—lemons, capers, and garlic.

  I drop my briefcase by the front door and go in to find her looking adorable, if frazzled, in gray sweatpants and a flower-print apron with her hair trapped in a high ponytail. Her face is flushed from the heat of the stove. She turns her cheek to me for an obligatory kiss, then waves me out of the kitchen.