by BJ Harvey
I’ve been letting her lead the way in regards to the physical side of things. Since our lighthearted golf bet that turned into a signal of sexual intent, she’s been more relaxed, and the Faith I used to know that loved to be close is back.
I stand and down the last of my beer while meeting my brother’s gaze. I reach out an arm and grip his hand tight as we do a quick finger-grab-and-fist-bump maneuver. “Thanks for today. It was fun. And tell Ax we’ll be there for his first baseball game.”
Jamie’s eyes soften at the mention of his stepson. “He’d like that. Although April has already warned me she’s one of those loudmouthed, competitive mom types,” he says, ending with a half-smirk.
I quirk a brow. “And that surprises you? Your wife is almost as protective as you are, and that’s saying something.”
Jamie chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re right about that, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.”
“And that’s why you put a ring on it.”
“Is that the reason you did the same?” he asks, but I know he doesn’t expect an answer because he knows it already.
“It was always her.”
“And everything I’ve seen says it’s always been you for her too.”
Fuck that feels good.
“Tell me this before you go. Has anything happened so far that tells you she’s not in this for the long haul?”
“No,” I say without any hesitation whatsoever.
“Have you let her in completely? Have you talked about your life since she left? Your hopes, your dreams, where you wanna be and who you wanna be with in twenty, thirty, and fifty years?”
“Not yet. But you know that everything I’ve ever done is for her. All of it. I want to build a life with her, renovate our own home like you did here.” I wave my arm back toward the amazing house we flipped with Jamie. “I want kids and a dog and—”
Jamie stands and cups my shoulder, locking eyes with mine. “You’re holding back something though. Honestly, I get it, but if I can see it, she can too, and unless you give it all to her and take the risk, you won’t get to the place where you can have everything you want to have.”
“I’m close. It’s just…”
“Okay. How’s this then? Have you talked about why she left?”
“I know why. I figured it out after the anger and hurt started to fade away,” I say, it feels great to say it out loud. “And she left because she got the summer internship in Sydney, and had also applied to a master’s program at the same time.”
“No, that’s the reason for leaving. What’s the why?” he says, giving me a firm squeeze before stepping back. “Once you know that, that wall you’re fighting to hold up will come crashing down and what will be revealed will be so fucking good, you’ll wonder why you wasted so much time fighting it.”
“I know why,” I admit quietly. “She felt overshadowed by our relationship and the weight of expectation, exacerbated by my proposing the night before she left, which was a breaking point. I was more than willing to do long-distance while she did the internship and finished her master’s.”
“Did she know that?”
Now it’s time for me to confess my fault in all of this. “No. I didn’t get the chance to tell her. But being older and wiser means I can see the mistakes of my past clearly enough to know I won’t make them again this time.”
“Not to be a smartass, but you do know that as much as I appreciate you telling me all of this, I’m not the one you need to say all of this to.”
“You’re quite smart for an old guy,” I say, earning me the middle finger and a deep, rumbling laugh.
“Smart enough to marry me,” April says, appearing in the open doorway that leads back inside.
“Best decision I ever made,” Jamie says, his eyes going soft. April’s, however, are flashing with heat.
“And on that note, I’m off to see what Faith is cooking me.” I move toward April, stopping when she gently places her hand on my arm.
“I won’t tell you how I know, but I can say this. I can tell you this. She’s willing to move mountains and fight with her bare hands to be the best wife and woman for you,” she says quietly.
“What she still doesn’t realize is she’s the only woman for me. Always has been. Always will be.”
“You should tell her that.”
“My ring is on her finger.”
April sighs, shaking her head slightly. “Sometimes, a ring is just a piece of metal.”
“Not this one.”
April leans up and brushes her lips against my cheek. “She was made for you, honey.”
God, that feels good to hear from someone who didn’t know pre-split Bry and Faith.
April pulls back with a suspicious grin. “Now get home because I have it on good authority that she’s cooking your favorite meal.”
I gulp because I’ve had bad lasagnas and good lasagnas but never one that has the potential to ruin my love of the dish. I don’t want that to change now.
April’s eyes narrow, obviously reading my concern. “Don’t you even go there, mister. I’ve never seen a woman more determined to make pasta than Faith Cook. And believe me, she didn’t stop trying until she got it right.”
That makes me grin because if there’s one word to describe my wife, it’s determined.
“Okay. Now I really want to get home and see what culinary madness my wife has created.”
“Good luck,” Jamie calls out, pulling April into his side. “Maybe have Cohen on speed dial. You know, just in case… ouch, lovely. What was that for?”
“Have a little faith in… well, Faith,” she says with a giggle.
“Thanks for the concern for my health but I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, then Faith will be none the wiser. That’s what husbands do, right?” I say, looking directly at my brother.
“That’s what husbands do,” he says, his smile broad and wise.
Another wave and I’m out the door, heading home, ruminating over Jamie and April’s words the entire way there.
