Of Blind Fate (Operation: Middle of the Garden Book 5)

by Micah Persell

  He forced his eyes to the television, but didn’t really track what was on the screen. Instead, at the feel of her pressed into his side, every tense muscle in his body eased. The breath he’d been holding blew out through parted lips, taking a good deal of his stress with it. This fixed everything. Stupid, but nonetheless true.

  Farrah tapped his thigh with her pointer finger. He jumped, her touch leaving behind a flame against his skin.

  She turned her face toward his. “Oliver.” Her breath brushed against the hollow of his throat. “The battle.”

  Right. Focus.

  This wasn’t an opportunity to feel her up, though it would be the best gift ever if it were.

  Oliver cleared his throat, gave her a quick squeeze, and directed his full attention to the television. He knew this battle scene by heart and could talk her through it without watching, but who in the world would miss out on an opportunity to watch the Death Star blow up?

  As he murmured the recipient of every pew, pew into Farrah’s fragrant hair, her body filled with tension, and Oliver hoped it was from more than worry about who would prevail on the screen. His own relaxation at simply having her in his arms was slowly being replaced by need.

  But when the closing credits began to roll, reality edged back in, and Oliver was again reminded of Luke’s impending defection. He didn’t even know when it would happen, but the intelligent guess was that it would be sometime soon since Grace’s safety was in jeopardy.

  Would Luke even come say goodbye after the way Oliver communicated his distaste for this solution?

  Farrah straightened, and Oliver reluctantly let her go, thankful that she’d let him hold her for so long to start with. “I loved that.”

  Oliver smiled. “Good, you passed the first test.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, and it was the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen. He was reaching forward to drag his finger along those wrinkles when she spoke again. “There are more films of these star wars?”

  “Yup.” His wayward hand fell to his lap. “Depending on who you ask, two more or six more.”

  Farrah’s brow furrowed. “I’m asking you.”

  “Ah, well, in that case, we should watch them all and let you decide the answer. But I warn you, it’s another test. And God help you if you ever bring a director’s edition into this house.”

  Farrah smiled at him, and he sighed like an idiot, just so besotted at the sight of her and overwhelmed by everything else that he couldn’t keep himself quiet.

  Her smile slipped. “What’s wrong?”

  Oliver blinked. Damn. “Nothing’s wrong.” He nudged her knee with his own.

  Farrah shook her head. “No, something is. You are…sad.”

  Oliver closed his eyes, and before he could stop himself, he was leaning forward. He rested his head in Farrah’s lap, burying his face in her abdomen, and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  She did not even hesitate to wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold him tight, and Oliver clenched his eyes shut. “Oliver?” she asked, her voice unsure.

  Oh, God. He could stay here forever.

  Her stomach rumbled and then growled loudly, and Oliver jerked upright. A quick glance at the DVD player confirmed that it was late. Like two hours past dinner time late. “Shit,” he muttered, pushing to his feet. He snagged Farrah’s hand and pulled her along behind him, stopping only to grab the tray from the table on his way to the kitchen. “Why wouldn’t you tell me you were hungry?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Farrah shrugged. “I honestly could not tell. It is not such a big deal, Oliver.”

  Her hunger is not a big deal? In some dim recess of his brain, he could tell that he may be overreacting, but the idea of her in discomfort at all did not settle well with him. And the fact that she thought being hungry was no big deal only meant that it was a state-of-being with which she was very familiar, and that devastated him on a level he did not care to examine.

  He plopped the tray on the counter by the stove and settled Farrah against the cabinets on the other side of the stove with a hand on each of her hips. The touch was meant to be casual and friendly, but he realized his hands were curved over her hips at the same time that she seemed to. They both froze. Her lips parted, and her breathing grew heavy. His breaths echoed hers. He brushed his thumbs over her hip bones, and his skin began to tingle.

  Her stomach growled again, effectively pulling him from any formulating plans to lift her on top of the counter and shove his way between her legs. He dropped his hands from her hips as though she were burning him and took a giant step back from where he had mysteriously crowded up against her.

