by Marni Mann
“It was my pleasure.”
Everything was already so warm. As he smiled, it suddenly turned hot.
“Ready?”
I nodded and got up from my chair. His hand barely touched my lower back as he escorted me through the dining room and out the front.
“Where do you live?” he asked when we got to the sidewalk.
I pointed to my right. “Three blocks that way.”
“I’ll walk you.”
It was chilly, and I pulled my jacket tighter. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine—”
“Billie …”
It was the way he said my name. So protective, dominant, like I was silly to even question him at this point.
I turned in the same direction as him, and we began walking.
After a few paces, I broke the silence. “I have to say, it’s really nice that you’re a foodie, and it’s something you enjoy talking about.”
His eyes came to mine, and then they were focused on the sidewalk.
“Obviously, I can discuss it endlessly. I just appreciate someone who doesn’t get tired of that.”
“The older I get, the more I grow to really enjoy food.”
“Which is how old?”
I’d dug a little over dinner. There was no reason to stop now.
“Forty-seven, which is a hell of a lot older than you.”
It was an interesting answer.
One I thought about and held on to as I moved in the other direction to avoid more people. Jared stepped with me, his hand still a whisper on my back.
Instead of addressing it, I pointed at the building up ahead. “That’s me.”
He didn’t follow my finger; his attention stayed on my face. And he looked at me with a gaze so deep and intense that I couldn’t feel the ground beneath me. Before I fell, I turned my focus to the sidewalk until we were only feet away from my entrance.
With my stomach a mix of knots and fluttering, I came to a stop. Jared was only an arm’s length away.
“Thank you for walking me home.” My fingers rubbed together, trying to move some of this nervous energy. “And for everything.”
“Tell me you’re ready.”
I waited to see if he was going to say more. “Ready …” And then it came to me, my hands now clenching together. “No, I’m not ready.”
“Then, it looks like we’ll have to meet again.”
He wasn’t going to stop until I said yes.
I didn’t know if that made him the most wonderful man or the scariest. I just knew he was asking me to face my fear, and I couldn’t handle that yet.
“How’s Thursday?” he asked. “Remember, it’s your pick.”
That was five days from now.
I didn’t have to look. “I’ll think of something, and I’ll text you.”
Every headlight that came by flashed across his face. I didn’t need the reminder; I knew just how handsome he was. How mature and protective, at an age I found so attractive even if he was seventeen years older than me.
“Good night, Billie.”
“Good night,” I said, and I reached forward and wrapped my arms around his neck.
His hands pressed harder against my lower back, and I tightened my grip. Even though I wasn’t small, I felt that way against him. Just as I was getting used to the feel of his body, finding a cove where I fit just right, he backed away.
As he did, my hands fell to his chest, and he halted, so they stayed there.
He glanced at them and then back at my face. “Billie …”
His voice was so quiet that it made me watch his mouth. I knew it already. Every dip. I could even guess what it felt like. But I still stared.
And when I knew his had to be on me, my gaze lifted to his eyes, and I said, “You can kiss me, Jared.” My chest was pounding so hard that I was surprised I could say any words at all.
His exhale was deep, almost feral. “Billie …” he repeated but harder this time. “Listen to me.”
I didn’t know his hands were still on me, but I felt them on my back.
“I want to help you get through this, and putting my mouth all over you”—his eyes dropped, and so did my stomach—“is only going to complicate things and make it messy as hell between us.” His fingers rose, going to my chin, holding it steady. “Let’s work on getting the old Billie back.”
He only wanted to make me better.
And because of that, I had no words.
All I had were emotions—in my chest, in my throat, in my heart. They were swirling between each place, shooting back and forth. A circle that was moving so fast that I couldn’t hold on.
“Text me when you decide about next week.”
“Okay,” I answered before adding, “Good night,” and then I stepped back, my hands dropping from his chest, his fingers falling from my chin.
I walked toward the door. I waved my fob in front of the reader and went into the lobby. I didn’t glance behind me through the glass entrance before I stepped into the elevator.
I didn’t breathe either.
I couldn’t.
Because until I arrived in the elevator, I could still feel his eyes on me, and my body was screaming louder than I’d ever heard.
Thirty-Nine
Jared
I stood outside Billie’s building, watching her walk through the lobby and disappear into the elevator. From this angle, I couldn’t see the door slide shut, but I was sure she was safe. Normally, I would have walked her there to ensure it, but I didn’t trust myself to get any closer.
Not when it had taken everything in my fucking power to keep myself from kissing her.
Billie Paige was exactly what I wanted in a woman—intelligent, independent, and gorgeous.
She just wasn’t a woman I could be with.
And I didn’t take that lightly.
My purpose was to help her reach the other side of this, to be the reason she was healed. I wasn’t here to fuck her and make her feel worse.
Still, I needed to keep reminding myself of that because it was so easy to get lost when I was with her.
