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He brushed his body against hers, then let her go. And told Susan something she desperately needed to know. He wanted her. He was hard as a rock.
But before she could so much as turn in his arms, he’d stepped away from her to study the recipe she’d put on the counter.
“It says you have to chill the dough overnight before you cut it.”
“So we’ll pop it in the freezer before we bake it, too.”
“Susan, I’m telling you, if you start this now, you’ll still be at it tomorrow afternoon.”
“Not with you helping me I won’t.” She grinned at him to hide her hurt. “You want to mix or dump in the ingredients?”
“Dump.” Michael didn’t sound any more excited about that than he had about the baby. She hoped he was a little quicker at the dumping or they wouldn’t get the house made.
HE’D BEEN RIGHT, of course. There was no way they were going to finish her damn gingerbread house that day. They’d been working on it for a couple of hours already and he was still at the designing stage.
But he had to admit the idea had been a good one. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Susan had laughed together like this.
“You have flour on your nose,” he told her, reaching up to brush the dab of white away. His fingers lingered. He’d always loved the softness of her skin, the contrast between it and his rough stubble.
“Remember that time we were fooling around in the trees outside my dorm, and Connie Fisher dumped that bag of flour all over us?” she asked now, leaning over his shoulder as she surveyed his drawing. He’d been sitting at the table with paper and pencil for the better part of an hour.
“She was lucky she was up three flights,” he grumbled, remembering all right. Susan had just let him under her shirt for the first time and right before he’d had his first real handful of the breasts that had been driving him to distraction all semester, they’d been ambushed.
And she’d been donned the rest of the week for missing curfew. He’d had to wait another five days to finally touch her.
She’d been so worth the wait....
“I think this is it.” He reined in his thoughts, not trusting himself to travel along the road they’d taken. Which was ironic, considering the fact that sex with Susan was his whole reason for being there.
“I love the turret,” she said, smiling at the intricate drawing.
He handed her a stack of pages. “Your pattern pieces, madam.”
Taking them, she headed over to the dough she’d rolled out on the counter and said, “This is great, Michael. I can’t wait to see the finished product.”
And because she sounded so happy with herself, neither could he.
THE PIECES were all cut out, baked and cooling in layers in the freezer. Susan was washing the last of the dishes. It was still only seven o’clock.
Too early to go bed. Or at least, Michael amended that last thought, to go to sleep.
“I’ll dry,” he said, grabbing a towel out of the drawer and moving to the sink beside Susan. She had a perfectly good dishwasher, but Susan preferred to wash the dishes by hand. He’d long since concluded that she just liked playing in the suds.
He couldn’t count the number of times he’d seen her standing at that very same sink, her arms elbow-deep in warm sudsy water. Or the number of times he’d stood beside her, drying the dishes as she washed
, wanting her.
He could count the number of times it had happened since their divorce. Not once.
“Why is it that we always seem to eat out when I come to town?”
Shrugging, Susan focused on the task at hand. “Guess it’s just easier.”
Maybe. Or had she been keeping a distance between them? A distance he hadn’t even noticed until now.
Her arm accidentally touched his side. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” He continued to dry. And to watch the curve of her neck. She always shivered when he kissed her there. And tightened inside. He’d made that particular discovery years ago.
