He never took it off. He still wants us.
Panicked by the realization, I beat faster, frantically. “Only the classics. Sugar cookies. Snickerdoodles. Peanut butter.”
“My favorite.” His gravelly drawl sends shivers down my spine.
I know. I know they’re his favorite. I made two extra batches. Oh God. Oh fuck.
“Here. Taste.” Without thinking, I dip a finger in the peanut butter batter, then stick it into his mouth.
He blinks at me, shock rolling off him. Then, slowly, he sucks the batter from the tip of my finger.
I’m horrified. Frozen in place.
“Mmm. Tastes real good,” he says with a smug little grin.
“Glad to hear it.” My cheeks flush. Quickly, I move my hand back to the spoon.
Hank threads a finger through my belt loop and tugs.
A small noise escapes me. “You, uh, don’t need to stand here supervising.” I shove the bowl away, worried I’ll overbeat it in my panic. “I am perfectly capable of baking cookies.”
“Know you are.” With a happy grunt, he twists closer to me. His hand, warm and steady, slips to the curve of my back. “Not supervisin’. Just want to be here with you.”
I bite at my bottom lip and evaluate the chiseled angles of his face. His scruffy hair. The heated look in his eye. I don’t know what to do with this. Or him. Every organ in my body sparks with life. I fear Hank Blue has elevated my emotional wellbeing. Like a soft-baked chocolate cookie. Or the perfect skin care routine.
There’s this pull, this need between us. Like whatever we started last night, we can’t stop.
I ache to give in. To surrender to it. To go back and go forward at the same time.
I’m spiraling, panicking, when the lights go out. The oven beeps, then goes dark. The radio dies a slow, warbly death.
“Shit.” I lurch out of Hank’s hold and stab the oven’s ON button. “The power’s out.” I scan the bowls of cookie batter. “Now what do we do?”
Hank reaches past me to a shelf. Grinning, he snags a bottle of whiskey. “Looks like it’s time to have ourselves a good ole-fashioned cowboy Christmas.”
Candles constellation around the living room. The fireplace roars and crackles. Christmas songs play on Hank’s phone, the sound tinny but joyful. On the coffee table, picked over cheese and crackers and slices of salami. A devoured bowl of cookie batter. Half-empty mugs of hot toddies.
Now we’ve graduated to shots of whiskey.
Hank sits on the floor, back pressed against the couch. I lie lengthwise behind him on the cushions. Balanced on his bent knees is aNew York Timescrossword puzzle book. One big hand holds a pencil, the other absentmindedly strokes its way over Zelda’s speckled belly as she snores lightly beside him.
“Gotta admit,” he drawls, casting a longing glance at the coffee table. “Mice food was mighty satisfactory.”
I scoff. “You can’t fool me, Hank Blue. I saw the way you devoured that cheeseboard.” I hover over his shoulder, staring at the grid of black and white squares. “Two across. Crow’s call.”
“Caw.” He sips his whiskey, then passes it over his shoulder to me, even though I have my own glass.
“Easy.” I rotate on the couch, fighting the urge to sniff his hair. To run my fingers through the tufts curled stubbornly at the nape.
The scratch of pencil against page. “Five down. Seven words. A holly jolly…”
“Holiday.” I swallow down the rest of the whiskey, exhale a spiced breath in victory.
He nods his head. Then, scribbles it into the book with those long, calloused fingers. While he hunts for the next clue, I ease closer again. Like some freaky couch voyeur, I take in the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. The way he chews his lower lip. The dark whiskers trailing his sharp jaw.
I tell myself to stop looking at him. Tell myself to stop thinking about the million small things I once adored about Hank Blue. A cowboy who played chess and read Fitzgerald while also loving ice-cold PBRs, karaoke and bar fights on Saturday nights. Hank contained multitudes. I was sold. I was a goner.
Maybe I still am.