The better job I did, the sooner this would happen.
And then I’d be gone.
That was what I told myself after every text I sent her. This was only a temporary arrangement, and that was the best thing for all of us.
It didn’t mean she left my mind. That when I stared into the lobby, I didn’t see myself carrying her through it, her legs wrapped around my waist, my mouth on hers, bringing her to a room where I could get her naked.
Goddamn it, I wanted that more than anything.
I just couldn’t have her.
I shook my head, running my hand over my beard, and I took a step back and then another, finally turning around to head home.
Forty
Honey
Winter 1985
Once Honey and Andrew had the discussion about having children, Honey immediately stopped taking her birth control. And every chance they could, they found themselves trying to get pregnant. It was as though this decision had tuned them into each other’s bodies in a way they hadn’t been before.
They simply couldn’t get enough of each other.
Honey would meet Andrew at the hospital during her lunch break to make love. They woke each other in the middle of the night and did it again in the shower the next morning. Even though there was a small window each month where she could get pregnant, she wasn’t focused on it. She was enjoying her husband, the intimacy, the connection they were building.
But still, every month, when it was time for Honey to get her period, she hoped it wouldn’t come.
And every month, it did.
After six months of trying, Honey began to panic.
She wasn’t even twenty-five years old, she had been off birth control for an acceptable amount of time, and she and her husband were both healthy.
So, she didn’t understand why she wasn’t pregnant yet.
Andrew never brought
it up.
Then again, he didn’t have to. Honey would leave the small box of tampons on the back of the toilet as soon as she started. When the box went back under the sink, it was Honey’s way of telling him they could try again.
But as the months went on, Honey wasn’t stopping at the hospital during lunchtime, and they weren’t making love every morning and again before bed. When they reached the end of the ninth month, Honey knew she needed to have a conversation with Andrew. Since they had started trying, each of them had bought things for their unborn child.
Now, an entire nursery was filled.
Except … there was still no baby.
And every time Honey walked by it, she felt like her body was failing her.
On an evening she knew he was off, she went to their favorite restaurant and picked up food to go. When she got home, she placed it on two dishes and opened a bottle of wine. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table.
Honey stabbed the end of her lasagna with her fork. “I feel completely defeated.”
Andrew put his down and looked at her. “Why?”
Honey swallowed, feeling the wine burn the back of her throat. “Because I can’t give you a baby.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she was trying so hard to catch them before they fell.
His eyes softened. “Hey, that’s not true, and there’s no reason for you to get upset about this. Most women don’t get pregnant for a year, and we’re still months away from that.”
Honey listened to her husband. As a doctor, he would know better than anyone. But still, she couldn’t understand why the women in her life had gotten pregnant so much faster. Honey’s own mother had barely had to try with her. Several of her girlfriends had only taken a few months.
“You’re right,” she said, convincing herself she wouldn’t dwell on it. “It’s just going to take time, and I’m okay with that.” Her throat calmed, and her tears began to pull back.
“Come here, baby.”
She took a breath, clearing the final bit of emotion from her voice, and then she got up and went around to his side of the table, taking a seat on his lap.
He pressed his lips against the tip of her nose and then her forehead, kissing both so gently. “I don’t want you to worry or stress. It will happen, I promise.”
Her arms circled his neck, and she whispered, “I love you,” in his ear.
“You never have to worry. That’s why I’m here.”
Honey believed him.
And she squeezed him back so tightly to let him know.
Forty-One
Billie
Jared would be arriving at my house in thirty minutes, and I wasn’t even close to being ready. My kitchen was a disaster, I was still wearing yoga pants, and I was really starting to question why I had offered to cook for him.
When I’d reached out to him a few days ago, I had this strong urge to get in the kitchen and make a few dishes I could photograph. I hadn’t actually considered the logistics of having him in my apartment and putting my brain in a space where we were going to eat together again—food I’d be making, in a place that was extremely personal.
I’d thought about the menu all day yesterday, racking my brain for a dish that would be a good fit for us. What I decided on was something I’d made many times before, a meal I didn’t even need a recipe for. This morning, I went to the market and purchased the ingredients. Once I returned home, I took my time preparing everything. I didn’t rush through lunch. Even this afternoon, I wasn’t in a hurry. I had known what needed to be done to have it all completed, and I’d thought I’d have plenty of time to get myself ready, so I wouldn’t have to stress before he arrived.
Except that was all I was doing, and the countdown had begun.
I left everything in the oven and hurried into my bedroom, putting on a pair of skinny jeans and a casual T-shirt I tied at the waist. In my bathroom, I threw my hair in a messy bun, swiped some gloss over my lips, and sprayed myself with a body mist before I went back to the kitchen.
I was just finishing the dishes when I heard the doorman call from the tablet. I walked over to the back of the kitchen and pressed the button to connect us.
