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I know I’m being a shithead. I can pretend I’m just reading like every other day, but I know better. Lorelai doesn’t deserve to be ignored. My guilt from taking what was offered is not her problem.
I snap the book closed, heave myself out of the recliner and head into the kitchen to figure out lunch. The basics are dwindling since the cabin was only stocked for one person, but there’s still some stew. I set it to simmer on the stove and turn to go apologize to Lorelai.
And she’s right there.
I hadn’t heard her follow me into the room. My hands grab her waist to make sure I didn’t knock her over, and I smell the shampoo from her hair and just beneath that, the warmth of vanilla. I close my eyes and let myself breathe her in for a second.
I mumble, “I’m sorry.” I mean it for more than bumping into her. I mean it for allowing myself to abuse her gratitude, and then for disrespecting her presence. I look down at her face and watch as her slow smile forms and turns her into every man’s fantasy girl. And I’m stunned all over again.
Then she spins away. She peeks into the fridge, and dances over to the pantry, the limp from her knee barely noticeable. I can see contemplation on her face. When she taps one slim finger against her pursed lips, my groin ignores my apology and wakes up. I want to feel those pink lips stretch around me. My brain lunges into the wonders that could be, leaving saliva pooling around my tongue and my cock growing quickly to an unmanageable length.
By the time I’ve corralled my thoughts and flogged them into a dark cowering mass in the far corners of my mind, there’s a tray of refrigerated dough shaped into crescents in the oven, and Lorelai is wiping the back of a spoon of something she’d stirred in a small pot.
She hands me the remains of the hydroponic lettuce and sets a bowl on the counter. She looks at my face for an uncomfortable span of time before she asks me to shred it for salads. I wonder if she knew where my thoughts went. Any other lady would’ve smirked at my obvious erection and teased me, but she just turns back to the stove and stirs her concoction.
I mindlessly pull apart the Boston leaves and watch her crush a handful of pecans on the cutting board with a soft press of the rolling pin. Then she separates out a portion and grinds those into tiny crumbs. She pours a bit of balsamic vinegar into a small bowl with some olive oil and sprinkles the ground pecans into the mix with a flick.
I’m fascinated when she adds in a bit of ginger paste she found in the fridge door. I think my mouth is hanging open as she smashes a few mandarin orange slices from the open can beside the stove into a runny mess. I have no idea how she decided to put all these ingredients together.
She hums as she whisks half of the smashed oranges into the bowl of what I assume must be dressing, and the other half goes into her pot. A few more stirs and the oven timer goes off.
She’s a whirlwind then. She clears her prep area into the sink, sets the baking sheet on a towel on the counter, gives her pot another stir, and grabs dishes from the cabinet.
She thrusts glasses into my hands and asks for ice and sweet tea. I manage the task and turn to find she’s tossed the uncrushed pecans and remaining orange slices into my bowl of shredded greens and mixed in her dressing. She brushes the pot contents over the rolls with a liberal flourish and tops that with the crushed pecans.
I take the glasses to the table with hesitant steps. There is a joy in watching her create something from bits of nothing in the kitchen that I’d never experienced, and I find I don’t want to walk away.
By the time I’m back, salad is already dished onto the large plates next to a couple of rolls dripping with glaze, and Lorelai is ladling stew into bowls. I grab utensils and help carry the dishes to the table.
“Oh, let me light that candle.” Lorelai says and heads to grab the lighter from the shelf.
An urge takes me, and I grab my phone to take a quick photo of the table. I snap another as Lorelai looks up from lighting the votive. Her face is flushed from the heat of the kitchen, small bits of copper hair escaping her braid and curling against her temples. She’s beautiful.
She settles into her chair, watching me. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Taking a photo of how you turned my canned stew lunch into this magical meal.” I tell her. “And of course, the chef!”
She grins. “Magical, huh? Better taste it first.” She pulls a grimace and I snap another picture. She rolls her eyes at the shutter sound and covers her face for a moment. “That’s going to be awful.” Her tone says it’s a complaint, but her smile is playful, and I capture that as well.
Her smile drops, and I miss it the second it’s gone. She tips her head to the side. “Can I… Can I take your photo?” I hear the slight shake to her words, and I wonder if she thinks I’ll say no.
“Of course.” I tell her, and she’s up and across the room to get her phone. I note that she’s moving better than the last several days, and I’m glad. I was worried about that knee. Rusty is barking and jumping around her, following her as she prances back.
“Sit,” she tells him, and he immediately follows her instruction. She snaps his photo and then leans to pet his ears and whispers what a good boy he is. I take another picture just as she’s placing a kiss on his upheld nose.
She turns back to me with her phone held up. She hesitates a second, giving me the chance to change my mind. But I won’t. I got the impression it was difficult for her to ask, and I’m suddenly rushed with a hard need to give her everything she wants.
She snaps a photo and sits while she inspects it. I watch her face as she flips between the shots. I feel rewarded as her smile returns slowly.
“Did you know he would sit?” she asks, spearing a forkful of salad.
“I didn’t.” I tell her. We take turns thinking of commands to try between spoons of mediocre stew. It’s thankfully balanced out by her salad with its nutty, citrusy dressing, and the flaky crescents made decadent with the glaze topping them.
Rusty knows almost all of the commands we issue. Lorelai lets out her husky laugh when she says, “jump” and Rusty leaps about three feet into the air. She fishes some of the meat out of her half-finished stew to feed him as a reward. He accepts it with a greedy lick and collapses at her feet under the table as we finish up.
We’re clearing the lunch dishes with the weird silent communication that seems to happen between us when we hear the sound of plows.
I do a quick check for any leftover items in the bathroom or around the spare surfaces and pile my suitcases by the front door. I notice there is nothing of Lorelai’s spread around and realize there hasn’t been.
