“I don't fit into yours,” he grumbled.
“Not my problem that you’re a giant.”
“I don’t see why we have to do this ourselves, we could have bought it.”
“You said you wanted my peppermint bark,” I said, unloading the chocolate bars onto the island. I usually use the cheap brand, but he insisted on San Francisco-based Ghirardelli.
“I thought I wouldn’t get it because I lost the bet,” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “Although as far as I’m concerned, I still won.”
His lips grazed my neck and I considered giving in to what he obviously wanted, based on the hardness pressing into my butt cheek through his jeans. What the heck was I doing baking when his flight left tomorrow?
Self-preservation, that’s what this was. Pretending things were normal, ignoring that his flight left in less than 24 hours.
Returning from the Adirondack cabin, Alex simply put his suitcase into my truck. We hadn’t discussed our plans, which would lead to a discussion of the imminent end. We lived in the present with blinders on like a horse racing to the finish line, full steam ahead into inevitable heartbreak.
Probably, if we were being honest, to be shot and turned into glue.
We barely left my apartment for the past two days. If it had been up to him, I’m not certain we would have put on pants until his flight was boarding. We would have stayed in bed, laughing and touching and dozing off and waking up and making love.
Because I’d had sex before, but I’d never made love until Alexander Clarke.
I wondered if the same held true for him. He’d called sex ‘utilitarian,’ but there was nothing about his tender touch that felt anything but reverent.
Part of me wanted to follow his lead, to create a cocoon and ignore the world. But I knew if I let go of reality, even for only 72 hours, clawing my way out would be infinitely harder. He’d get on that plane, return to his real life, and escape into his demanding job.
But me? I’d be in my apartment with his ghost. Maybe Mallory would help me cleanse it with incense, but I wouldn’t ask. It would be better to live with the phantom than the void.
So I forced him out of the house … Well, first I forced him to put on pants, then dragged him out the door. Every day, we went to yoga class together, then explored this city where he’d grown up, this city I loved. On our final morning, we strolled by the Saratoga Candy Company and the sugar scent lured him in like Pepe le Pew. When I saw the shelf of peppermint pigs, a tradition started right in their shop, I knew how we would spend our afternoon.
“Here, make yourself useful,” I said, handing Alex the pig. The candy company made them in three sizes: Holly, Noel, and Clarence. Helen chose the smallest one for Christmas, but when I’d seen the one-pound chonker pig, I knew he’d be perfect. “He’s almost big enough to satisfy your sweet tooth.”
Alex took the pig, eyeing the tiny mallet. “This is going to take forever.”
I handed him a rolling pin to crush it. He scanned the island with a scheming look, then disappeared. I was pouring the bottom layer when he reappeared wearing safety goggles and carrying a sledgehammer. He attempted to look exasperated when I laughed, though the twinkling in his eyes betrayed his mirth. “You don’t think that’s overkill?”
“This damn pig is keeping me from getting you naked again,” he grumbled. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“Alright,” I said, wrapping the candy in Ziploc bags, “but not on the granite.”
We bundled up and went out to the driveway and he took his aggression out on the pig, turning it into finely ground peppermint dust.
Back inside, I melted and spread the white chocolate layer. He dipped his finger in for a taste, then wrapped his lush lips around his finger while he looked at me with heat in his eyes. “How much longer, Grace?”
Well, wasn’t that a loaded question?
“Five minutes,” I estimated, not wanting to acknowledge the countdown to his flight.
He set the egg timer. “I’m holding you to that.”
“Get to work, then,” I said, ignoring the desire pooling in my stomach.
He meticulously sprinkled the shards of peppermint over the liquid chocolate. I slid the cookie sheet into the refrigerator and made eye contact over my shoulder.
One second, all that pent-up intensity locked on my every move.
Then the timer went off.
The next second, his arm hooked around my waist, hauling my body against him. His other hand gripped my chin, tilting my mouth to his. My hands found purchase on his neck to answer the demand. This man, who was so restrained and composed with everyone else, lost control at my touch. His tongue parted my lips, kissing the breath right out of my lungs.
His hands slid down my back to cup my butt, pulling my hips into his with a groan. He hoisted me up, carrying me to the kitchen island and resting my butt on the edge, wedging himself between my thighs. The devilish look in his eyes ratcheted my heart rate higher.
“I wanted this the last time we were here, baking all those goddamn pies,” he said, as his nimble hands slid underneath my shirt, his warm mouth on my neck as he confessed. “You drove me fucking crazy with that caramel.”
He separated our bodies enough to pull off my shirt and unclasp my bra. Two large hands teased my breasts, sucking and tweaking my nipples, every lick tugging on something deep inside, drawing whimpers and gasps as my back arched into his touch. “I wanted to pour it on you, lick off every last drop. I wanted to taste you everywhere.”
His hands roved over my body and I lost myself to the sensation, wishing I could write the recipe for the way his mouth tastes, to bottle it up and prevent the inevitable withdrawal. “Did you know then, what you were doing to me?”
“No,” I expelled in a breath of longing. “I assumed you had a sweet tooth.”
“I do,” he said as his hands coasted down to my hips, tugging down my jeans, blue eyes burning bright. “And you’re the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”
“Where do you think they got the balls?”
When I cocked a judgmental eyebrow, he realized his word choice was less than ideal.
“The courage, I mean,” he corrected, gesturing from the sidewalk into Kate’s art gallery where people browsed the artwork. Cruz played an acoustic guitar in the storefront window, his music pumping through an amp to the pedestrian-filled street.