  He looked at the tray of various veggies and thawing frozen chicken breast and paused. “I don’t suppose you know how to cook.”

  She blinked several times at him and crossed her arms over her chest. Her forearms were peppered with little goosebumps, and Oliver’s body lurched at the sight. His casual touch had affected her as well, apparently.

  He stepped toward her again, his hands reaching. “Farrah.”

  “I am actually a wonderful cook.” She frowned and tilted her head down. “At least…I was.”

  Oliver froze, his hand inches from weaving into her hair. “Was?”

  “I have not had the chance to try since I….” She gestured toward her eyes with one hand before securely crossing her arms once more. “But it once brought me great joy. In the master’s house, I would often hide in the kitchen with the cooks and—” Her words abruptly ended, and her knuckles bleached white as she gripped her own arms tightly.

  Oliver felt his mouth drop. “Master’s house?” he repeated.

  Farrah shook her head, distress flitting across her features only to be buried moments later. “Never mind.” She pushed away from the counter.

  “Farrah,” Oliver began, not willing to let that slide.

  “I am so very hungry.” She turned from him to face the stove, her shame evident.

  “No.” Oliver reached forward and squeezed her hand. “You can’t just say something like that and then leave it.”

  Farrah’s back stiffened so much, Oliver’s ached in sympathy. “Secrets were never part of our deal.”

  His head jerked back as though he’d been slapped, and he sucked in a breath. His fingers spasmed against her hand, but he forced himself to release it and step back.

  She was right: they had a deal, not a relationship. And Oliver was days away from getting his life back. He didn’t need any…complications.

  “Of course.” Oliver’s voice was embarrassingly hoarse. Thank God one of us has her head on straight. Oliver swallowed past the frog in his throat and bent down to get a skillet from the cabinet beside the stove. He dropped it onto the stove with a clang, then reached over, grabbed a frozen chicken breast and tossed it into the pan.

  Farrah jumped at the racket and blinked several times, and Oliver closed his eyes and told himself to quit acting like a petty dick.

  When he opened them again, Farrah was reaching out. She brushed her fingers across the chicken breast and frowned. “Is this…frozen?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said, his voice still grumpy.

  Farrah surprised him with a laugh. “You cannot cook it like this on the stove. Get a knife and cut it up, silly man. Where is your spice cabinet?”

  Oliver blinked. “Uh,” his gaze flicked around. “Spices? There’s salt on the table. I think.”

  Farrah tsked and walked along the cabinet with one hand on the countertop and one in the air. When she reached an overhead cabinet, she opened it and felt around before pulling out a small container with a red top. She quickly opened it and inhaled before wrinkling her nose, returning it to the cabinet, and pulling out another.

  “Huh,” Oliver said. “I have spices.”

  Farrah chuckled. “I do not hear a knife.”

  Oliver grabbed a knife—he knew where those were—and began cutting the chicken into haphazard chunks in the skillet.

  �
��Oh, Oliver,” Farrah said from right beside him. “Are you cutting that in the skillet? You’ll ruin it.”

  “I’ll get us another,” he said. “Done,” he announced, stepping aside.

  Farrah took his place and began seasoning the chicken, moving so adeptly even without sight that there was no question she was a natural in the kitchen. “Do you make firni?” he asked, his mood immediately brightening.

  “The best you’ll ever taste.” She gave a small smile while reaching down and turning on the stovetop. “I will help you make a list of ingredients to have on hand, and I can make it for you whenever you want.”

  “Goddess,” he said, leaning down and kissing her cheek spontaneously.

  Making plans, Oliver? Really?

  Before his mood could nosedive, the most tantalizing blush spread up her neck and across the spot he’d just kissed. Oliver’s gaze drifted down, and he wondered how far down the blush went. Over her breasts?

  Hell, make your plans.

  Farrah cleared her throat and blinked several times. “What else did you bring?”

  Oliver’s gaze shot up to safe territory once more. “Um, what?”

