Authors: Karen Winters
“Of course you may, my dear.” He cupped the underside of my
jaw while giving me a spoonful. I licked my lips. It had turned out
well.
When we were done with the chowder, I rose and took his plate to
the kitchen, returning with his dinner moments later.
“May I make you another margarita, sir?”
“Yes you may, Miss Lane.” I left slowly, returning quickly.
“Oh, this is good,” he said as he began slowly eating. I’d
grilled the tuna, topped it with fresh salsa, and added side dishes of grilled
peppers and black beans with chipotles. Thank you, internet. I was
getting good enough now at reading his face while he ate that I knew he really
liked it.
“Another to add to my favorites, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All of it. What would you like to try first?”
“May I please have a bite of tuna, Mr. Hunter?”
“Of course, my dear girl.”
As he ate, his hand had lingered at the collar of my dress, toying
lightly with my new necklace. When he fed me a bite of tuna off his fork,
I felt his fingers slip under my collar, stroking lightly across the top of my
shoulder. He fed me a piece of grilled pepper with his right hand while
his other hand played across the top of my back. He gave me a forkful of
beans, pulling his hand out of my dress, only to wrap it gently around my
throat. I felt his long thumb dip down to my collarbone and then slide
under the front of my dress and skim across the top of my chest. He was
watching me carefully as he moved, probably worried that he was going too
far. I kept my eyes on his, trying to control my breathing. In the
silence of the room, I felt like I was panting. Couldn’t he see what he
doing to me?
We finally finished dinner and he pushed the plate aside.
His left hand had returned to the side of my neck, where he was lightly
stroking me with his thumb. I somehow managed to pull myself together
enough to ask if I could get up and get his dessert.
“Ah, yes, by all means.”
I started to reach for the table, but he held out his hand to help
me up. My legs were a little shaky, and I think he noticed, a quick look
of concern passing over his face. I gave his hand a light squeeze, and
said I’d be right back. When I returned, he’d pushed his chair back a bit
from the table to stretch out, his long legs crossed in front of him. I
placed a small bowl of grilled mango and a spoon in front of him.
“What is this, Miss Lane?”
“Grilled mango, sir, with tequila and a touch of saffron.”
He looked at me with his eyebrow raised. “That sounds like
an odd combination.”
“It probably is. I found a recipe and added the saffron at
the last minute because you said you liked it so much.”
“My girl,” he said, taking a bite. “My girl, you’ve created
a masterpiece. Here.” He raised a spoonful to me and I took it eagerly,
anxious to see how it had turned out. Delicious. The sweetness of
the mango had mellowed into a caramelized flavor on the grill, the tequila gave
it a bit of bite, and the saffron brought in something earthy and exotic.
Maybe not entirely Mexican, but delicious just the same.
“It’s delicious, sir, if I do say so myself.”
“Oh, you may. Apart from the oysters, this is the best thing
I”ve
ever eaten. More?”
“Yes, please, sir.”
He spooned some into my mouth. “Please tell me there’s extra
to eat tomorrow.”
“A little. I only bought one mango. But I can make it
again.”
“Do you promise, my perfect girl?”
His words went straight to my core and I involuntarily gasped and
bit my lip. I felt like I might cry or laugh or both, like my body was
completely out of my control. He looked at me, his face growing
serious. He eased my lip out from under my teeth and rubbed it lightly,
then cupped my neck. I calmed under his touch and whispered, “Yes, sir, I
promise.”
“Come here,” he said in a low voice. He leaned toward me,
pulling me closer, and kissed me gently. I felt him start to pull away and
I pushed myself closer to him, putting a hand on his leg under the table for
leverage, not wanting him to stop. I never wanted him to stop. I
kissed him harder, parting my lips. I felt him open his and when our
tongues met, a powerful shiver ran through me. He must have felt
something too, as he let out a quiet groan and tightened his hold on the back
of my head. His mouth tasted like the mango I’d just served him, only
better. So much better. I could have kissed him like this forever.
It was perfect, not too hard, not too soft, like he knew exactly how much he
could take from me and how much I could give.
