Bittersweet (True North #1)

by Sarina Bowen

  “Y…yes.”

  “That’s where you’re supposed to be.”

  She gripped the headboard and moaned.

  “Right there.” I bumped my hips once, and her breath caught. In my arms, her small body trembled. Waiting for me to go on. I leaned forward and put my mouth on her neck. “Don’t forget,” I ordered between kisses. Then I began to rock my hips.

  Gasping, she met me eagerly.

  I picked up the pace, but only a little. It’s not every day you make love to someone for the first time. Even so, I was made of pleasure. Whether it was convenient or not, Audrey and I just fit. We’d always been good together. It’s just that I’d never allowed myself to imagine a future where we shared everything. A bed. A home.

  A name.

  Hell. That got me panting. I wanted everything. There was nobody else who got under my skin like she had. To think of her as mine seemed like an impossible luxury.

  It’s the only luxury I’ve ever been greedy for.

  I put one hand on the headboard beside hers, the size of my big paw dwarfing hers. Audrey hooked my thumb with her pinky finger. I gave it to her nice and steady while I stared at her hand, putting a ring on it in my head.

  The image did crazy things to my body. Now I was greedy everywhere.

  Wrapping an arm around her chest, I pulled her even further onto my lap. Then I disconnected our bodies and rolled, laying her down on the mattress and climbing on top. She grabbed my face and tugged me down for a kiss that went molten right away.

  When I pushed inside again, she moaned my name. And I couldn’t hold back any longer—neither my desire nor my words. I let it all fly. With pistoning hips and murmured endearments, I chased what we both wanted. Audrey hung on tight and went along for the ride, throwing her head back as we both went under.

  I never wanted to come back out.

  We lay in the dark a long time, not speaking. Eventually Audrey got up to use the bathroom. While she did her thing I pondered the ridiculousness of telling a girl I wanted to make us official even though I lived in a bunkhouse.

  I was shaking my head as she climbed into bed again.

  “What?”

  “I know I freaked you out earlier. But my plans are bigger than my current situation.”

  She curled up to my body and put her head on my shoulder. “Your current situation doesn’t scare me at all. But if I left Boston right now…” She trailed off.

  “Then you wouldn’t have to work for assholes.”

  “Griff,” she warned. “You run a farm and make an amazing product with your name on it. I’ve failed out of two colleges. Culinary school went a lot better, but I’ve almost been fired from my first job twice. Or three times. I’ve lost count. I just want to do something well for once. If I came up here I’m sure you’d find me something to do. Some task I couldn’t fuck up too badly.”

  “That’s not how I think of you,” I insisted. “You do a lot of things well.”

  “Uh-huh.” She sounded unconvinced. “But I know I’d be a great chef. I’d listen better than most of the ones I’ve worked with. My kitchen wouldn’t be a battle zone. People would do good work there, because they’d want to.”

  I liked the way her voice sounded when she was thinking about it. “Tell me about your restaurant,” I whispered into the dark. “What’s it like?”

  “The one I’m pitching in a week?”

  “Sure. Wait—no. Tell me about the one you really want someday. When you’re at the top of your game. What’s that one like?”

  She nestled a little closer to me. And I knew she was my endgame. “The restaurant seats maybe sixty people. That’s pretty small, but it will keep the quality high.”

  “Go on.” I stroked her hair. “What’s it called?”

  She lifted her face and smiled at me. “Audrey’s.”

  “Clever.”

  She pinched my hip. “I want a simple name. My place won’t be Le Princesse Fantasie or anything stuffy like that. And the dining room won’t be frilly. I’d want to put it in a renovated mill or somewhere in the North End. Bricks. Maybe a few industrial steel beams. Vintage factory lamps. The furniture will be comfortable but unassuming.”

  “Good thing. I’m going to need a table reserved for me every Friday night. So what am I having for dinner?”

  “During which month? The menu will change frequently to accommodate the season.”

  “Fine. October.”