16
Bryant
The moment I walk through the door, I’m hit with the delicious scent of garlic and herbs, and my mouth salivates in anticipation. Definitely a pleasant surprise considering I’d been expecting a hint of smoke in the air.
“Hey,” Faith calls out. “Dinner won’t be long.”
“Hey. I’ll just take my gear off and wash up.”
“Shit. Damn. Ouch,” is all I hear coming from the kitchen.
With a smile on my face, I put away my helmet and jacket in the hall cupboard. Bending down, I remove my boots as more curses follow.
“Motherfucking moose knuckle!”
I lose it and start out-and-out laughing.
A few stomps later, Faith’s head appears through the doorway, her narrowed eyes glaring at me. “What are you laughing at?”
“Moose knuckle? Really?”
“I ran out of curse words.”
“So you decided to use a random curse-word generator?”
Her eyes lose some of their fire, and her lips twitch. “No. But that could be a good idea in future. Someone should invent that.”
I chuckle. “They have. Jax got me a copy for Christmas once. I think it’s in a box somewhere.”
“Well then, until we find it for future use, I’ll endeavor to be more creative.”
Walking down the hall toward her, I study her from behind to look for any visible injuries, because all my past experiences with Faith cooking have resulted in damage of some kind.
I see her still in one piece, I meet her eyes and hear her huff out a grumbled—though nonetheless cute—sigh. “Give me some credit, Cook.”
“I’m just going by past experience, Cook.”
Her gaze softens, a wry smile appearing on her face. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”
“Okay. It smells good, babycakes,” I say, closing the distance between us and placing my hand at the side of her neck to press my mouth to
hers. The tip of her tongue touches my lips. I slowly pull away, knowing we won’t eat if I deepen the kiss in the way I’d like to. “Be back soon.”
“Okay. I’ll dish it up. But don’t worry—Cohen’s on duty if any medical assistance is required,” she adds. She turns around and returns to the kitchen, leaving me standing there dumbfounded.
After a super quick shower, I put on a tee and sweatpants and exit the bedroom.
Entering the living area, I freeze at the sight of our makeshift dining table covered in a red tablecloth, two plates, and cutlery laid out on top with a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a single white candle in the middle.
Faith walks around the kitchen island and shoots me a coy smile as she carries a square baking dish filled to the brim and topped with golden, bubbly cheese. I take a deep breath through my nose, mostly out of habit as there is a well-established history of my now wife, not knowing when something has finished cooking. Except all I can smell is deliciousness, making my stomach grumble in both appreciation and aggravation that I’m not already shoving food into my mouth.
“That smells amazing,” I say, moving towards the table. Her smile brightens.
“I just hope it tastes as good.” She places the lasagna onto the table and goes to pull out her chair, but I beat her to it, pushing it back in when she takes a seat. I reach for the uncorked wine bottle and slowly pour the scarlet liquid into her glass before handing it to her and filling my own.
Sitting down, I reach for my glass and lift my arm in the air. “To surprise homemade meals,” I say with a grateful grin.
Her answering blush almost matches the color of our drinks as she touches her glass to mine. “Thank you.”
“I think I should be the one thanking you.”
“You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“Don’t need to. I can already tell it’s Mom’s recipe.”
Her head jerks back. “How?”
“Thirty-four years of experience.”
“But it might not—”
“Did you make it?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“No buts, Faith. What helps makes Mom’s cooking so good is the love she pours into it. Seeing your face and smelling this food, I just know I’ll be going back for seconds.”
She opens her mouth to no doubt voice an objection, but I know in my gut that even if this pasta is half as good as I think it’s gonna be, it’ll be more than edible. I also know I’ll go back for seconds just to see the blinding smile on Faith’s face again.
“Now let me dish it up, and we can enjoy my wife’s first home-cooked meal for us in our makeshift house.”
Faith frowns but quickly schools her expression. She reaches out and covers my hand resting on the table, her soft eyes locked with mine. “Thank you.”
“It’s gonna be me thanking you soon enough, babycakes,” I say, turning over my palm and giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.
After serving dinner, I feel her gaze on me. I scoop food onto my fork and place it between my lips. My eyes close as rich tomato, perfectly cooked pasta, and tasty bechamel sauce overwhelm my taste buds. I’m powerless to stop the moan of appreciation rumbling in my throat.
“Damn, that’s good.” I catch Faith’s nervous expression that she doesn’t even try to hide. “Your turn,” I say with a nod toward her plate.
She picks up her own fork and takes her own small, tentative taste, her eyes widening when she does.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “It’s actually good.” Her voice is filled with wonder and disbelief, and without thinking, I lean over, cup her jaw, and pull her in for a quick brush of the lips.
I flex my fingers against her skin. “You did good, baby.”
“I wanted to cook for you, but I wanted to make sure I did your Mom’s recipe justice. I didn’t think it was conducive to a good marriage to burn down the shack just over a month after the wedding.”
