Page 46 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“I’m starving,” I tell her, unable to resist taking her hand after I bend and snag a few of the bags from the floor. The touch of her palm against mine soothes some part ragged part of me, and when her soft fingers lightly stroke along the back of my hand, I think about them stroking other places.
Harder places.
Focus, Gray.
Food first.
But I know if I offer to cook her something she’ll turn me down, tell me she’s fine. But I’m hungry and she’s eaten—well, in truth—she’s hardly eaten only shitty hospital food over the last day and a half.
She needs real food.
Then she needs rest.
And maybe, later, she needs to watch a hockey game.
Tension finally sliding from my shoulders, I start down the hall, dump the bags on the counter, and pull out the container that Bri brought.
Cookies.
Fucking good ones with a gooey salted caramel center and chocolate chunks and flecks of sea salt on top.
Bri works at Molly’s Bakery, and she’s definitely picked up more than a few tips and tricks from the bakery’s namesake.
“Here,” I say, popping off the lid and handing Faye a cookie the size of my hand.
“Um…”
“Salted caramel with milk chocolate chips,” I tell her. “Bri made them.”
I watch the nerves leave her and secure another bit of information about Faye as she brings the cookie up to her nose, inhales deeply.
She really loves baked goods.
And baking, I remember.
I lost Nana’s banana bread recipe.
I can’t remember if her banana bread calls for one egg or two.
“Bri made these?”
I nod as I take a huge bite of my own cookie, the delicious mix of salt and sweet hitting my tongue in an explosion of flavor. The tension in my shoulders eases when she takes her own bite, murmurs through it, “They’re really good.”
“They sure are,” I agree as I head to the fridge, snagging the ingredients for my favorite pregame meal—chicken breast, grilled peppers…and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Don’t judge.
When I turn back with my arms full of food, I see she’s devoured half the cookie.
And that she has crumbs on her bottom lip.
I move before I’m really thinking, setting the food down and reaching out…
Then freezing before I actually make contact.
Her lips part, eyes going wide, pink creeping into her cheeks.
I close the final inch between us, brush them away. Then because I can’t stop myself, I shift closer, cupping her jaw, my fingertips sliding into the silk of her hair.
