He laughs. “I preyed on you? Okay,” his big, calloused hands fly up into the air, “I’m sorry.” He grabs the steaks and walks away, sliding open the back door before I hear the hiss of the propane tank and the creak of the grill top open.
That’s it?
I don’t know why I expected him to protest. I want to keep pretending like I don’t want it, while he tells me I do. It’s our thing now, and I’m really good at it.
Ugh… who knew a kidnapping could be so emotionally exhausting?
Most people, probably.
I’m about to search for a bowl, when I catch a pony-sized figure out of the corner of my eye lumbering into the house. “You must be Charlie!” I say, leaning in to greet the massive, slobbering mastiff. He scrubs his head against my stomach, knocking me back a little as he licks my hands. I’ve missed having a dog around the house. When I was growing up, we always had a dog. I haven’t felt settled enough as an adult to adopt one yet, but it’s on my list, and I think Charlie can sense that, given the fact that he’s taken to me so easily… or he’s like that with everyone. Heck, I think that might be the thing I love most about dogs. They read the room and respond to your energy.
When Charlie has had all the scratches he can handle, I turn to search the cabinets for a mixing bowl, preheat the oven, and grab the eggs, butter, and some milk from the fridge. Today has been exhausting and I’m sure tonight I’ll sleep like a baby, which will inevitably give me a more stable mindset come morning. Lord knows I need it.
The patio door slides open slowly. Rhett steps inside, his footsteps echoing inside the cabin as he closes out the wind. “Butter and milk? I thought those box recipes called for water and oil.”
“They do,” I say, peeling the cardboard top open, “but if you substitute with butter and milk, the cake tastes way better. So… we’re substituting.”
“Well, of course. It’s a wedding cake. It needs to taste good.” His big square palms land on the island with a thud. “What can I do?”
“Do you have a baking pan? You could oil it up for me.”
“Sure thing.” He reaches into the top cabinet and pulls out a rectangular pan. He then takes the butter from the counter, peels half the paper back, and slides it all over the pan, greasing it evenly as I crack two eggs into a bowl.
It’s oddly domestic the way we’re moving together. His massive frame tucking behind mine to pick up my eggshells and toss them into the trash. My arm reaching across his to grab the whisk he set out on the counter. It’s like we’re an old married couple cooking dinner on a random Sunday night.
“Hey,” I nudge his elbow gently as I mix the bowl, “what did your family do on Sundays?”
“Sundays?” He brushes his hand over his beard before grabbing out another bowl from beneath the counter. “Sunday was always church, chores, and supper. Why do you ask?”
I shrug and mix the cake slowly as I watch him grab out the flour and some butter from the freezer. “I always thought you could tell a lot about a person by how they spend their Sunday. You still do church, chores, and family supper?”
“Not like I used to. I should, but I’ve been dropping the ball lately.”
“How so?” I’m not even sure I’m whisking at this point. I’m mostly watching as his massive hands grate frozen butter into a pile of flour. This must be the secret technique he was talking about his grandma teaching him.
“I, ugh, I haven’t kept up with church and suppers since my grandparents died. I wish I had,” he shrugs, “but there’s no good excuse, I guess. This is nice, though. What about you? How do you spend your Sundays?”
“Umm,” I whisk a little quicker now, the scent of chocolate relaxing me a little, “when I was a kid and my mom was healthy, Sunday was the day we all went into the greenhouse and helped her with the gardens. No matter the time of year, she was always growing something. Cucumbers, peppers, flowers, squash, kale, she grew it all. We’d spend the day doing that, then we’d have family supper, and go to the ice cream shop out on Main Street.”
“Oh, Moo’s. Almost forgot about that place.”
I grin, remembering the way my mom used to call the shop Moe’s. She thought it was funny because her nickname growing up was Moe.
“Anyway,” I wipe away a tear before it drops, “I don’t do anything now. Nathan loved working on Sundays, and the ice cream shop closed, which I don’t understand. It was always busy.”
“The owner passed away and no one’s taken it over yet. There’s another place out on Route Three, but it’s a drive.”
He grabs the buttermilk out of the fridge and pours it into the bowl before mixing the dough with his hands.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man cook before, not in person. “So your grandma taught you this?”
She glances toward me, dark eyes warm and gentle. “She and I started making biscuits together before I could talk. Some days I’ll make them just to feel closer to her. This is the first time I’ve ever made them for a girl, though, so feel special.”
“Well, how could I not feel special? You kidnapped me from my wedding to make me biscuits and a chocolate cake.”
He grins as he lays the biscuits out on the counter, folding the dough into itself before grabbing a mason jar to cut circles. “If you could’ve planned your wedding, what would you have chosen?”
I grab the pan and scrape the cake in evenly. “Umm, I think I’d have wanted something in a wildflower field. Not many people. Just the sun, the flowers, and yeah… simple. What about you?”