My head drops back as I burst out laughing, my hand falling down to the table as I do.
When I look over at her again, she’s smirking at me, the tension she was holding in her shoulders now gone.
“In case I didn’t make it abundantly clear, this is phenomenal. It’s just as good as Mom’s and given it’s my favorite meal of all time, that’s saying something.”
“I’m glad. It is pretty good. Much better than the last time I tried—and failed—to cook for you. Do you remember?”
I swallow my mouthful and grin, shaking my head at the memory. “Are you talking about the moussaka that was more mousse than ‘aka?’”
Her answering giggle fills the room, and as I watch her do it with avid fascination, I wonder how it’s possible for her to become even more beautiful as she’s gotten older.
I take another sip of wine, and we fall into comfortable silence as we eat.
When my plate is clear, and my stomach is full to the brim, I cradle my glass in my hand and lean back in my chair. Faith settles herself into a similar position.
“Honestly, if you keep cooking like that, I’m gonna have to add a few more miles when I go running.”
Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Would that be much of a hardship? Good food will always win out in my book.”
“Mine too. Besides, there are always other ways to work up a sweat,” I say with a grin. “So, is that why you went over to Mom’s house last Sunday?”
Her mouth drops open, but she quickly recovers, her gaze turning suspicious. “Let me guess. April told you?”
I shrug. “She mentioned she saw you and said you were making my favorite dish. I put two and two together.”
“April and Ronnie were there when I arrived.”
“Does that mean there might be more meals like this in my future?” I ask, hopefully. I’ve loved cooking for us so far, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love the fact Faith has gone out of her way to learn how to make my favorite food for me.
“Well I haven’t had to call Cohen for medical advice as yet, so the future is looking bright,” she says.
I lock eyes with hers and wait until I have her full attention. “Yes, it is.”
Her lips part and I know my words have struck the right chord.
I want to keep talking to her, loving the relaxed, open mood she’s got going. She’s been taking the whole marriage/cohabitation/forced sleeping arrangements in her stride for the past six weeks, but tonight is the first time I’ve really seen her fully relax. The shutters behind her eyes are not only open wide, they’ve been ripped down and thrown away, and that gives me hope that she is going to let me in—in all ways, including physically. It’s not a hardship, sharing a bed with her every night, and seeing her clothes explode across the bedroom floor every morning when she rummages for something to wear before jumping into the shower. But it is starting to cause me physical pain to sleep with her barely clothed body draped over mine when I don’t feel she’s ready for me to make a move just yet.
“So, tell me, how did you survive twelve years living by yourself in a strange country and not cook for yourself?” I ask.
Her smile widens. “Roommates.”
My brows lift before she carries on.
“When I first arrived, I was living with two other interns in staff accommodation. We hit it off, so when the internship finished, instead of moving into dorms at the university there, we found a flat together and moved in.”
“Female, male, elephant?” I ask, trying hard to hide the gravel in my voice at the thought of her living with another man, even in a strictly friends-roommate capacity. I may have been with other women, but I’ve never lived with one, and she told me she hadn’t lived with a man she’d dated either.
Her twitching lips tell me I’ve definitely failed in my endeavors. “Girls, Bry. Sasha and Kelly. We struck a deal as soon as they experienced my first Aussie culinary disaster. I took on a bigger share of the cleaning, and they split the cooking. It worked out well.”
“Smart,” I say with a grin, taking another drink.<
br />
“I can do many things well. Cooking is not one of them.”
“This was fucking incredible.”
“How about you? I remember you cooking me gourmet meals to get into my pants back in the day.”
“It worked too,” I say, waggling my brows and earning me a snort.
She grins and shakes her head. “Yeah, it was totally the food.”
I watch her, really fucking liking the Faith I’ve got in front of me today and thinking back, every day we’ve spent together since City Hall has been better than the last.
She’s proven most of my concerns from before I saw her again to be unfounded. She’s still the Faith Baker I loved completely when she left—she’s just a little wiser, more seasoned almost. Definitely more worldly, and day by day, I’m seeing her confidence and individuality shine through brighter and bolder.
This Faith is brave and unapologetic. There’s something about seeing her work hard to get us back to where we should’ve been all along that touches me in a way I didn’t think possible. I’d hoped, sure, but going into this, all the planning and possible scenarios I’d imagined, the past six weeks have been better than I could have imagined.
She’s still not there, but she’s pretty damn close.
And I can’t wait to get to the place where I know she never wants to leave.
“So, you’ve still got tenants in your house?” she asks, leaning her arms on the table.
“Yeah. They’re on a three-month lease, but after that, it’ll be month-to-month since I didn’t know—”
“Whether you’d be married and happy, or divorced and miserable?” she asks with a teasing smirk.
I wince, and the flash in her eyes tells me she didn’t miss it. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Bry, I’m not mad. You may have known you were going to ask me to marry you, but you didn’t know whether I’d accept, and neither one of us could have known how this was going to turn out,” she says, waving her hand between us.