Page 207 of Branded
Not necessarily her idea, but because I’d plied her with two mugs of my special hot chocolate (which wasn’t really special hot chocolate at all, just expensive chocolate, a dollop of caramel, and a large pinch of cumin).
My mother’s recipe.
Though I never could be bothered to whip my own cream.
She was gone now, too.
Had left me when I was thirteen, in the hands of my father.
Another disappointment, or two, rather—the leaving of my mother, the resultant anger and abuse from my sperm donor of a father.
Thank God for hockey.
And, truthfully, thank God for my big ass hockey body. I’d gotten big early in life, lived up to the giant hockey player stereotype. I was no Smitty, but I was six-three, two hundred pounds. I’d gotten taller than my father early, had bulked up because time in the gym meant time away from home when my mother had left.
That bulk had been slimmed as years went on, as I focused on speed and flexibility.
But I was still big, much bigger than Beth.
And much bigger than my sperm donor, who’d lost interest when he realized he couldn’t bully me.
“Raph?”
I blinked, realized I’d been standing there on Beth’s porch like an idiot, back in the past, in my head, thinking about shit that I’d wanted to long forget, and…running late, I thought, cursing softly as I glanced down at my watch.
This was my last free evening for more than a week, what with the season heating up and a road trip on the calendar, and I was standing, staring at nothing, thinking about long-dead shit, wasting time when I didn’t have a whole lot of it, especially this time of year.
“Hey, sugarpie,” I murmured, bending and sliding my lips across hers.
Her tongue dipped out and the brush of mouths turned deeper.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
My hot chocolates had made her drowsy, and paired with fresh popcorn and an action movie, she’d fallen asleep in my arms. I’d taken advantage, not moving her, not so much as twitching a muscle for fear of waking her.
Not until the movie was over and my own eyelids were growing heavy.
Then I’d shifted her against my chest, carried her up the stairs and into my bedroom, holding tight to my control so I didn’t kiss her, wake her up, and taste every inch of her again.
I needed to be smart now. To move slowly.
To not trigger her fear and panic again.
I cupped Beth’s cheek. “You just miss my hot chocolate.”
“Nope.” A grin. “It was the popcorn. That seasoning on top.” She chef kissed.
I grinned, slid her close, tucked her under my shoulder, where she fit perfectly, where I could feel her, soak in her warmth, scent the soft floral perfume of her hair sprayed across her skin. The seasoning I’d sprinkled over the top of the popcorn was another one of my mother’s specialties—mostly salt, but also a dash of pepper, a teaspoon of sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon all mixed in with the buttery, oily goodness.
It was delicious.
But then again, most of my mother’s cooking had been.
It had been most of the good she’d left me, and the memories were the rest. Because what came after?—
A hand on my jaw, and I glanced down into Beth’s concerned face. “What is it?” she asked.
I didn’t want to talk about this. I wanted to concentrate on the now, on this date with Beth. I didn’t want to drag up the past.
