Hannah nodded slowly, her eyes going glossy with tears. “How is your dad? I haven’t wanted to bother you about him, but I worry.”
It wasn’t fair to Hannah, shutting her out. But she didn’t know how else to deal with everything except shutting it down and muscling through. She might say she was avoiding coming home because she didn’t want to hear Matt and Hannah having sex. But that wasn’t the only reason. She knew Hannah would realize how not okay she was if they spent any real time together. And since she wouldn’t—couldn’t—let herself break down, it was better to avoid this conversation. Except now she couldn’t avoid it anymore.
Blowing out a breath, Elena blinked back her own tears, shoving them down like always. “I know. I’m sorry I haven’t filled you in. I just—I hate talking about it at all. When I’m here, I like to pretend that everything’s like it always was, but—” She shook her head, looking down and biting her lip.
“It isn’t,” Hannah finished for her.
“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t.”
“Will you tell me now?”
With a shrug, Elena forced herself to nod. Hannah had been her best friend since high school, went on trips with them, stayed over at Elena’s house countless times. She deserved an update at the very least. “Sure.” Her voice croaked, and she stopped to clear it. “He’s, um, I don’t know. Stable, I guess? He’s home, but I know I told you that already.” She’d been texting Hannah occasional updates over the summer, keeping her in the loop with the rest of the family.
Hannah nodded, and Elena went back to the organization of her desk supplies, needing to keep her hands busy. “Yeah. He’s home. And that’s about it. He’s better enough that he doesn’t need to be in a rehab place anymore, but he’s nothing like he was before.” She closed her eyes, two tears slipping past her eyelids despite her best efforts. “The doctors keep telling my mom to wait, to be patient, to let the different therapies have time to work.”
Scrubbing at her face with her hand to wipe away the rogue tears, she blinked hard and looked up at the ceiling, her old standby trick to convince the gathering tears to drain into her tear ducts instead of running down her face. “I don’t know, though. How long does it take? Shouldn’t there be some sign of improvement at least? Mom took the first six weeks off of school, most of it unpaid because her sick time doesn’t cover that long, and teachers only get two personal days per year. She’s taking him to occupational therapy and physical therapy and regular talk therapy. And he goes. He complains about it, or at least he did when I was there, so I’m sure that hasn’t gotten any better. The rest of the time he sits on the couch and watches TV. That’s all he does. He lives in that one spot. Sleeps there, eats there, everything. It’s fucking depressing.”
Hannah made a low sound of distress that drew Elena’s attention. “I’m so sorry. That’s … worse than I thought. Is there anything I can do?”
Elena shook her head. “No. There’s not anything anyone can do. My mom’s still holding out hope that he’ll pull out of it and go back to being himself again, I think. I don’t know. We don’t talk about it much. Her life is this long slog of taking him to appointments and trying to keep it together. I helped while I was there, and I’m still handling his clients for him until we decide what to do about that. But it’s been months, Han. I’m not sure he’s going to be able to come back anymore. And I don’t know how long I can keep things going on my own. This isn’t what I wanted to do. I mean, I know I helped him in high school, and it’s always been a good side job for me, but I want to be an attorney, you know? Go to law school. I can barely find time to study for the LSAT, and I’m supposed to take it next month.”
“Do you want me to help you with a study schedule? Or, I don’t know, I can quiz you or something. What can I do?”
Elena smiled. “It’s not that bad. I’m being a little dramatic. I am studying. It’s just hard to fit in with regular homework plus continuing to do work for my dad. I told Mom that I wasn’t going to take on any new websites after school started, but some of his longtime clients needed help, and I couldn’t tell them no. And then Mom convinced me to take on some new clients that other people referred. It’s kind of spiraled, and I need to pull it back. Or extend my deadlines. Or both.”
“Seriously, though,” Hannah insisted. “At least let me quiz you or correct your practice tests. Something.”