He pulled away from me and looked over my face carefully. I
must have a looked a mess at this point. I’d given up trying to control my
breathing, and could tell I was flushed. He seemed to like what he saw,
however, as he suddenly pulled me to him again, both of his hands in my hair,
this time hard enough that I could sense the strength he was using to hold onto
his control. He kissed me again, much harder, his tongue stroking mine
with so much fervor I lost all my senses to only the feel of his mouth on mine.
Suddenly he let go of me. He stood, leaned forward on the
table, and said, “Good night, Miss Lane. I’m sorry to leave abruptly but
if I don’t go now, I’m afraid I may take advantage of you.” He turned and
left as quickly as he’d let go of me.
I collapsed onto my chair, my arms swinging at my sides, my head
back. I was a completely useless puddle of want.
I barely slept that night, my thoughts ping-ponging back and forth
between luxuriously reliving the thrill of his kisses, and frantically worrying
that Mr. Hunter hated himself for again giving into the temptation to kiss
me. Why was he struggling so much with himself over this? I knew
what I wanted, why did he seem so conflicted about what he so clearly
wanted? His final words echoed in my mind, and I wondered how he could
feel he was taking advantage of me when I would have given myself to him right
there in the dining room if he’d just kept kissing me. Oh, he kissed so
well. I wanted more of his kisses, more of him, more of everything.
I went down to breakfast the next morning with more than a little
trepidation. Mr. Hunter was at the island, as usual.
“Good morning, Mr. Hunter.”
“Miss Lane.”
He continued looking down at his newspaper as I sat across from
him with my coffee.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Not particularly.”
“Nor did
I
.” He took a sip of
coffee. “Do I need to apologize for last night?” He finally looked
up at me.
Oh, Mr. Hunter, please stop worrying about me.
“I didn’t stop you, did I?”
“No.”
“Then there’s nothing to apologize for.” Except for leaving
too soon. “I mean it, Mr. Hunter. I liked it.”
“I liked it, too. It’s just that -”
Was he about to tell me the problem? “It’s just that
what?” I prompted him to continue.
“It’s just that you’re so young. I feel like a lecherous old
man, some of the thoughts I have about you.”
I took a moment to absorb what he’d said. I’d been right, it
was the age difference.
“Mr. Hunter, I’m younger than you, yes, but I’m not a child.
I’m old enough to know myself fairly well and I know what I like. I like
it when you touch me. I like it when you kiss me. I like it a lot.”
He spun his coffee cup around in circles, his eyes on the
counter. He ran his hand through his hair and looked up at me. “I
know you’re technically an adult, but just barely. You still have a lot
of choices ahead of you, you just don’t know it yet.” He paused and
looked back down into his coffee. “When I was twenty-one I thought I was
going to be an artist, can you imagine that?”
“Easily.” It was true. He had more original paintings
throughout the house than I’d ever seen outside of a museum. He obviously
loved art. And the way he could play the piano? Don't get me
started.
“I was almost done with art school when my parents died. I
quit and floated around for a long time, made a lot of mistakes, before finally
ending up here. Here -” he gestured to the kitchen, meaning the whole
house, his whole life, “- where I’ve never had a truly happy day until you
showed up. I don’t want to drag you into my dismal, lonely life, but I
don’t want to let you go either. Our dinners together have been some of
the best moments of my life, but then I look at you, you’re so young, you don’t
know what you're doing ...” He petered out, visibly torn, his hands running
through his hair.
I got up and walked around the island to stand beside him. I
took his beautiful, pained face in my hands and turned it up to me.
“I make you happy. You make me happy.” I leaned down
and pressed my forehead to his. “This is good. This is why good
people get up in the morning, to make someone else happy.”
“I don’t want you to regret anything about this when you’re my
age.”
“How could I? These have been some of the best moments of my
life, too.”
He scanned my face and recognized my sincerity. “Sylvia,” he
said under his breath, pulling me in to him. “Sylvia.”
He held me for a long time, his arms around my waist and his head
on my shoulder. I wrapped one of my arms around his back, the other I
lifted into his hair. So soft. I tried to process the fact that
he’d finally used my first name. Did this mean I was to call him Adam
from now on? I couldn’t really imagine doing so. He was Mr. Hunter
to me, Mr. soft-haired, long-fingered Hunter.
