by K. S. Thomas
“Are you going to make me regret inviting you out?” I ask, reaching for the handle to open my door.
He grins. “Probably.” Then he covers my hand with his, making me squirm out of the way just in time for him to open the door for me. “After you.”
“Thank you.”
I climb in and automatically reach for the inside handle to shut it.
“Nu-uh,” he says, sternly glaring at my hand. “Fingers off. I got this.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, retracting my hand just as the door comes toward me. I watch him mosey around the hood the of truck, making his way to the passenger side and I take this moment of temporary isolation to regroup. I’m about to go bake bread with Bodhi James. It’s not a date. Although, I did invite him to join me, and technically, he has no idea as of yet what we’re going to go do. Also, I brought him coffee, which to me seemed like the only acceptable gesture when inviting someone to come and help you do your job, but which admittedly also could be seen as an opening gift of sorts. A kindness, if you will. And then there’s Bodhi. Bodhi who continues to flirt with me. Bodhi who has to be all charming and do gentlemanly shit like open and close doors for me. Bodhi who is so damn pretty, my eyes make my stomach hurt just looking at him.
But it’s not a date.
“Is this a date?” I blurt out the second his ass hits the seat beside me.
“If I say yes are you going to kick me out of your truck?” he asks, buckling up just the same. Or maybe it’s just in case.
“It’s not a date.” I fumble with my keys in my lap, nervously trying to decipher which of the three keys are meant for my ignition.
“I mean, you are the one who asked me, so technically you get to determine the definition of our outing,” he says, sounding very rational for a very ridiculous topic of conversation. “But, really, yeah. It’s a date.”
“Fine.” Tired of struggling with the keys I jam one into the ignition and hope for the best. Thankfully, I get lucky and the engine roars to life, bringing with it a welcome burst of heat.
“Fine?” He seems skeptical. As well he should be. I am in no way surrendering to his suggestions.
“We’ll agree to disagree.” I glance in the rearview mirror and check my blind spot, not that there’s a whole lot of traffic on the road this time of day, and pull back into the driving lane.
“Yeah, I knew that sounded too easy.” He shakes his head, chuckling, probably at my expense. “Anyway, you ready to tell me what we’re doing on this non-date that involves graham crackers?”
“You really haven’t figured it out yet?” I ask, navigating the dark roads almost on autopilot. Between being nearly the only vehicle out here and driving these roads probably thousands of times over the years, it’d be hard not to.
“I mean, I don’t want to assume it’s as obvious as baking bread,” he says, and I can feel the heat of his eyes on me while he speaks. “But it is the crack of dawn, which I’m told are baker’s hours, and you are a baker of breads so...”
“Sounds more like you’re concluding than assuming.” I dare half a glance at him and instantly find myself caught in the maze of his beautiful eyes. It takes everything I have to force my gaze back to the road. Which is boring. And truly disappointing in comparison. The part where our lives depend on me watching it notwithstanding. “And yes. We’re making bread. Graham cracker bread to be specific.”
“Sounds tasty,” he muses. “I don’t suppose our day out at the cabin had anything to do with this choice?”
“Hm, I guess you could say I was feeling inspired.” Inspired. Delighted. Terrified. Hopeful. I’ve been feeling a whole slew of emotions since we left but inspired is the only one that translates into a tasty new recipe so far. “Don’t get any crazy ideas though. There will be no chocolate or marshmallows involved here. We’re baking bread. Not cake.”
“’And you’re really going to let me do some of the work?” He sounds genuinely excited and I think this may be the most adorable side of him I’ve seen yet. “You’re going to teach me to bake?”
“Yep.” I give in and steal another glance his way. He’s got a grin from ear to ear that could melt the icicles off my roof. And possibly the ice around my brittle-ass heart. “I’m going to teach you to bake.”
“This is going to be so cool.” He claps his hands, still bursting with enthusiasm. “Hands down, already the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“Duh. I’m your date.” I feel the rush of heat burning up my cheeks as soon as I say it. I don’t know which mortifies me more. Implying I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to his love life or that I’m admitting to being a part of it.
Bodhi just settles into a smug expression, watching me from his side of the car. Then, after I’m good and humiliated, he reaches out and tucks a strand of wild hair behind my ear, gently stroking the side of my cheek after he’s done. “You know, you think you’re making jokes when you say stuff like that. You don’t know how true it really is.”
If I could move, I would totally have to roll my eyes at that. I would also breathe. But, as moving is not possible while frozen into shock from his touch and inexplicably perfect words, I’m left with no choice but to sit here, staring straight ahead while a single solitary tear glides down my cheek, following the same trail his thumb moved only seconds before.
“Lilan,” he whispers, concern aching in his quiet tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“It’s not that,” I say, swiping at my face, the prospect of being vulnerable in front of him and the fact I can’t bear the thought of it, overriding my previously frozen state. “I’m just not...very good at this.”
“This?”
“Dating!” My frustration slips out in an angry outburst that surprises me as much as him. “Sorry,” I apologize quickly. “I’m making things all weird. We were having fun. And I made that stupid comment. And then you were so sweet. You’re always so sweet, even when you’re dishing back the banter, you’re always so kind and wonderful and funny and perfect and goddamn it, you’re really making it hard not to fall for you.”