Blowing out a long slow breath, Elena relented. She was so used to doing everything she could for herself that her reflexive reaction was to reject offers of help. But Hannah wasn’t offering out of pity. She cared and wanted to help. “Okay. I’ll let you know when I need that. Actually, um, you know Daniel? He’s been helping me study.”
Hannah’s eyebrows practically disappeared in her hairline. “Really? Daniel? You’ve been seeing him?”
Elena nodded, looking away again. “Yeah. We’ve been hanging out.” She gave Hannah a pointed look when she noticed the smile curling her friend’s lips. “As friends.”
Hannah gave her a pointed look in return. “Mmhmmm. Sure. The kind of friends,” she held up her hands and made air quotes as she said the word, “you were in Westport?”
If she were Hannah, Elena would be blushing right now. Fortunately, she didn’t have that curse. “Yes. Exactly like that.”
That much was true anyway. That was where they’d first hooked up. And while they didn’t have sex every time they saw each other, it had happened several times since Lance and Abby’s wedding. She’d gone over and played Mario Kart again a handful of times, and if Evan wasn’t around—she still had a hard time calling him Coop like Daniel did—that usually ended with them naked. She’d made him another pie and brought along whipped cream the second time. When she’d texted Daniel about that one, he’d kicked his roommate out, and they’d had lots of naked fun.
Hannah nodded approvingly. “Well, good. You need something fun in your life right now. How long has this been going on?” She held up a hand, forestalling Elena’s answer as though it were actually forthcoming. “Wait. This is our girls’ night. I’ll go put some popcorn in the microwave. There’s some of the chocolate chip pie left that you made the other night. And there’s some wine still, right?”
“I think so.”
“Okay.” Hannah stood, the general delivering orders. “You get the wine and glasses. I’ll get the rest. We’ll finish this conversation in the living room properly fortified. Dishing needs food and alcohol. Let’s go!”
Hannah scurried into the kitchen to get started, Elena laughing and following behind her more slowly. Maybe Hannah was right, after all. She felt a little better for telling Hannah what was going on, both with her family and with Daniel. Well, Hannah had mostly guessed on that, but she’d figured it out, so denying it seemed silly. And she never lied to Hannah.
Dishing about Daniel would also go a long way toward assuaging the guilt she carried with her over shutting out her best friend. But she’d pretty much shut out everyone as a way to shut off herself from the overwhelming emotions that she barely managed to keep at bay. Hannah didn’t deserve that, though. She’d come back to Richland during those first weeks, spending the days with Elena in the hospital, risking her choice internship by taking so much time off. The only reason she hadn’t been there longer was because Elena wouldn’t let her lose the internship, knowing how hard she’d worked to get it, and how it had almost destroyed Hannah’s relationship with Matt. One of them deserved to get what they worked for. Especially since Elena wasn’t so sure that would happen for her after all. Her parents needed her, and she felt selfish insisting that she go to law school when she could keep her dad’s business running.
But she definitely couldn’t do both.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two thirds of a cup of butter. What the fuck?
Daniel looked at the sticks of butter on the counter, trying to figure out how to cut them into two thirds of a cup. There was a marking for one third of a cup on each one. He considered cutting ea
ch of those thirds and leaving the rest, but that seemed wasteful. There are sixteen tablespoons in a cup. Two thirds of sixteen is ten point six repeating. Not exactly easy to cut.
He glanced down at the butter sticks again, examining the wrappers. They weren’t even lined up properly. Even if he cut at ten and two thirds of a tablespoon, it wouldn’t be accurate. How are people expected to work like this?
After considering abandoning the chocolate chocolate chip cookies that he’d found in favor of something that didn’t require such asinine fractions from a product that couldn’t even mark measurements with any degree of accuracy, he remembered they had a food scale. He could weigh them, then measure out two thirds that way, ensuring accuracy and better cookies.
A knock sounded on his apartment door. Setting the scale on the counter, he went to answer it, a smile on his face.