“You can stop me,” he said quietly. “You can stop me at any
time.”
“I know.”
He looked up at me and searched my eyes for anything resembling
hesitation or reluctance. I smiled down at him, and cupped his face,
running my fingers over his freshly shaved jaw.
“But I’m not going to stop you, Mr. Hunter.” There, it was
out in the open. I was his if he wanted me.
“You’re not?”
I shook my head. “No.”
He gave me another squeeze and then released me, his arms slipping
briefly over my hips.
“Do you think I’m terribly odd, Miss Lane?”
Ah, back to formalities. “No, not at all. I think you’re
pretty wonderful.” That had come out before I could stop myself, and I
started to blush, but I kept my eyes on his and added, “And if you are odd,
then I guess I am, too.”
He looked at me so intently, searching for something in my eyes,
which I guess he found as he half-smiled and sighed. I gave him another
minute to think about what I’d said and went to the toaster, starting enough
for both of us. We ate in silence, but after he put our plates in the
sink, he turned and crossed his arms, leaning back on the counter.
“One more thing, Miss Lane, and then I’ll let you go for the day.”
“What is it, sir?”
“It’s important to me that you believe I wasn’t planning for this
to happen between us. I was being honest with you when I asked you to
move in. I liked you, but I swear I wasn’t scheming to get you to – you
know.”
“I believe you. You never gave me that feeling or I wouldn’t
have said yes to
moving
in.”
He came over and tousled my hair, then bent down and kissed the
top of my head. “Sylvia,” he murmured in to my hair. “You may be the best
thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The relief I’d felt that Mr. Hunter hadn't changed his mind about
our dinners was nothing compared to the happiness that had surged through me at
the words he'd said into my hair. The thought that I was so crucial to
someone else's happiness, that someone being specifically Mr. Hunter, buoyed my
spirits more than anything I'd ever experienced.
I was still floating as I biked into town, giving no thought to
what to make for dinner that night. All I was thinking about was how
important I was to him, and how important that made me feel. I'd do
anything for him, anything to make him happy. If it meant letting him
feed me during dinner, I'd do it. If it meant continuing to develop our
relationship at a snail's pace, so be it. I was so distracted with thoughts
of Mr. Hunter that I didn't see the rock in the road until a split second
before my front tire clipped it, jerking the handlebars out of my hands and
sending me sprawling to the ground.
Luckily, I wasn't going that fast and I caught myself on my hands and
one of my knees, my bike absorbing most of my weight. I got up and
surveyed the damage. I'd broken the skin on my knee, but my hands were
only a little scraped and my bike was fine, so I brushed myself off and got
back on, more embarrassed than injured.
By the time I arrived at
Southbay's
, I'd
gotten my head back together and was focused on dinner. I didn't need to
make a big meal even though it was Friday, because we still had tons of chili
and pot pie in the freezer. I'd have a lot of time to cook this
afternoon, though, as doing the bathrooms was one of the quickest chores.
I locked my bike, grabbed a basket and headed toward the meat counter, debating
a couple of dishes.
An hour later I was back home. I put the groceries away and
went upstairs to shower. The hot water stung the scrapes on my hands and knee
and I inspected them more closely. My hands were fine but my knee could
use a
band-aid
. I towel-dried, put on my robe,
and started rummaging around the bathroom. Nothing, but I knew that already,
having found the vanity empty when I moved in my toiletries. I wondered
if I could interrupt Mr. Hunter to ask him if he had a first aid kit.
He'd said that I could if I ever needed help with anything, but I didn't know
if this situation qualified. I decided to err on the side of caution and
wait until lunch. Maybe I'd see him then and could ask him without
interrupting him.
I went back to my room and put on some shorts and a tank top,
picked up my book and went down to the kitchen. I'd noticed some lawn
furniture folded up in the corner of the patio near the barbecue and decided to
help myself to it. There was a chaise that looked in decent shape, so I
cleaned it off with a cloth from the kitchen, and pulled it out into the sun.
