A Slow Boil

by Karen Winters

  “It smells delicious.”

  “Thank you. I fixed Mexican food tonight, so may I get you a margarita? Or a beer perhaps?”

  “I’d love a margarita, haven’t had one since I don’t remember when, but I don’t have any tequila.”

  “Yes, you do, sir.”

  He looked up at me and raised his eyebrows, realizing that I must have bought some. “In that case, I’d love one. Leave slowly but hurry back.”

  “Yes, sir.” I smiled back at him.

  I came back with his drink a minute later. I liked my margaritas simple – on the rocks with lime-aid instead of mix, which was too sweet for my taste, and I’d stuck with my usual recipe tonight, hoping he’d like it too. I put it down next to his bowl and took my seat.

  He took a sip of his drink. I watched his tongue lick the salt off the rim. He nodded and handed it to me.

  “Very nice, Miss Lane. Not too sweet.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I took a sip and gave it back to him.

  He took up his spoon and tried the chowder.

  “Mmm, this is delicious. How you spoil me.” He reached his hand up into my hair, his fingers playing lightly with the strands.

  “Would you like some?"

  "Please, sir, may I have a taste?” I'd been working on asking him nicely and was rewarded when the corners of his eyes crinkled.

  “Of course you may, my dear.” He cupped the underside of my jaw while giving me a spoonful. I licked my lips. It had turned out well.

  When we were done with the chowder, I rose and took his plate to the kitchen, returning with his dinner moments later.

  “May I make you another margarita, sir?”

  “Yes you may, Miss Lane.” I left slowly, returning quickly.

  “Oh, this is good,” he said as he began slowly eating. I’d grilled the tuna, topped it with fresh salsa, and added side dishes of grilled peppers and black beans with chipotles. Thank you, internet. I was getting good enough now at reading his face while he ate that I knew he really liked it.

  “Another to add to my favorites, my dear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All of it. What would you like to try first?”

  “May I please have a bite of tuna, Mr. Hunter?”

  “Of course, my dear girl.”

  As he ate, his hand had lingered at the collar of my dress, toying lightly with my new necklace. When he fed me a bite of tuna off his fork, I felt his fingers slip under my collar, stroking lightly across the top of my shoulder. He fed me a piece of grilled pepper with his right hand while his other hand played across the top of my back. He gave me a forkful of beans, pulling his hand out of my dress, only to wrap it gently around my throat. I felt his long thumb dip down to my collarbone and then slide under the front of my dress and skim across the top of my chest. He was watching me carefully as he moved, probably worried that he was going too far. I kept my eyes on his, trying to control my breathing. In the silence of the room, I felt like I was panting. Couldn’t he see what he doing to me?

  We finally finished dinner and he pushed the plate aside. His left hand had returned to the side of my neck, where he was lightly stroking me with his thumb. I somehow managed to pull myself together enough to ask if I could get up and get his dessert.

  “Ah, yes, by all means.”

  I started to reach for the table, but he held out his hand to help me up. My legs were a little shaky, and I think he noticed, a quick look of concern passing over his face. I gave his hand a light squeeze, and said I’d be right back. When I returned, he’d pushed his chair back a bit from the table to stretch out, his long legs crossed in front of him. I placed a small bowl of grilled mango and a spoon in front of him.

  “What is this, Miss Lane?”

  “Grilled mango, sir, with tequila and a touch of saffron.”

  He looked at me with his eyebrow raised. “That sounds like an odd combination.”

  “It probably is. I found a recipe and added the saffron at the last minute because you said you liked it so much.”

  “My girl,” he said, taking a bite. “My girl, you’ve created a masterpiece. Here.” He raised a spoonful to me and I took it eagerly, anxious to see how it had turned out. Delicious. The sweetness of the mango had mellowed into a caramelized flavor on the grill, the tequila gave it a bit of bite, and the saffron brought in something earthy and exotic. Maybe not entirely Mexican, but delicious just the same.