  “For the meal? You brought more than chicken, yes?”

  Oliver looked over at the tray, trying to corral his thoughts. “Some peppers and asparagus.”

  “Chop them up, too.” She waved a hand in the air. “We will throw them in the pan in a few minutes.”

  His lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Farrah paused. “Are you one of those men who don’t like to be bossed around?”

  “Woman, you can boss me around anywhere.” He meant it just as lasciviously as it came out, but if he’d had an ounce of sense, he wouldn’t have said it. He winced and looked at Farrah’s face, preparing for her to be offended.

  “Good to know.” She stirred the chicken around with a wooden spoon.

  Damn. He was going to fall to his knees at her feet at any moment if she wasn’t careful. Then he would kiss his way up….

  He shook his head to dislodge that train of thought and started cutting veggies. They settled into companionable silence, and mouthwatering aromas began to fill the kitchen. Farrah started humming some nameless tune, her lips gently tipped at the corners. Oliver settled against the counter and simply watched her, a feeling of home and contentment flooding him.

  Pity this was only going to last for a few days.

  As soon as he had the thought, he froze. Uh oh. Not okay. “I’m going to set the table,” he said a bit too harshly.

  “O-okay.” Farrah frowned at his sudden mood change.

  Oliver rolled his eyes at himself. Get yourself together, man. He grabbed some plates and silverware and stormed toward the table.

  As he was setting things out, he heard a sharp hiss behind him. He spun around to find Farrah cradling one hand in the other, her face contorted into a grimace. He dropped everything he was holding and sprinted to her side.

  He gently took her hands and pulled them into the light. A red, angry burn marred Farrah’s hand. “Oh, baby,” Oliver muttered, leading her by her hands to the sink. “I’m so sorry.”

  He flipped the water to as cold as it would get and stuck Farrah’s hand beneath it, cursing himself the entire time. If he hadn’t been across the apartment throwing a tantrum, he would have been there to tell her the pan had shifted off of the gas burner. “This is my fault.”

  Farrah laughed. “How do you arrive at that conclusion?”

  Oliver didn’t answer, just continued to hold Farrah’s hand under the flow of water. The red was already quickly receding. Oliver jolted a bit as he remembered that Farrah was immortal now; this burn was barely a blip on her radar and would be completely gone in a matter of moments.

  He squinted at her palm, blew out a breath, and pulled her hands from beneath the water. “All better.” He reached for a towel and tenderly dried her hands.

  “I guess I have some adjustments to make in the kitchen now that I cannot see what I am doing,” Farrah said, her eyes downcast.

  Oliver reached for her chin and tilted her head up. “Of the two of us, you did much better in that kitchen, babe.” He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, and like magic, her lips parted.

  Oliver swallowed hard. “Still hungry?” he asked and then immediately rolled his eyes. Of course she was still hungry.

  She nodded her head. Oliver grabbed the skillet containing sautéed chicken and vegetables with one hand; with his other hand, Oliver grabbed Farrah around the waist and led her over to the table. “Chair to your left,” he whispered.

  She settled, and Oliver scooped food onto her plate, his mouth watering as aromas his kitchen had never generated wafted through the room. “This might be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

  Farrah smiled. “You have not even tried it yet.”

  “I already know it’s true.”

  “Then you are going to be easy to please.”

  Oliver froze in the middle of filling his plate. A quick glance at Farrah’s face, and he could tell that she’d heard the sensual undercurrent of her words as well. “Very,” Oliver said, his voice suddenly deep.

  That pretty blush spread over Farrah’s cheeks again, and she reached for her fork and took a dainty bite of her meal. Oliver joined her, and as soon as the food hit his tongue, he moaned. The chicken was a mix of savory, spicy, and sweet, and it truly was the best meal he’d ever had. “How did you season this?” he asked, the awe obvious in his voice.

  “Chef’s secret,” she said with a shy smile. “I am glad you like it.”