I read for a while, but the warmth soon combined with my lack of
sleep and I put my book down on the grass, closed my eyes, and let myself
drift. I didn't know how long I'd been laying there, but eventually I
heard a familiar throat-clearing. Without opening my eyes, I asked, “Yes,
Mr. Hunter?”
“I’m sorry to wake you, but you've been out here for over an hour
and I don’t want you to burn.”
“I’m not asleep. Just resting. I don’t nap, remember?”
“You do a good impression of a napper.”
“Thank you.” I stretched and opened my eyes. Mr.
Hunter was standing right above me, his hands in his pockets,
his
eyes on my legs.
“What happened to your knee?”
“I fell off my bike on the way to town.” I pulled my knee up
to examine it again. “I was wondering if you had any
band-aids
.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He was gone less than a minute, returning with a box and a small
tube. “May I?” He gestured to the chaise and I scooted over as far
as I could, making room for him to perch next to my bent leg. He opened
the tube and squirted a little antibiotic cream on his finger, rubbed it
lightly over the scrape and gently affixed a
band-aid
,
his face serious.
“Thank you, Dr. Hunter.” I smiled up at him.
He smiled back, his hand running down my shin and closing over my
ankle. “How did you manage to fall off your bike?”
“I wasn’t paying attention and hit a rock. I landed very
gracefully, though.”
“I have no doubt about that. Did you get hurt anywhere
else?”
“Just my hands a little.” I showed him my palms. He
took one and kissed it, then did the same to the other.
“All better.” He was still smiling, but had a look of
concern on his face.
“Don’t forget my knee.”
He reached down and kissed the
band-aid
he’d just put on.
“You should have asked me for help as soon as you got home, Miss
Lane.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you. A scraped knee is hardly an
emergency.”
“Anything involving you getting hurt is an emergency. Be
more careful from now on, my dear girl.”
I smiled, nodded, and lay back again, closing my eyes. “I
will, sir.”
He was quiet for a moment. “The sun does feel good,” he
finally said.
I sighed contentedly. “It does, but you’re right. I
should probably come in.” I made no movement to get up.
“So what do you think about when you’re not napping?”
“Very important things.”
“Such as?”
“For one thing, what to make for dinner.”
“That is very important.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
“I might have been thinking about you a little.”
“Me?”
“I think it was you. He was very tall, and had a tin of
cocoa in one hand. He kept asking me to make him a dessert, so it must
have been you.”
I heard him laugh. “You were having a nightmare, my dear
non-napping Miss Lane.”
“And then he started chasing me around the dining-room table,
until I let him catch me.”
I could feel him shift his weight toward me. I kept my eyes
closed but I was smiling.
“You let him catch you?”
I nodded. “He was so old, he’d gotten out of breath. I
felt sorry for him.”
I felt his hand leave my ankle and come to my waist. “That’s
very kind of you to take pity on an old man.”
“That’s what I thought, but it turned out to be a trap.”
“A trap, Miss Lane?” His voice was closer.
“He was only pretending to be old. Once he’d caught me, he
lifted me up like I weighed nothing and started to kiss me.”
“Like this?” I felt his lips hover over mine, then lightly
press down.
“No. He kissed me harder than that.”
“Hmm. He doesn’t sound like much of gentleman.” I felt
his lips move down my face to my throat.
“Oh no, he was. After he put me down, he fed me some
scallops.”
“Were they good?” He’d moved to the other side of my throat
and was kissing me softly with his mouth open, tasting me.
“They were delicious,” I whispered as I put my hand on the back of
his neck.
“You are delicious,” he murmured back, coming back up to kiss my
lips lightly again. “You taste like Miss Lane dipped in sunlight, with a
touch of -”
he
kissed me lightly again, “-
silly.”
I opened my eyes. He was inches away and I’d never seen him
look so carefree and relaxed. I smiled up at him and smoothed his hair
off his forehead. He took his hand off my waist and reached up to run a
finger over my bottom lip. “Add yourself to my list of favorites, will
you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. Now let’s get some lunch.”