  “It’s delicious, sir, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh, you may. Apart from the oysters, this is the best thing I”ve ever eaten. More?”

  “Yes, please, sir.”

  He spooned some into my mouth. “Please tell me there’s extra to eat tomorrow.”

  “A little. I only bought one mango. But I can make it again.”

  “Do you promise, my perfect girl?”

  His words went straight to my core and I involuntarily gasped and bit my lip. I felt like I might cry or laugh or both, like my body was completely out of my control. He looked at me, his face growing serious. He eased my lip out from under my teeth and rubbed it lightly, then cupped my neck. I calmed under his touch and whispered, “Yes, sir, I promise.”

  “Come here,” he said in a low voice. He leaned toward me, pulling me closer, and kissed me gently. I felt him start to pull away and I pushed myself closer to him, putting a hand on his leg under the table for leverage, not wanting him to stop. I never wanted him to stop. I kissed him harder, parting my lips. I felt him open his and when our tongues met, a powerful shiver ran through me. He must have felt something too, as he let out a quiet groan and tightened his hold on the back of my head. His mouth tasted like the mango I’d just served him, only better. So much better. I could have kissed him like this forever. It was perfect, not too hard, not too soft, like he knew exactly how much he could take from me and how much I could give.

  He pulled away from me and looked over my face carefully. I must have a looked a mess at this point. I’d given up trying to control my breathing, and could tell I was flushed. He seemed to like what he saw, however, as he suddenly pulled me to him again, both of his hands in my hair, this time hard enough that I could sense the strength he was using to hold onto his control. He kissed me again, much harder, his tongue stroking mine with so much fervor I lost all my senses to only the feel of his mouth on mine.

  Suddenly he let go of me. He stood, leaned forward on the table, and said, “Good night, Miss Lane. I’m sorry to leave abruptly but if I don’t go now, I’m afraid I may take advantage of you.” He turned and left as quickly as he’d let go of me.

  I collapsed onto my chair, my arms swinging at my sides, my head back. I was a completely useless puddle of want.

  I barely slept that night, my thoughts ping-ponging back and forth between luxuriously reliving the thrill of his kisses, and frantically worrying that Mr. Hunter hated himself for again giving into the temptation to kiss me. Why was he struggling so much with himself over this? I knew what I wanted, why did he seem so conflicted about what he so clearly wanted? His final words echoed in my mind, and I wondered how he could feel he was taking advantage of me when I would have given myself to him right there in the dining room if he’d just kept kissing me. Oh, he kissed so well. I wanted more of his kisses, more of him, more of everything.

  I went down to breakfast the next morning with more than a little trepidation. Mr. Hunter was at the island, as usual.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Miss Lane.”

  He continued looking down at his newspaper as I sat across from him with my coffee.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Nor did I.” He took a sip of coffee. “Do I need to apologize for last night?” He finally looked up at me.

  Oh, Mr. Hunter, please stop worrying about me.

  “I didn’t stop you, did I?”

  “No.”

  “Then there’s nothing to apologize for.” Except for lea
ving too soon. “I mean it, Mr. Hunter. I liked it.”

  “I liked it, too. It’s just that -”

  Was he about to tell me the problem? “It’s just that what?” I prompted him to continue.

  “It’s just that you’re so young. I feel like a lecherous old man, some of the thoughts I have about you.”

  I took a moment to absorb what he’d said. I’d been right, it was the age difference.

  “Mr. Hunter, I’m younger than you, yes, but I’m not a child. I’m old enough to know myself fairly well and I know what I like. I like it when you touch me. I like it when you kiss me. I like it a lot.”

  He spun his coffee cup around in circles, his eyes on the counter. He ran his hand through his hair and looked up at me. “I know you’re technically an adult, but just barely. You still have a lot of choices ahead of you, you just don’t know it yet.” He paused and looked back down into his coffee. “When I was twenty-one I thought I was going to be an artist, can you imagine that?”

