She slid a second spoon through the pan as the sticky mixture stretched beneath, and when she blew on it, her rosy lips made a perfect circle. She lifted the spoon, flipping it to put the caramelized milk onto her tongue. Her mouth had me at half-mast, even before she let out a moan of pleasure as her eyes dropped shut.
Maybe this town did weird things to me, because somehow at 34 years old, watching a beautiful woman eat dessert made me as horny as when I’d lived here as a teenager.
“You’ve got some caramel on your lip,” I tapped my lip to indicate the spot.
“I do?” The tip of her tongue flicked out, making my cock pulse against my zipper, but she missed it.
My hand lifted, hovering over her cheek. “May I?”
Her chin dipped in a nod. My thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, tugging on her plump lower lip and collecting the stray glob. As I scraped the pad of my thumb with my teeth, her tongue darted over her bottom lip and when her eyes found mine, the hazel looked like liquid gold.
That peck at the hospital had whet my appetite; now my body craved more. I wanted to lean down and kiss those lush lips, to press her into the cabinet and lick the caramel directly off her tongue. I wanted to lift her ass onto the counter and step between her thighs, run my mouth down her neck and —
Her eyes shyly dropped to the pan. I couldn’t stand there staring, so I went for a third helping. She batted my hand away. “Save some for the pies.”
“Fuck the pies.”
“Even your pie?”
“We’ll make more for that one.”
She laughed, a resonant laugh that harmonized with the Christmas music and banished those pesky Ghosts of Christmas Past. My chest warmed like I’d finished a full mug of hot chocolate with plenty of marshmallows.
“Is there any more canned milk in the pantry?”
It was a relief to twist away, to walk off this hard-on before she caught my reaction to her dessert — and her mouth. I banged around in the pantry like I was looking behind the cans, but really, I needed to cool myself off.
I couldn’t get distracted. I needed to go back to San Francisco to earn my promotion. California had plenty of women who could look hot while making me dessert.
Or better yet, bring dessert to my desk while I worked.
Grace’s phone rang and I poked my head out of the pantry. Her brow furrowed in concern and she swiped quickly. “Hey Mariana, is everything ok with R—” Her eyes met mine and widened in worry. “Um, our favorite patient?”
Her shoulders relaxed on an exhale of relief. “Oh, good. And no update on her …?” Her eyelids closed and her hip leaned against the counter. “Ok, so what can I help you with?” Her eyes opened and met mine, pinched in apology. “Today?”
“Yes, I could teach it, but … hold on a second.” She glanced at the oven timer and held the phone to her chest. “It’s a case worker from a foster care agency. Their guest speaker got the flu, she’s asking if I can fill in with a training about mindful stress reduction and somatic therapy.”
I had no idea what the fuck those were, but when she said the topics, her eyes brightened, so I made a mental note to look them up later. She glanced around the messy kitchen. “But I don’t want to leave you with all —”
“Go,” I said, relieved she would leave before I did something stupid like kiss her again. “I’ll work till the pies are done.”
Her shoulders dropped in relief. With grateful eyes, she reached out to brush her fingers along my sleeve before lifting the phone to her ear and saying, “Mariana? I’ll be right there.”
Chapter 8Grace
“I’ve never heard such a clear explanation of the connection between sensory inputs and the nervous system.” Mariana said as the last prospective foster parents left.
I thanked her, bagging up the meditation cushions I’d borrowed from the yoga studio so the parents could try mindfulness techniques. It was a topic I loved teaching, one I’d written my Master's thesis on, and I was thrilled Mariana had thought of asking me to teach it.
“Hey, I volunteer at the domestic violence shelter and they would love this training too. Can I introduce you to Rachel? She handles the workshop planning but won't schedule anything until spring because she’s super pregnant,” she asked. “And you work at a yoga studio, right? Their self-defense teacher quit, do you know anybody who has personal training or martial arts experience and could pass a background check?"
"Send you the job description, I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” I said before asking the question weighing on me since Mariana called. I hadn’t wanted to cause a HIPAA violation by asking in front of the foster parents … or Alex. “Any updates on Ruby’s case?”
“Nothing yet, but I understand why she’s your favorite. She charmed my pants off when I met her.”
“She can win over even the biggest grinches,” I said, remembering how much she'd delighted Alex when he was Santa.
Ruby had been one of my first patients at the hospital. Her mom Sarah had gone on a business trip to New York, had a one night stand, and returned home with a souvenir … and the man wasn’t interested in parenting, so it was Sarah and Ruby against the world.
Ruby was born with a rare heart defect, Tetralogy of Fallot, which caused occasional 'tet spells' caused by a sudden drop in blood oxygen. Her skin turned blue, she would feel dizzy and sometimes pass out. The treatment was open heart surgery as an infant.
I spent the day in the waiting room with Sarah, where she asked me to pray with her. Although it wasn’t technically my job, I’d been a Pastor’s Kid before I became a social worker, so in a strange way, I’d been training for moments like that for my whole life.
I’d borrowed a Bible from the chaplain’s office, the weight of it heavy in my hands after years without opening one. I flipped to the book that always brought me the most comfort: The Book of Jeremiah, written by the prophet my parents had named me after.
“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart,” I began, and Sarah’s eyes glistened with hopeful tears. Mama recited that passage to Elijah and me, saying she could tell us apart in the womb from how we kicked and wiggled. He was active at night while I was the early bird, so she never got any sleep.
As we waited for news from surgery, I read nearly the whole book aloud, including my favorite verse: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to give you hope and a future.” I showed Sarah the tattoo on my wrist for that verse, 29:11. Elijah suggested matching tattoos the month before he left for a year abroad in Tokyo. He said it would remind us both of our plans when he returned.
Plans I’d smashed to smithereens, because I wasn’t Jeremiah anymore.
“Promise me, Grace,” Sarah said, grabbing my wrist over the verse numbers. “I need to know Ruby will have a bright future.”
Without making guarantees, I reassured her, “I’ll do everything I can for her.” And when the surgeon came to the waiting room to inform us Ruby had pulled through, I held Sarah as she collapsed in my arms.
So it had been a heartbreaking loss last month when Mariana called to tell me Ruby was her newest foster care case because Sarah had passed. Apparently, Sarah had a heart condition too, and didn’t know it until it had been too late. Ruby’s Grandma Jean moved into their house — not a permanent solution, given Jean’s failing health — while the foster agency tracked down Ruby’s father. They’d rather place her with family, but their options were limited.