After we were done eating, I went upstairs to change into my
dress. I crossed the hall to the bathroom to put on my necklace and took
a moment to survey myself. I’d stayed out in the sun this morning long
enough to get a bit of a glow without burning. The dark circles were
finally gone from under my eyes and my new haircut was much more flattering
than my old pony tail. I could see more of my body in this mirror than
the one in the powder room, so I turned to the side and looked at myself in my
dress. I still couldn’t get a good view of my behind but even from the
side, I could see how it flattered my waist and hips. I looked like a
completely different person than the student I’d been just a few weeks
ago. Still myself, but much improved.
After making short work of the bathrooms and changing Mr. Hunter’s
bedding, I headed to the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon, bringing my
laptop with me. I was making four dishes I’d never made before, two of
which I’d never even tasted, and was going to need my computer to help me out
as I went.
I put on my apron, turned on the radio, and got to work, keeping
an eye on the clock. I had just started the risotto around five-fifteen
when I heard the sliding door open.
“Mr. Hunter, you’re making it awfully hard to surprise you,” I
said, without turning around. The strawberry tart was in the fridge, the
duck was in the oven, and the cream of morel soup was covered on a back burner,
but he could easily see the ingredients for a spring vegetable risotto on the
counter next to me.
“Miss Lane, you make it hard to stay away when everything smells
so good.” He came and stood right behind me, resting his hands on my
waist for a moment before slowly untying and retying my apron.
“I seem to recall you once telling me you didn’t want to see me or
hear me, yet here you are again.”
He chuckled a little, moving to lean back against the counter.
“I think I've spent more time with you in the last four weeks than
I did with Mrs. Sheridan in four years.”
“Has it only been four weeks? It seems longer.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“Of course. I mean that I’m already used to your routines
and I feel at home.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
“Do you need help with anything?”
“Really?” I looked up at him in surprise.
“Yes, really, my dear. I didn’t come down just to
snoop. It occurred to me that your hands might be sore.” He took
the wooden spoon out of my fingers and started stirring the risotto. “I
can do this for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hunter. That’s very kind of you.” My
palms were actually a little sore after a full afternoon of cooking and
forty-five minutes of stirring rice wasn’t going to help them feel any better.
“So I just stir?” He moved to take my position in front of
the stove, and I went around to his left to add ingredients.
“That’s what the recipe says. I’ve never made risotto
before, but you’re supposed to stir the rice as you gradually add the cooking
liquid. I guess it makes the rice creamier.”
“So that’s how they do it. Good risotto is creamier than
regular rice.” He kept stirring while I slowly added some white wine,
then some vegetable broth. I watched his hand grip the spoon, the muscles
in his forearm flexing.
“Why are you staring at my hands?”
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you were. Am I doing this wrong?”
“No, that’s perfect. Okay, I was admiring your fingers.”
“My fingers.”
“Yes.”
“You are weird.”
“I’ve already told you that. Several times. Pay
attention.”
He laughed and wiggled his fingers. “You pay
attention. You’re the one easily distracted by fingers, not me.”
“Again, Mr. Hunter, I clearly said ‘admiring,’ not ‘being
distracted by.’ Honestly.”
“I think you’re the first person who’s ever mentioned my fingers
since my mother. She made me take piano lessons because she said I had
the fingers for it.” He was looking down into the pot of rice.
“I’m glad she did. She was right.”
He gave me a bit of a sad smile.
“What?”
“I was just remembering how much trouble I used to give her about
practicing.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mind.” I added some more broth.
“No, probably not.” He sniffed the air. “What smells
so good?”
I looked at the timer. “Your main course is almost
done. You’re going to find out what it is in about five minutes, unless
you close your eyes when I pull it out of the oven.”
“What to do, what to do,” he grimaced.
I laughed. “There are two other dishes that will still
surprise you tonight, if that factors into your decision.”
He smiled down at me. “All right. I’ll go with fifty
percent surprise this evening.”
A few minutes later he moved aside and I reached into the oven for
the duck. It had turned a lovely deep brown, the juices sizzling on the
bottom of the roasting pan. It looked pretty good, if I said so myself.
“Is that duck?”