He shifts slightly in his seat to better face me all while still giving me plenty of physical space in what really is a pretty cramped cabin now that all my feelings are exploding all over the place. “What do I do? How do I help you with this, Lilan?” he asks quietly. “How do I make it okay for you to have these feelings?”
“You can’t.” We’re at my house already. If ever the timing were less perfect. “Because you’re you. And I’m me. And my life is here. With Mona. And yours is...well, it might as well be on another planet, Bodhi.”
He frowns. “What about that exactly is it you can’t get past? The distance? Or the fact you think I’m this stereotypical super star who’s too shallow to ever truly connect with you?”
“What? No!” I shake my head, unable to wrap my brain around his conclusions. “I mean, yeah. The distance. That’s obviously not ideal. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?” He’s not even angry. And he should be angry. If he really thought for even a second that those were the reasons I was holding him at bay, he should be pissed.
“You live your life shooting for the stars, Bodhi. Literally,” I say softly. “I spend mine just trying to keep both feet on the ground.”
“So?”
“So, you deserve someone who wants to fly with you. Someone who’s not always going to be scared of going too high but thrives on leaping into the unknown and seeking out the next challenge.” I turn toward him, meeting him eye to eye. “I stopped being brave enough for that a long time ago.”
“Maybe you would be brave if you knew you had someone who was ready to catch you,” he says, his hand reaching out and gently taking mine.
“You don’t know how much I wish that were true.” I twine my fingers into his. Just for a moment, I want to know how it feels to be anchored in him. “But I don’t have that kind of trust anymore.”
“I’ll earn
it.” He means it. Every word. I can hear it in his tone. See the truth of it burning like embers in his amber eyes. And I can feel it, surging through me where our hands connect.
“You’re not the one I don’t trust, Bodhi.” I place my free hand on my chest, pressing my palm down over my heart, trying to catch the ache throbbing there, burning to break free. “I am.”
Bodhi
SHE TAKES HER KEYS and gets out of the truck without saying another word. Not that I needed to hear more. I’m still reeling from the last ones she said. Still, she’s moving toward the house instead of driving me straight back to Hannah’s, a reaction I feared for several seconds before she moved her keys from the ignition. Maybe all is not lost. Maybe, I can follow her inside and she can teach me to bake, and somehow, somewhere along the way, I can find a way to teach her to trust herself again.
Though, maybe not all in the same morning.
I take a deep breath and gradually blow it out. Then, feeling more grounded, I get out of the truck as well and hurry to catch up with her before she disappears inside.
“You weren’t going to just leave me out here, were you?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood by attempting to pretend the last few minutes never happened. “Because a man could freeze to death sitting in that truck with the engine off.”
She reaches for the handle and turns. “The truck is parked in my driveway. Feet from the front door. If you sat out there and froze to death, it would be entirely self-inflicted,” she mumbles, pushing the door open and leading the way inside. The words are same old Lilan, but the tone is far from it.
“What I’m hearing is, yes. You were absolutely going to leave me out there.”
She sighs, and slowly I can see her signature smirk surface. “Just take off your boots and follow me to the kitchen.” She kicks off her own in two smooth motions, apparently this is a standard skill for those used to winter conditions, because I’ve seen Hannah perform it just as seamlessly, and wanders off. She’s nearly swallowed up by the hallway when I hear her mutter, “It’s no wonder you made acting a career. Talk about dramatic.”
And there she is. Lilan snark and all.
I laugh, kicking my own boots off. I laugh harder still when I nearly trip myself trying to get them off. Finally, I surrender to my California ways and sit down on the bench beside the shoe shelf where I set down the coffee thermos I brought in, and I use both hands to untie my boots like a civilized person.
Then, I follow her to the kitchen.
“Put me to work, chef,” I announce as soon as I step inside.
“First things first,” she says, pointing at the stove. And the kettle beside it.
“Of course.” I make my way over to get things rolling. “Teatime.”
“See? First rule of baking and you already have it memorized.” Meanwhile, she busies herself with collecting an assortment of ingredients and supplies from her pantry and laying them all out on her very large kitchen table. “Oh, mugs are in the cupboard to your left.”
“And your mug of choice today is?” Because I remember the importance of having a mug for every occasion. Including Mondays. So, far be it for me to assume I can just pull any old cup from the shelf and serve her tea in it.
She pauses what she’s doing, thinking. “You know what? Surprise me.”
I don’t know if I’m honored or stressed out by this unexpected request. “Anything I should know before I make my choice?”
Her brow crinkles and she goes back to organizing her work space. “Like what?”
“Like, is today a holiday of some sort for you? Do you have anything planned for later in the day that you’re looking forward to? Or not looking forward to? Are you feeling extra fond of any one color at the moment? Do you have different cups for different emotions? And if so, what are they?”
“You’re overcomplicating this,” she says, abandoning the table laden with baking supplies and coming to join me by the stove. “Just pick a mug. Whichever one speaks to you, that’s the one I want today.”