  “Okay, I recommend the pork tenderloin medallions in a balsamic reduction.”

  “Are there cherries in the sauce?”

  “Cherries are out of season. Duh. But you’ll get whole-wheat couscous on the side, with cranberries and walnuts. And garlicky wilted spinach.”

  “Wow.”

  “But if you’re not in the mood for pork, you might want the buttermilk fried chicken with Jerusalem artichoke chips on the side. I think I’ll serve it with a garlic and roasted pepper aioli.”

  “What’s aioli?”

  “It’s homemade, flavored mayo. I’m really good at making it. And if I call it aioli I can charge thirty-six dollars for the dish.”

  I laughed and cuddled her closer. “Who says you don’t have a head for business?”

  She continued with her menu. “The beef dish of the evening is probably a hangar steak. There will be a salmon burger for variety.”

  “Okay, stop,” I insisted.

  “Why?”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  She rolled over to face me, her lively eyes shining in the moonlight. “But we haven’t gotten to the desserts!”

  “Fine. What’s for dessert?”

  Audrey rolled away again. “I’ll have to consult my pastry chef. But there are probably apples in it.”

  “Because it’s October?”

  “Right. And if they’re Blue Permains I’m charging double.”

  “Hey—is there cider on the menu?”

  “Of course. There’s an award-winning cider on the menu. From Vermont. Some grumpy farmer makes it. I forgot his name.”

  “Ouch.” I gave her boob a squeeze. “You can’t forget my name. I’ll be a regular.”

  She grabbed my hand off her breast and kissed it. “I’m never forgetting your name, Griff. Geez.”

  I ran a hand down her body, my fingertips brushing her mound. “Gonna have to remind you if you forget.”

  She gave a little shiver and sighed. We rested in silence for a few minutes, and I wondered if Audrey had fallen asleep. “What’s your plan?” she startled me by asking.

  “What?”

  “I just told you my five-year plan. What’s yours?”

  Easy question. “To get Daphne and Dylan through college.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What’s the beautiful part?”

  I gathered her hair in my hand and smoothed it off her shoulder, because I couldn’t stop touching her. “I’m holding it right here.”

  “Griffin,” she warned.

  Apparently I wasn’t allowed to say things like that. “Fine. In five years I’ve won a dozen awards, and I’m exporting cider to eleven different countries. There are guys regrafting orchards all over Vermont to try to get in on the new wave of interest in handcrafted ciders. I’ve bought my neighbor’s land across the street and built a new tasting room where the cow barn is now. And I’ve built a house, too. With awesome views of the Green Mountains and a chef’s kitchen. Just in case any chefs stop by.”

  “Nice.”

  “If I haven’t convinced any woman to take me on as a project, I guess I’ll just live with Zachariah my whole life. People will start to whisper about us probably.”

  Audrey giggled, so I tickled her. Then I flipped her over and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around me immediately.

  This right here was my five-year plan. I didn’t know how it was going to work out yet. But I wasn’t giving up.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Audrey

  I woke in the early hours of the morning curled
up on Griff’s chest. It was so roomy and comfortable that in my sleepy haze it seemed possible that I could move here permanently. There was almost as much space on his pecs as in my skanky little rented room. And I’d never have to pay for heat…

  Someone knocked on the bedroom door. “Griff, you milking today? Or should I tell the cows you’re too busy.” It was his mouthy cousin, Kyle.

  “Start without me,” Griff muttered.

  Kyle laughed. “You’re catching so much hell for this later.”

  “Tell someone who cares.”

  There was the sound of feet shuffling past, and then the bunkhouse got very still. Griff’s arms encircled me, and he sighed. “I have to get up.”

  “I know.”

  He kissed my temple. “You should sleep more. The guys won’t come back this way until after breakfast, so you can have a shower later in peace.”

  “Good tip.” Grudgingly, I slid off his chest and onto my side of the bed.

  Instead of getting up like I expected him to, Griff rolled over on top of me. “I like having you in my bed.”

