Page 53 of Free to Dream
“Why?” His gaze encompasses the room, absorbing the essence of the clean lines and expansive space.
I try to look at my home as he would. The floors continue into this space which opens up with raised ceilings and exposed rough-hewn beams. The original carriage house walls can be seen through floor to ceiling insulated windows which allow the historical value of my home to come through, while still insulating against the radical Connecticut weather.
“It was a fairly large space,” I muse, not really answering Caleb’s question. He moves closer to me, around the room with the large L-shaped sofa that faces the original fireplace, as well as a set of barn doors on the adjoining wall. Also visible is the kitchen and dining space. Set past the kitchen, my home office is visible, part of the expansion which the master suite is part of upstairs. “But certain things didn’t work if I wanted to live in the home long-term. If I ever wanted a family, there was no room to expand and hardly any storage space.”
“Do you?” he asks, still not looking at me.
“Want a family?”
He nods. I step in front of him, catching his eyes. “A little heavy conversation with your appetizer, Mr. Lockwood? Can I get you a drink with that?” I pretend to hold a waitress pad in front of me, as if I’m taking his order.
His eyes widen as he realizes what he was asking me. “Well, crap.” Color darkens his cheeks. The edges of my lips twitch upward as he glances down, realizing he’s still holding the flowers and bag he’d been fiddling with. “Shit.”
I’m outright laughing at this point.
He shoves them in my direction. “Obviously, these are for you. Thank you for having me over, especially since you were working all day.”
I take the flowers from him gently, lifting them up and burying my face in the outdoorsy scent. Carefree. That’s what sunflowers remind me of.
I feel that when I’m with Caleb.
I want to kiss him to thank him for the flowers, but I’m not as certain about doing that now as I was last night.
My nose still buried in the flowers, I raise my lashes to catch Caleb’s eyes. It’s like he can read my mind. Placing the bag with the wine on the nearest table, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close. With the flowers caught in between us, he lowers his head.
When his mouth touches mine, he lets out a small groan. Or is that me? Threading my fingers through his thick dark hair, I hold his head in place as his tongue traces the seam of my lips. Gasping in surprise, my mouth opens. Dipping in for a quick taste, our tongues dual for a brief moment before I break the kiss and step back. His reluctance to let me go is emphasized by the quick pull of my body back to his. His nose rubs against mine, keeping the contact between us.
I can feel my heart pounding against the stalks of the blooms he gave me. My hand that’s wrapped around Caleb’s neck can feel his as well. Its staccato beat and his harsh breathing tell me he isn’t unaffected by that kiss.
We both know it wasn’t an uncomplicated embrace. Our lives are so entwined already, that taking this further will just tighten the invisible threads binding us even tighter.
I step away, and he reluctantly opens his arms to let me retreat a few steps back. Our eye contact still hasn’t broken from the moment he leaned down to take my lips. The current running between us hasn’t dissipated. If anything, the invisible cord that stretches between us gets stronger.
With every second.
Shaking my head, I move through the living space into the kitchen with Caleb close behind me. With the island between us, I place the flowers on the island next to the sink. Moving around the kitchen for a vase and scissors, he eyes the spread on his side of the island with pure male appreciation, and a little awe. Yeah, there’s no froufrou finger foods. I think the most delicate item might be the cheese plate. I’ve made the cheddar bacon and pecan pizza, mini chicken pot pie turnovers, warmed up leftover Philly Cheesesteak Dip from the event earlier with French bread, and a veggie and cheese plate.
Sue me. I get nervous, I cook and eat. I have a sister who’s an athlete. She’ll run it off me.
“Are we expecting anyone else?” he asks, not raising his eyes from the plates of food.
“No,” I say, critically surveying the buffet before me. I suppose I did cook for a few, or twelve. “Too much?” I ask, raising my eyes to meet his.
“Are you one of those people who minds leftovers?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about it, unless you plan on pulling out a three-course Italian meal in addition to this. Then I might have to call you out for making too much food.”
I pick up one of the pieces of French bread and throw it at his head.
He captures it and says, “Thank you,” before dunking it right into the hot dip and shoving it into his mouth. “This is delicious, Cassidy. Where did you learn to cook?”
I laugh and hand him a bottle of water from the fridge. “Food Network. We’re all addicted to it. Corinna can outbake all of us, but we’re all great in the kitchen.”
He moves around the island to stand next to me. His hand raises and I flinch inadvertently as he brings it to my face. His eyes soften and he hesitates before reaching to brush his hand gently down my cheek. “I think it’s time to relax, drink a little wine, and eat a little food.”
“Maybe more than a little?” I grasp at the conversation gambit. “I don’t need that many leftovers.”