Elena stepped through, going up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips. Coop had gone to a party tonight. He’d tried to convince Daniel to join him, but he’d declined and invited Elena over instead, happy for alone time he didn’t have to bribe his roommate to get. And he was making her cookies, partly as payback for all the pies she’d made him, and partly because he just wanted to do something nice for her and see her smile.
With a hand on her back, he deepened the kiss, enjoying her taste—a mixture of chocolate and cinnamon—for a second before pulling back. “Come on in. I’m making cookies.”
She followed him into the kitchen, setting her messenger bag on the floor by the couch on the way in. He continued weighing out the butter so he could get two thirds of a cup.
“What are you doing?”
Elena’s voice came from right next to him, catching him by surprise. “Weighing the butter so I can get the right amount.”
“Um, okay.” She took a step closer, invading his space, leaning over his arm to see his set up. “What kind of cookies are you making?”
“I found a recipe for chocolate chocolate chip that I thought sounded good.”
“That does sound good,” she murmured appreciatively. She peered at his phone where he had the recipe, picking it up and scrolling around with her finger. “This calls for two thirds of a cup. Why are you weighing the butter?”
“So I can get two thirds of a cup.”
A snort of laughter came out of her. “Why don’t you just cut ten and a half tablespoons and call it good?”
“Because two thirds of a cup is ten and two thirds tablespoons, not ten and a half.”
She shrugged, grinning. “Close enough. It’s not like the tablespoon marks are more than estimates anyway.”
His brows came down in consternation. “I know. It’s completely inaccurate. How am I supposed to get any amount other than half or whole cups that way?” He gestured toward the kitchen scale holding a small plate with a growing pile of butter pats as he added some a little at a time to get to 151.3 grams, which was how much two thirds of a cup of butter should weigh.
Laughter bubbled out of her. She seemed to be trying to hold it back, but when he turned to look at her, she lost it. Bent over, hanging onto the counter with one hand to hold herself upright, she cracked up. A grudging smile tugged at his lips in response. He liked making her laugh, but not so much being laughed at. Still, though, that sadness that weighed her down only lifted occasionally. And he didn’t mind being the butt of the joke if it meant her forgetting her sorrow, however briefly.
When she calmed down enough to catch her breath, she stood up and wiped the tears from under her eyes from laughing so hard. “Thanks. I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”
“Glad I could help,” he deadpanned.
She grinned at him. “Seriously, though. They’re just cookies. If the amounts are off a little, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“But—” He couldn’t help it. Measurements should be accurate. That was just the way it worked.
Shaking her head, she wrapped her arms around him, and the softness of her breasts pressing against his torso made him forget whatever he’d been going to say. “Finish weighing your butter. Do you want help with the cookies?”
He shook his head, staring down into her beautiful brown eyes. “No.” He had to clear his throat to lose the rasp that she caused. “No. I want to make them for you. You can lick the spoon, though.”
Her smile grew wider, and she shot him a provocative wink. “Sounds good. Maybe I’ll lick something else after.”
Unf. The thought of her going down on him sent all the blood rushing to his cock. Maybe he’d leave enough cookie dough so she could lick that off him. God. Like the whipped cream she’d brought with one of his pies. He jacked off to memories of that on a regular basis.
He swallowed. “That sounds good.”
With a quick squeeze of his ass, she let him go, hopping up on the counter to watch him make the cookies, reaching across to stick her finger in the bowl to sneak a taste once he’d gotten all the ingredients mixed.
Narrowing his eyes, he pointed at her with the spoon. “Watch it. I might have to punish you for that.”
“Oh, are you going to spank me?”
He chuckled, low and growly, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. I was thinking more like a thorough tongue-lashing.”
She shivered, rubbing her thighs together. Then she leaned forward deliberately, her shirt gaping to tease him with a glimpse of her breasts, and she scooped up as much dough as she could on her index finger before bringing it to her mouth, licking it from palm to tip before sticking it in her mouth and sucking.
