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I touched the vintage Dolce and Gabbana jeans that I’d found upstairs in a closet, which fitted me like a glove. They must have belonged to my mother. Her collection of cashmere turtlenecks came in handy too. I’d also grown fond of an oversized flannel shirt, which probably belonged to my father. I even slept in it.
It was as though this new costume saw me playing a new role—no longer that girl who wouldn’t be seen dead in mass-produced clothes.
In retrospect, and with the benefit of distance, I cringed at how elitist I’d been.
I preferred this new, earthier version of myself.
Or was it because of Carson pinching my arse and telling me how hot I looked in jeans?
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I said at last. “So you were going to teach me how to bake bread, remember?”
He laughed. “I’m not exactly an expert, but I thought it would be nice to have some fresh bread.”
I nodded. “Oh god, yeah. I’d love some.” I stood up and stretched. “Tell me what I can do.”
He moved into the pantry and scooped out flour from a sack onto a tray. “Just sit and chat. Tell me silly stories.” He grinned.
“I don’t know any.” I leaned on my elbows on the table, as content as a cat in the sunshine.
“You were on fire last night,” he said, giving me his gorgeous smile that made me want to strip naked.
“Oh, yes. You got me drunk, remember?”
“Um, from memory, it was you that kept asking me to go to the cellar for more wine.”
“It was fun, though, wasn’t it?” I inclined my head. “And I can’t even remember what I talked about.”
“Oh, just cute stories about your life growing up.”
“That must have bored you to death. Sorry. I talk too much when I drink.”
He shook his head. “No. I like what comes out of your mouth.”
“Mm…” I leaned back in my chair. “I think you just like my mouth.”
His lips curled slowly. “It’s a pretty sexy mouth, all right.”
If I wasn’t so eager for some fresh bread, I would have reminded him just how sexy my mouth could be, but I held off on sucking his dick until late in the afternoon. That seemed to be our mutual feasting hour.
I watched as he sifted the flour. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“My mother used to make bread when we were young.” He smiled shyly.
“You never speak about your life growing up.”
He poured a sachet of yeast into the flour, followed by warm water.
“There’s not much to tell.”
“How old were you when your mother passed away?”
“I was sixteen.” He continued to mix the flour, his eyes on his hands.
“Is your dad still alive?”
He shrugged.
“You don’t know?”