  I smiled up at him. “I like being had in your bed.”

  He snorted. “You always make a joke.”

  “You like my jokes,” I pointed out.

  “Every one.” He kissed my forehead. “But I’d keep you here if I could. And I’m going to keep saying it, just in case you forget.”

  Then he got up and began to get dressed, and I couldn’t help but admire the show. You know you’ve got it bad for someone when watching him pull on his jeans makes you heartsick. Roughened hands tugged the fabric up over solid muscle. His was a body that knew things. A single slap from Griff on a cow’s rear end would align it perfectly with the milking station. His sculpted arms could lift a bushel of apples into the cider press.

  His full, generous mouth could coax such pleasure from my body that it made me speak in tongues.

  Griff pulled a merino wool T-shirt down over his broad back, covered it with a flannel shirt, and then the show was over.

  He turned around slowly. I didn’t even bother disguising my interest. I wasn’t afraid to show Griff that I loved him. Loving him wasn’t the problem. But loving myself enough to return to Boston and make a go of my career was the hard part.

  “You make it hard to walk out that door,” he said.

  Back atcha, babe. “See you at breakfast,” I said aloud.

  I dozed in Griff’s bed for another hour. It was lovely. And every time I rolled over on his pillow, my traitorous brain teased me with impossible ideas. You could just stay, it suggested. You could go and see Zara, and talk her into letting you start up a breakfast service at The Goat.

  But then what? I’d be shacked with Griff at the bunkhouse. That would only put more pressure on him. One more person to support. One more complication.

  What if we didn’t get along? What if he got sick of me? People usually did.

  Audrey’s would never become real. Even worse—I’d never know if I might have succeeded.

  I got up and showered. Everything in the bunkhouse bathroom screamed MEN LIVE HERE, from the razors on every surface to the industrial soap and the athlete’s foot spray on the countertop.

  Hysterical.

  I got dressed, taking care to smooth the wrinkles out of my shirt and brush my hair. But even as I crossed the open lawn from the bunkhouse to the farmhouse, I felt my neck flush. It was hard to walk into Griff’s kitchen in the morning and look his mother in the eye. My guilty conscience would start shouting at any second, I had dirty, dirty sex with your son!

  The kitchen was too busy for my little insecurities, though. “Morning, Audrey!” Ruth said from the stove. She had a pancake on the spatula, but the stack of plates was out of reach. “Would you mind…?”

  I lunged forward and moved the plates.

  “Thank you! Someone stole the platter.”

  “Sorry!” yelled May from the dining room.

  “What else can I do?” I asked. “I thought you had another forty-five minutes until breakfast?”

  “We do everything earlier on the apple-picking weekends. Can you see if the coffee is done and then start another pot?”

  And so I was happily sucked into the morning Shipley family mayhem. I drained the bacon and broke a dozen eggs into a bowl for scrambling. Nobody called me “prep girl” or ordered me around.

  When I brought the eggs to Ruth, she gave me a smile and a little pat on the shoulder.

  It was embarrassing how much I loved this family and how badly I wished it were mine. But wishing wouldn’t make it so. And they had enough people to care for already.

  When the men came inside, May and I were just putting everything on the dining table. I felt the same electric jump in my tummy when Griff stepped into the room. “Hi baby,” he said in his growly voice.

  “Hi,” I squeaked.

  He lifted his strong jaw toward the pot in the corner. “Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

  You can pour anything you want. “Thank you.”

  Grandpa Shipley wandered in with his newspaper and took a seat. Ruth brought him a cup of coffee. But when she opened her mouth to ask him something, he held up a silencing hand. “Nope. Not today.”

  She clamped her jaw together. “I was going to ask whether you wanted a soft-boiled egg.”

  He looked disgruntled. “Well, in that case I accept.”

  Ruth brought him an egg in a little egg cup. Then she took her own seat. It was Zach’s turn to say grace, which he did with quiet dignity while Daphne stared at him with stars in her eyes.

  Then we dug in.