“Hello?” I said into the speaker.
“Mr. Morgan is here for you, Ms. Paige.”
“Please send him up. Thank you.”
My stomach immediately tensed, feeling heavy and anxious, my heart racing as I made my way to the door. It was a short hallway. Once he got off the elevator, he wouldn’t have to walk far, so I was there a few seconds after he knocked.
“Hey,” he said when I opened the door.
Even though this was the serious side of Jared that stared back at me, I was instantly reminded of why I’d wanted to kiss him so badly the other night.
“Hi. Come in.” I backed up several feet and turned around, walking deeper into my apartment.
“It smells great in here,” he said as I made my way into the kitchen. I was standing at the sink when he finally came in. “Nice place.”
“Is it what you pictured?” I didn’t know why I had asked, but for some reason, I wanted the answer.
He took a seat on one of the barstools and said, “Yes.”
I slid him a glass of wine, deciding I liked the way he looked in my space. “Why? I have to hear this.”
He took a drink from the glass, his eyes never leaving mine. “I imagined soft and understated yet bright and cheerful at the same time, like your personality.”
“Thank you … I think.” I laughed and went over to the side counter.
Lifting the charcuterie board I had made, I placed it not far from where he sat. Since I’d paired it all with the wine and dinner, I’d focused on lighter cheeses and nuts. Dried fruits and herb-flavored crackers. I had thrown in several chocolates just to sweeten up the corners.
“Are you going to tell me what you made?” He popped several cranberries into his mouth, followed by some brie.
Now that everything was finally in its place, I stood across the counter from him and shook my head. “I’d like to keep you in suspense.”
But since I really needed to check the meat, I slid my hand in a mitt, and I lifted the top of the Dutch oven. I checked the color and the amount of juice in the pan, and then I pierced it with a fork to make sure it was the texture I wanted. Pleased with what I saw, I put the lid back on.
When I returned to the place I had been standing at before, there was a wrapped gift on the counter.
“Open it,” he said.
I glanced at the rectangular box, half the size of a book, and then my stare moved to him. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
He nodded toward the gift, and I reached for it, unwrapping the brown paper and twine bow. That was when I got a whiff of what was inside.
“You didn’t …” I groaned as I lifted the small flaps of the top, unveiling the most perfect black truffles I had ever seen in my life. “You did.”
“They’re straight from Italy.”
“Oh, Jared …” I brought them up to my nose, inhaling so gently, like I was afraid they were going to disappear. “Thank you.” He nodded, and I asked, “Where did you find these?”
He gave me the smallest smile, and it was so beautiful. “I can get them anytime you want. I just need a few days’ notice.”
I carefully set them down and went over to the bread basket. Since our French meal, I’d been eating baguettes, so that was what I grabbed, slicing and painting it with a layer of extra virgin olive oil. Then, I took one of the truffles, washed it at the sink, and grated it on the bread. I kept one piece for myself and handed Jared the other.
I watched him lift the baguette to his lips, taking a large bite of the corner.
“Excellent.”
I did the same, the flavor of the fungus completely owning my tongue. There was no question how amazing it was. Truffles would always be a delicacy in my opinion. But something was still off, and it just didn’t have the taste it once had.
> I truly believed it would come back.
I just wasn’t there yet.
“Delicious,” I finally answered, and I set the bread down.
He waited a few seconds before he said, “But …”
He read me. It was so easy for him. I’d only taken one bite, and he knew there was something wrong.
It was terrifying to think what else he was able to sense from me.
“You have to understand something; food has always been my thing. My family cooks and eats; it’s all we know.”
“And food isn’t giving you the love you need it to.”
The emotion was in my throat. I wouldn’t let it go any further, but it burned like hell. “You’re right about that.”
Tears were threatening to form, my lips on the verge of quivering. I couldn’t give in to it either. It didn’t matter how fucked my life was right now; I wasn’t going to let it own me tonight.
“I understand, Billie. Trust me.”
As though on cue, the timer went off, startling me.
I blinked hard, backing away to grab the oven mitts. Once my hands were in them, I took out the Dutch oven, setting the heavy dish on the counter. It needed to cool just a little before I sliced the meat, so I kept it there.
To make things easier, I’d cooked a majority of the meal in the Dutch oven, so I didn’t have to prepare many extra sides. I would move the bread to the table. The only thing left to do was cut and plate, adding a few more accompaniments that were in the fridge.
I returned to where Jared sat and held the edge of the counter.
There was a heat in the pit of my stomach, and I didn’t know how to make it go away. I just knew I wanted to be the one asking the questions, so I said, “If food is my problem, where I’m struggling the most, what’s yours?”
He glanced at his wine, twisting the stem between his fingers. He kept his eyes there, eventually moving them to me.
As they locked with mine, my grip on the cold granite tightened.
When he opened his mouth, “You,” came out.