Page 65 of Something Like Sunflowers

“Stop,” I gasp. And he stills, instantly pulling his hand from between our bodies and bringing me back down to the floor, eyes wide with worry.

I feel so fucking embarrassed for that. I made this so damn awkward.

“I wanted that,” I assure him. “I did. I just…I think I need us to slow down a bit longer before we pick it back up to whatever that level is.”

He smirks, and I can feel my cheeks turning pink. “I’m so awkward. I’m sorry.” Spinning around, I place my hands on the counter. The immaculate, beautiful counter he almost fucked me on.

It would have been just as good as any fantasy I’ve ever had, too. He would have spread me out, and I’d probably hang off the edge a little, and—

“You okay there?” he asks, breaking me out of my daydream, yet again.

“Yeah,” I say, heaving a wistful sigh. “I am, but I’m also hungry, and you have a whole lot more to tell me, so let me cook you something and we can chat. Take things slow.” I gesture to the stool directly in front of the island, making sure to state my boundaries loud and clear. I’m not sure if that’s to him or to myself, but it’s been stated all the same.

“I got it, Dev.” He smirks. “I told you, I’m only gonna fuck you hard once you let me. Consent is very sexy.” He winks then moves to the other side of the counter, sitting at the barstools I imagined our non-existent children sitting at only hours ago. Only, that’s no longer true. He does have a child who likely sits here and does homework.

I smile at that.

“Okay, husband,” I tease, spinning to the fridge and opening it wide, “you have ground turkey, soy sauce, green onions. Do you have honey?”

“In the pantry.” He smirks as he watches me skip around his kitchen in search of utensils, and I smile brightly as I take the ingredients to the counter in front of Hunter, because I’m obviously putting on a cooking show for him if I’m gonna do this.

I laugh at his skepticism, eyeing me suspiciously.

“No offense, Dev, but since when do you cook?”

“Since a while. I have secrets, too, ya know.”

We stay in the kitchen for roughly an hour, and he tells me all about his pride and joy.

Eleanor Rosemary Isaac.

It turns out he named her after her maternal grandmother, Eleanor, who was the only one of her mother’s family to show up at the hospital for her birth, not long after our own Ellie died. “Something about that name felt…fated to me, Dev. I can’t change how it happened or why. I took one look at her, and I knew her name was Ellie.”

Ellie’s mother, it so happens, was a drug addict, too doped up to even fill out the birth certificate or any other paperwork when she was born and taken back to the state penitentiary shortly after they got her detoxed.

She never asked about Ellie again after that day.

Here he was, a nineteen-year-old boy, fresh out of a heartbreaking relationship and the loss of one child, and he was responsible for his teenage brother’s daughter. He was the next best choice, along with his elderly Aunt Sarah as a licensed foster care provider and unofficial co-guardian.

I can’t imagine the kind of responsibility he was faced with in just a matter of seconds.

I watch him as he tells me his story, the way his face changes and morphs as he goes from happy memories of baby Ellie and her first steps and pony rides, to scarier times like meet and greets with her biological mother after she was released from prison.

I want to know what Sam did to earn a life sentence at sixteen. To be wrapped up with a teenage drug addict he ended up impregnating. But I know what it’s like to be from Pine Forest well enough, and I can tell Hunter isn’t willing to talk any more about Sam or Ellie for a while.

I get lost for a little while in dancing around the kitchen to whatever music Hunter has streaming, but it stops abruptly when his phone rings and he takes it off Bluetooth for the call. It turns out Ellie’s social worker called to say she’s made arrangements for Ellie to stay next door with the family who has respite care certifications until she can come by and get my fingerprints tomorrow. I didn’t realize what sort of ripples I was creating being here with Hunter and Ellie, and the weight of the situation officially hits me in the chest.

But I can’t run, I remind myself. New and improved, less of a bitch, Devyn doesn’t do that anymore. She faces her anxieties with logic.

Hunter comes back and inhales dramatically. “It smells amazing, babygirl.”

I blush; I can’t help it. I’ve always wanted this moment. The one where my husband walks through the door and smells what I’m cooking, and I’m all swoony as he takes me into his arms and dips me for a kiss.

“You’re daydreaming again, wife.” He winks, moving behind me to the fridge and squeezing my ass on the way. I yelp, giggling as I search the drawers for silverware.

“You cannot keep calling me wife.” I point a butter knife his way. But I obviously hope he doesn’t stop.

“I’ll stop calling you wife when you stop cooking barefoot in my kitchen looking far tastier than the meal I’m meant to eat.”

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