  Griff ate with one hand resting on my bare knee, and it was distracting and wonderful.

  The first tourists’ cars pulled in even before the breakfast dishes were dried and put away. “Here it comes.” May sighed. “Mom? Should I take the cash box outside?”

  “I’ve got it,” Ruth said. “I’ll go first. You can finish up here. Have another cup of coffee. Just come and relieve me by ten-thirty so I can work on lunch.”

  “Deal.”

  I poured cider for tourists on and off all day. This time I wrote down everything they said about the flavors. In cooking school we’re taught a lot of fancy words for describing taste. But I wanted to know what random people said about each blend. By lunchtime the page on my clipboard was filled with words like “sparkly” and “mushroomy” and “sweet-tart.”

  When evening came, Griffin took me out to dinner in Norwich. We sat in the front room at a restaurant called Carpenter & Main, after its street corner. With its old farmhouse architecture and its creaky floorboards, the place fairly shouted New England. We ordered venison duck confit and two appetizers and shared everything.

  Vermont was doing its best to woo me. Staring over the rim of my wine glass into Griff’s big, dark eyes, I wanted to stay.

  So I did what I always do when I need to get back on track. I thought about my own version of the perfect Vermont restaurant menu. “Maybe tapas wasn’t the right choice for my pitch. I could open a Vermont-themed restaurant on the edge of Brookline.”

  Griff made the first ornery face I’d seen all weekend. “Why can’t you open a Vermont-themed restaurant in Vermont?”

  “I’m pretty sure they have that covered here, big guy.” It wasn’t impossible to open a real restaurant in a rural area. But you’d have to live there long enough to figure out where it could survive. Norwich was a fancy town right across the river from Dartmouth College. The clientele at this restaurant was probably made up of professors and visitors. Other parts of Vermont had tourist traffic, but it was seasonal. Griff had told me that his apple pickers were often from Connecticut, and after years at the orchard, he knew exactly when to expect them.

  Opening a restaurant in Vermont was a lovely thought. But without a lot of study and without the backing of investors? Crazy.

  Every time I wondered why I was still working at BPG, it always came back to this: I was smart enough to know what I didn’t kn
ow.

  Griff was still frowning, so I put my hand over his bigger one, smoothing the skin, warming his hand until his face softened again. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” I said, bracing myself for another question about restaurants.

  “Why didn’t we go out? In Boston.”

  “What? Yesterday?”

  He shook his head slowly, those dark eyes boring into me. And I realized he meant before. At BU.

  I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. “You left me a message,” I recalled out loud. “And I didn’t call you back.”

  “That’s right.” He lifted his bearded chin a little defiantly.

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t think you cared that much.”

  His bushy eyebrows rose. “Why would you say that? I called, I asked you out, didn’t I? Twice, I think.”

  It had honestly never occurred to me that I would have had the power to hurt him. “Let’s see. You were this big football star, and I was just some freshman that was doing badly in all my classes. And my boyfriend had just obliterated my self-esteem.”

  God, just remembering that month gave me a pang in the center of my chest. College was supposed to be fun. That’s what everyone said. But I was a ship at sea. My prep school friends were all conquering the world and I just couldn’t get anything right.

  Griff picked my hand up off the table and stroked my palm with one thumb. “I liked you a lot, princess. But I did a shitty job convincing you.”

  I put an admiring hand over his brawny wrist and squeezed. “That was April or May of your senior year, right? We would have gotten a few good dates in, maybe. Then you moved to Green Bay. Timing has never been our forte, Griffin.”

  He gave me a sad smile and then paid the check.

  Then we went back to the bunkhouse and had sex in absolute silence, because the building has no insulation between rooms, and we weren’t in the mood to be exhibitionists. What was passing between us this weekend was romantic and difficult and also private. I wanted him all to myself for just a few hours more.

  I got my wish. Griffin bent me over his desk and gave it to me right there in front of a sky full of stars. Then he scooped me up and tucked me into the bed where we napped until we were ready to do it again.