And the semi he’d been sporting since she got here turned into a raging hard-on.
He let out a groan, and she smiled around her finger, sucking on it and drawing it out from between her lips with a pop.
“I think I can get behind a tongue-lashing,” she said, her voice low and husky.
“Coming right up.” Reaching down, he adjusted himself, her eyes zeroing in on his actions, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “But you’ll have to wait until I get the first batch of cookies in the oven.”
“So mean,” she pouted. “Making me wait like this.”
He laughed, enjoying the verbal foreplay as much as the physical kind. The cookies were irregular in size, but he couldn’t care less right now, his normal desire for precision swamped by his desire for her. All he cared about was feeling her thighs around his head, her lips around his cock, her pussy gripping him as she came. Fuck the damn cookies. The only reason he went through with it was because he knew she was suffering as much as he was, maybe more, and the anticipation only heightened the release when it came.
Sliding the full cookie sheet into the oven, he straightened and set the timer on the microwave. When he turned around, Elena stood in front of him, her hands immediately going to his waist, tugging down his athletic shorts and boxer briefs together until his cock came free.
Gripping him with one hand, she licked him from base to tip once, then again, dragging her tongue all over his shaft, coating it with her saliva, teasing him by ignoring the head. Then her hot, wet mouth engulfed him, her tongue firm and soft, sliding over the tip and all around, feeling like heaven. He let out a groan, reaching behind him to hold onto the stove, his knees weak.
His fantasy of her licking cookie dough off his cock didn’t come true, but he didn’t care. Not with the way her hand gripped him, the way her mouth felt, and the visual of her on her knees, her head bobbing up and down on his cock, seeing how far she could take him. He reached out to rest his hand on the back of her head, not forcing her or even guiding her, just needing to touch her.
When his balls started to draw up tight against his body and his fingers gripped her ponytail without his conscious direction, he tugged back, pulling her off of him. She sat back on her heels, looking up at him, wiping her puffy, red lips with the back of her hand.
Pulling her up, he pulled her T-shirt over her head. “Clothes off. Now.” She grinned, unbuttoning her jeans and pushing them down her hips. Impatient, he
grabbed the sides and yanked them down to her ankles, standing up to kick off his own shorts and pull off his T-shirt. Pulling her close, he kissed her, bending enough so that he could reach her ass, lifting up as he did so. She let out a little squeak, grabbing at his shoulders as he pivoted and placed her on the counter.
He ran his hands down her sides, over her thighs to her knees, and back up her inner thighs, spreading her legs wider. “My turn.” Crouching down, he held her open, kissing here and there on his way to his target, nipping at the tender skin at the fullest part of her thigh just to watch her squirm before holding his mouth over her spread pussy, letting his hot breath wash over her.
“Daniel, please,” she begged, breathless with desire and anticipation.
And this was why he teased her. A satisfied grin played over his face as he took her in, fingers clutching the edge of the counter, breasts heaving, hair a mess of curls around her shoulders, head back against the upper cabinets. This desperate wantonness got him harder than anything, his cock jutting out in front of him, desperately seeking friction but unable to find any. No, he’d hold off, bring her pleasure first, and then find his own, making it all the sweeter for the wait. Delayed gratification was his MO, both in life and in the sack. Or the kitchen, in this case.
He started slow, running the tip of his tongue up and around and back down, without ever touching her clit, much like she did to him when she licked all up and down his shaft without more than brushing the head of his dick. Payback time.
She tried to squirm, but his hands pinning her thighs apart held her in place so she could barely wiggle her hips, just moving her upper body enough that her tits jiggled and bounced enticingly. He needed to have her in his lap so those could bounce up and down at eye level. His cock twitched at the thought. So far, every time they’d been together he’d ended up on top. Except for when he’d bent her over and taken her from behind. Still, not her on top either. That was his new goal. He needed her to ride him.
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