Even though it’s just us, we’re going all out with tomorrow’s meal, and the kitchen is a bit of a disaster area.
“Do you remember the first time we cooked for Thanksgiving together?” Chris asks.
I look up from the apple that I’m peeling for the pie. “Like it was yesterday.”
“Our cooking skills have gotten better. That’s for sure.”
“I think Eric shamed us into devoting more attention to the importance of a well-cooked holiday dinner.”
He doesn’t look up from kneading bread dough. “You looked beautiful in that messy dorm kitchen, sitting on the counter, all covered in flour.”
I look back down at the apple and smile as I start peeling again. “And you looked incredibly hot when you asked me to ignore the cooking and dance with you.”
“And you made me so fucking horny when you did dance with me.”
I laugh. “I did not. You didn’t try anything.”
“Doesn’t mean that I wasn’t thinking about it.”
I smile again. “Good.”
It was a wonderful Thanksgiving. The best, really. When I felt so alone, Chris told me that I had family. More than that, he showed me.
“Are you sad that everyone isn’t here with us?” he asks.
I set down the knife and round the counter to hug Chris from behind. “It’s hard to be sad when I’m focusing on all that I have to be thankful for.” My hands slip under the back of his shirt and cross slowly to his stomach.
When I inch my fingers below his waistline, he laughs. “I’m kind of covered in bread dough here.”
I duck under his arm and slip between him and the counter.
He smiles down at me. “You’re about to get your hot self covered in flour again.”
I quickly kiss him. “Keep kneading.”
Chris rubs his nose against mine and then continues with the bread, his body rocking into me as he works.
“I have to say that I admire your technique,” I say as I put my hands on his hips. “Such steady rhythm. And really throwing your weight into it.”
“You are trouble, young lady.” Chris firmly pushes his body against mine and grinds into me while he buries his mouth against my neck.
“This is going to be the best bread ever,” I say through my giggling.
Just as I lift my hands into his hair, my phone rings. I pull back and reach for it. “That’s Sabin’s ring! I have to get it.”
Sabin’s calls and texts have been sporadic over the past few weeks. I’ve been trying to give him space because I know how busy he’s been.
“Hey, easy there,” Chris jokes. “Wrong brother to be getting so excited about.”
I lightly slap him on the arm. “It’s just that I haven’t talked to him in—”
“Just kidding. I know. Grab the call.”
Chris steps back, and I catch the phone before it goes to voice mail.
“Sabin!”
“Whatcha up to on this fine holiday eve, oh Mistress of Maine?” His gritty voice booms through the phone.