  “Easily.” It was true. He had more original paintings throughout the house than I’d ever seen outside of a museum. He obviously loved art. And the way he could play the piano? Don't get me started.

  “I was almost done with art school when my parents died. I quit and floated around for a long time, made a lot of mistakes, before finally ending up here. Here -” he gestured to the kitchen, meaning the whole house, his whole life, “- where I’ve never had a truly happy day until you showed up. I don’t want to drag you into my dismal, lonely life, but I don’t want to let you go either. Our dinners together have been some of the best moments of my life, but then I look at you, you’re so young, you don’t know what you're doing ...” He petered out, visibly torn, his hands running through his hair.

  I got up and walked around the island to stand beside him. I took his beautiful, pained face in my hands and turned it up to me.

  “I make you happy. You make me happy.” I leaned down and pressed my forehead to his. “This is good. This is why good people get up in the morning, to make someone else happy.”

  “I don’t want you to regret anything about this when you’re my age.”

  “How could I? These have been some of the best moments of my life, too.”

  He scanned my face and recognized my sincerity. “Sylvia,” he said under his breath, pulling me in to him. “Sylvia.”

  He held me for a long time, his arms around my waist and his head on my shoulder. I wrapped one of my arms around his back, the other I lifted into his hair. So soft. I tried to process the fact that he’d finally used my first name. Did this mean I was to call him Adam from now on? I couldn’t really imagine doing so. He was Mr. Hunter to me, Mr. soft-haired, long-fingered Hunter.

  “You can stop me,” he said quietly. “You can stop me at any time.”

  “I know.”

  He looked up at me and searched my eyes for anything resembling hesitation or reluctance. I smiled down at him, and cupped his face, running my fingers over his freshly shaved jaw.

  “But I’m not going to stop you, Mr. Hunter.” There, it was out in the open. I was his if he wanted me.

  “You’re not?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  He gave me another squeeze and then released me, his arms slipping briefly over my hips.

  “Do you think I’m terribly odd, Miss Lane?”

  Ah, back to formalities. “No, not at all. I think you’re pretty wonderful.” That had come out before I could stop myself, and I started to blush, but I kept my eyes on his and added, “And if you are odd, then I guess I am, too.”

  He looked at me so intently, searching for something in my eyes, which I guess he found as he half-smiled and sighed. I gave him another minute to think about what I’d said and went to the toaster, starting enough for both of us. We ate in silence, but after he put our plates in the sink, he turned and crossed his arms, leaning back on the counter.

  “One more thing, Miss Lane, and then I’ll let you go for the day.”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “It’s important to me that you believe I wasn’t planning for this to happen between us. I was being honest with you when I asked you to move in. I liked you, but I swear I wasn’t scheming to get you to – you know.”

  “I believe you. You never gave me that feeling or I wouldn’t have said yes to moving in.”

  He came over and tousled my hair, then bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Sylvia,” he murmured in to my hair. “You may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Chapter 17

  The relief I’d felt that Mr. Hunter hadn't changed his mind about our dinners was nothing compared to the happiness that had surged through me at the words he'd said into my hair. The thought that I was so crucial to someone else's happiness, that someone being specifically Mr. Hunter, buoyed my spirits more than anything I'd ever experienced.

  I was still floating as I biked into town, giving no thought to what to make for dinner that night. All I was thinking about was how important I was to him, and how important that made me feel. I'd do anything for him, anything to make him happy. If it meant letting him feed me during dinner, I'd do it. If it meant continuing to develop our relationship at a snail's pace, so be it. I was so distracted with thoughts of Mr. Hunter that I didn't see the rock in the road until a split second before my front tire clipped it, jerking the handlebars out of my hands and sending me sprawling to the ground.

