Page 41 of His Wild Storm
“Well,” she muses, “that’s true.”
“Come on,” I offer her my hand, “let me give you a tour.”
There’s no hesitation as she takes my hand and I almost crow. Or strut. I’m feeling very strutty with her hand in mine.
As I show her around my house, I make sure to point out the original details I preserved as well as the things I needed to rebuild and put back into the home because someone else had stripped the charm away before it became mine. Her blue eyes are wide as she takes everything in, asks questions, and gushes over the Craftsman style in every room.
The last room I take her into is the open floor plan kitchen and dining room. I used some built-ins to create a little separation between the dining area and the rest of the house while still keeping it relatively open. There are a lot of shelves in this part of the house which need to be filled.
After meeting Wilde and Haven, I can imagine the shelves being dotted with trinkets of our memories. My heart yearns for the day I can look at them and remember our life together and how much we’ve grown.
But we’re not there yet.
I point toward a seat at the island, “Have a seat, little storm.” She sits without bristling or feeling like I’m telling her what to do. It settles something in my chest. “Since you said it’s been a while since you’ve had shrimp, I figured I’d make shrimp scampi. How does that sound?”
When I look up, I find her staring at me with wide, awe-filled eyes. I can’t help but smirk at her reaction. Her answer isn’t necessary; I know I chose well.
She starts to nod slowly as she licks her lips which does nothing to help me keep a grip on my control. Her lips are so perfectly pouty. All I’ve wanted to do since I met her is kiss her.
But she’s not ready.
“That sounds really good.” She gnaws on her bottom lip and shifts in her seat like she’s uncomfortable. “Do you need any help?”
“No way,” I insist. “You’re my guest and I’m looking forward to cooking for you, Haven.”
She nods, but there’s uncertainty written all over her face. It makes me wonder what kind of expectations were put on her by her ex. I could guess, and I am, but until she’s willing to share with me then I won’t really know. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out she was expected to take care of everything at home, including the cooking.
“I haven’t cooked like I used to,” she admits, her voice soft, “in about a year.”
It’s a breadcrumb. We both know it. I nod, taking in her words and not wanting to spook her when all I want to do is pepper her with questions about her past.
“Do you enjoy cooking?” She shrugs one shoulder and when she doesn’t offer up anything else I ask, “What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
She giggles softly as she answers, “I don’t know about favorite, but I perfected homemade mac and cheese. It’s one of Wilde’s favorite foods, but he never wanted the kind in a boxwith powdered cheese sauce. He wanted cheese flakes, as he called them.”
“Cheese flakes?”
“Grated,” she informs me with amusement dancing in her eyes.
“Well,” I concede, “homemade mac and cheese is always better than the box.”
“Yeah,” she chuckles, “but it takes a lot longer to make. I always cooked it for him when he asked, but there were times when it would have been nice to just be able to pull the box out and have it ready in under ten minutes for him.”
“I bet it’s delicious. I find kids of that age have very discerning palettes,” I tease her.
Haven snorts out a laugh. Fuck, her laughter is a beautiful sound. My gut is telling me she hasn’t had enough laughter in her life, at least not before a year ago. I’m going to make sure that changes.
“Oh yes,” she shoots back, “very discerning. Chicken nuggets, mac and cheese, and, of course, boogers.”
“Ugh,” I exclaim and screw up my face in disgust. “You just had to bring up boogers.”
Haven’s eyes sparkle and she doesn’t look the least bit sad about what she’s said. “You learn quickly to not be bothered by a lot of things when you become a parent.”
I scrunch my face up and my voice drops, “Like poop?”
“I was not prepared for how worried I would become about poop or how many conversations I would have about it,” sheadmits while cringing. “You good with poop talk?” The challenge in her question is clear, but I’m not one to scare easily.
I scoff, “I love poop talk. Are you kidding me? I live for it.”