“So, no pressure. Cool.” I open the cupboard, feeling all the pressure, only to have said pressure multiply by about a thousand when I see the collection before me. We’re not talking pick a mug out of ten or twenty. There’s got to be at least a hundred different cups in here. All various sizes, colors and even shapes. Never mind the vastly different designs on each of them. And I can’t even see them all! How do I know the perfect mug isn’t hiding in the back corner of the top shelf, hidden from view and damn near out of my reach? “Fuck.”
“What?”
“I just figured out which mug you need.” One by one, I begin to take down each cup between me and the back-corner mug of the top shelf. Half the counter is covered by the time I reach it. It’s so far back, I can’t even see what it looks like, but I can feel it, and I have to use my fingertips to scoot it toward the front of the shelf before I can really grab the handle and get it down. “This one. This is your mug today.”
She gasps, hand covering her mouth, eyes wide in surprise.
I start to worry that I uncovered something that was hidden for a reason, when I finally take a moment to look at the cup I worked so hard to get. “Sometimes happy ever after starts with an unlikely once upon a time,” I read the words out loud. When I turn my eyes back on her, she’s biting her lower lip and tentatively reaching for the mug.
“Mama gave me that some time after Marc died. Said it was important I remember that my story hadn’t ended with his. That maybe, it hadn’t even truly begun yet.” She takes the cup in both hands and I release it to her. “I told her she was crazy and shoved it in the back of the cupboard. Never to retrieve it again.” She smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “Honestly, I forgot it was even back there.”
I take a step in toward her, closing in on the walls I can’t see but can feel every time I try to get close to her. “I don’t suppose you believe in signs, Lilan.”
Her eyes move from the cup in her hands, and the words so plainly spelling out our fate as it’s unfolding, and up to meet mine. “I used to,” she whispers.
“I think it’s time you start again.” I take the cup from her hands. “Signs. Love. Fairy tales. The whole damn magic of it all.” My voice is so deep and so warped from emotion, I can barely make out my own words. “Because it’s happening. Right now. And I don’t want you to miss it. Because fifty years from now, when we’re retelling our great grandchildren how we met, I don’t want to have to argue about how it happened.”
Her eyes glistening with tears, the laughter bubbling in within her seems to catch her off guard.
It’s in that moment, that second of delighted surprise, that I know she finally sees what I’ve seen from the very first second I spotted her that day at the marketplace.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LILAN
My thoughts are racing, making my head spin. Or maybe it’s just how close Bodhi’s standing to me. How his hand is running up the side of my arm, fingers gliding along my neck until they reach my jaw and move to the tip of my chin, gently guiding it up while his head moves down until our lips meet in what has to be the most amazing kiss of my life.
One kiss turns to two, and two continue to multiply, until I’m wrapped up in him so completely, I’m delirious with all the emotions stampeding through me.
I’m physically dizzy and struggling to catch my breath when I untangle myself, and I can’t even be sure if it’s from lack of oxygen or if I’m suffering an anxiety attack.
“You kissed me.” My words are barely audible, my breath still struggling to fully fill my lungs.
“You kissed me back,” he rumbles in that tender deep tone that turns my insides to goo. Then his hand moves over his mouth as if he’s still remembering the feel of my lips on his, and it’s all I can do not to leap back into his arms and kiss him all over again.
Thankfully, or maybe inconveniently, I’m in no frame of mind to determine for sure right now, the kettle whistles, sending a shrill notification of b
oiling water and teatime through the kitchen and beyond.
I rush to move it from the burner and turn off the stove while Bodhi takes it upon himself to select two tea sachets from my collection to place inside our mugs. When I see he’s chosen my ‘It’s Teatime Somewhere’ mug for himself, my current favorite, I sigh so deeply and thoroughly I no longer have to worry about hyperventilating. Quite the opposite. It’s like my emotions are suffering a sudden personality disorder, one moment completely terrified of Bodhi and all the potential for hazard he has to offer my heart while the other wants nothing more than to melt into him, attach my heart to his and never let go as if he’s the safe haven I’ve been looking for but no longer believed was even real.
We both stay completely silent, eyes constantly seeking each other out, saying things, streaming a free flow of feelings I suddenly find impossible to deny.
We’re still just standing here, staring at each other sipping our tea when Mama shows up in the doorway
“Thought I heard it was teatime,” she says making her way to the stove. “Water still hot?”
“Might need to put it back on the burner for a minute or two,” I tell her, still unable to tear my eyes away from the prettiest damn man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Nay. Laid my lips on.
“What?” he asks, mouth curling at the corner.
It’s then that I catch myself grinning as well. “Nothing.”
“Oh, please,” Mama huffs under her breath, fixing her cup while she waits for the water to boil again. “Even I can hear the giddy thoughts you’re having.” She looks up, taking us both in. Studying the scene before her. Then, she spots it. “Huh. Where’d you find that old thing?” she asks, pointing at my cup. “On the verge of a happy ever after?”
“Mama!” She never ceases to exasperate me. Even in my most vulnerable moments, her efforts to embarrass me know no bounds.
“Smack in the middle of an unlikely once upon a time,” Bodhi joins her.