  Luckily, I wasn't going that fast and I caught myself on my hands and one of my knees, my bike absorbing most of my weight. I got up and surveyed the damage. I'd broken the skin on my knee, but my hands were only a little scraped and my bike was fine, so I brushed myself off and got back on, more embarrassed than injured.

  By the time I arrived at Southbay's, I'd gotten my head back together and was focused on dinner. I didn't need to make a big meal even though it was Friday, because we still had tons of chili and pot pie in the freezer. I'd have a lot of time to cook this afternoon, though, as doing the bathrooms was one of the quickest chores. I locked my bike, grabbed a basket and headed toward the meat counter, debating a couple of dishes.

  An hour later I was back home. I put the groceries away and went upstairs to shower. The hot water stung the scrapes on my hands and knee and I inspected them more closely. My hands were fine but my knee could use a band-aid. I towel-dried, put on my robe, and started rummaging around the bathroom. Nothing, but I knew that already, having found the vanity empty when I moved in my toiletries. I wondered if I could interrupt Mr. Hunter to ask him if he had a first aid kit. He'd said that I could if I ever needed help with anything, but I didn't know if this situation qualified. I decided to err on the side of caution and wait until lunch. Maybe I'd see him then and could ask him without interrupting him.

  I went back to my room and put on some shorts and a tank top, picked up my book and went down to the kitchen. I'd noticed some lawn furniture folded up in the corner of the patio near the barbecue and decided to help myself to it. There was a chaise that looked in decent shape, so I cleaned it off with a cloth from the kitchen, and pulled it out into the sun.

  I read for a while, but the warmth soon combined with my lack of sleep and I put my book down on the grass, closed my eyes, and let myself drift. I didn't know how long I'd been laying there, but eventually I heard a familiar throat-clearing. Without opening my eyes, I asked, “Yes, Mr. Hunter?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, but you've been out here for over an hour and I don’t want you to burn.”

  “I’m not asleep. Just resting. I don’t nap, remember?”

  “You do a good impression of a napper.”

  “Thank you.” I stretched and opened my eyes. Mr. Hunter was standing right above me, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on my legs.

  “What happened to your knee?”

  “I fell off my bike on the way to town.” I pulled my knee up to examine it again. “I was wondering if you had any band-aids.”

&
nbsp; “I’ll be right back.”

  He was gone less than a minute, returning with a box and a small tube. “May I?” He gestured to the chaise and I scooted over as far as I could, making room for him to perch next to my bent leg. He opened the tube and squirted a little antibiotic cream on his finger, rubbed it lightly over the scrape and gently affixed a band-aid, his face serious.

  “Thank you, Dr. Hunter.” I smiled up at him.

  He smiled back, his hand running down my shin and closing over my ankle. “How did you manage to fall off your bike?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention and hit a rock. I landed very gracefully, though.”

  “I have no doubt about that. Did you get hurt anywhere else?”

  “Just my hands a little.” I showed him my palms. He took one and kissed it, then did the same to the other.

  “All better.” He was still smiling, but had a look of concern on his face.

  “Don’t forget my knee.”

  He reached down and kissed the band-aid he’d just put on.

  “You should have asked me for help as soon as you got home, Miss Lane.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you. A scraped knee is hardly an emergency.”

  “Anything involving you getting hurt is an emergency. Be more careful from now on, my dear girl.”

  I smiled, nodded, and lay back again, closing my eyes. “I will, sir.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “The sun does feel good,” he finally said.

  I sighed contentedly. “It does, but you’re right. I should probably come in.” I made no movement to get up.

  “So what do you think about when you’re not napping?”

  “Very important things.”

  “Such as?”

  “For one thing, what to make for dinner.”

  “That is very important.”

  “I know.”

  “What else?”

  “I might have been thinking about you a little.”

  “Me?”

  “I think it was you. He was very tall, and had a tin of cocoa in one hand. He kept asking me to make him a dessert, so it must have been you.”

  I heard him laugh. “You were having a nightmare, my dear non-napping Miss Lane.”