  Oliver shoveled food into his mouth at an alarming rate, quickly going through all his plate held. He then resorted to eyeballing Farrah’s plate as she slowly and carefully ate, savoring every bite. When she eventually sat back, patting her stomach with a contented sigh, Oliver pounced, grabbing Farrah’s leftovers and putting them down, too.

  “Oh, my God,” Oliver groaned, finally sitting back himself. “I’m going to get so fat and happy with you cooking.”

  Farrah grinned, and Oliver became entranced with the dimple it revealed in her left cheek What other expressions would bring that dimple out? Would it make an appearance if he made her scream with pleasure? He would definitely find that out; he promised himself.

  Farrah’s eyelids drooped a bit, and she yawned. Oliver got to his feet, gathered the dishes, and quickly loaded the dishwasher while leaving the skillet in the sink for morning. He strode into the bedroom and folded down the edge of the comforter and sheet before moving to the doorway and leaning against the doorjamb. He looked at Farrah where she still sat at the table, her head nodding intermittently, and was filled with contentment. Tonight had been so…familial. And Oliver had eaten it up in the most disturbing manner, as though what he’d experienced tonight was something his life had been craving.

  He shook his head. “Bed’s ready.”

  Farrah’s head snapped up, her eyes momentarily fuzzy before she smiled softly and rose from her chair, making her way toward him.

  Oliver did not move out of the doorway, and she instinctively stopped right before she ran into him. She looked up at him, her upturned face breathtaking and open.

  “I’d like to sleep with you tonight.”

  Farrah’s brows shot toward her hairline.

  “Sleep,” Oliver quickly clarified. “Not have sex.”

  Farrah’s expression settled, but something unidentifiable flashed in her eyes before she regained her composure. He wouldn’t let himself hope that it had been disappointment. There was no way he’d behave tonight if he thought that.

  “Can I just…hold you?” he asked, immediately embarrassed by the vulnerability and emotion in the halting question.

  Farrah paused, her lips turning down for a moment before she said, “That is acceptable,” in the most serious tone he had ever heard her use.

  Without his permission, his face cracked into a grin. That is acceptable. She was fucking adorable, and she was ripping h
is control and his plans to shreds right before his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Good.”

  He reached out and threaded his fingers through hers. Turning, he led her into the room and to the side of the bed he’d turned down. He stopped them and rotated her so she faced him. Sucking in a breath and holding it, Oliver reached out, his hand hesitating for a moment, and pulled the hijab from the crown of her head. It fell to her shoulders, and then gravity took over, pulling it to the ground.

  Her eyes were wide, but she wasn’t protesting, and Oliver scoured her face, looking for any sign of hesitation or unease. When he found none, he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers and removed the twine that held it together. He dropped the string on the bedside table and then began to do something he had fantasized of doing from the moment he’d first seen her with her hair uncovered: he began unwinding her braid.

  Farrah’s breathing grew heavy, and her eyes relaxed and then slackened. Oliver dragged his fingers through her thick, thick hair, combing it as he released it. When the braid was completely unraveled, he could barely resist the urge to dig his fingers into her hair and massage her scalp until her head fell back so he could suck on her pulse point until he left a bruise.

  Barely.

  He swallowed and spread her hair out over her shoulder instead. “So beautiful,” he mumbled, dragging his hand down the cool silk once more.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes dazed.

  “What do you sleep in?” Nothing. Say nothing.

  Farrah’s eyes cleared and she frowned. “This.” She gestured to her loose trousers and tunic.

  Oliver cocked an eyebrow but kept quiet. He was going to be so intertwined with her tonight that being fully clothed would create a sauna for her beneath the comforter, but he was thankful for small blessings. If she had said nothing, there was no way he would have been able to keep from misbehaving.

  He stepped back and held up the comforter. “In you go,” he said hoarsely.

  Farrah slid into bed, and Oliver tucked her in before walking around to the other side, shedding clothes as he went. He usually did sleep in nothing, and while that wasn’t an option tonight, he damn well wasn’t going to sleep fully clothed like she was. He had to draw the line somewhere.