My chest tightens as I watch this scantily clad beauty ping-pong around the small kitchen, making coffee in a percolator, turning on music on a transistor radio. I also make note of the rotary telephone on the wall.
As the local country station plays Kenny Rogers on a tinny speaker, I have to ask her. “Is that a percolator? I haven’t seen one of those since my NaNa died. And a rotary phone? And a transistor radio? What is happ
ening? Did I enter a time machine?”
“I kept everything exactly the way MeMaw left it,” she says. “Have a seat.”
But no way am I going to sit still. Instead, I open the fridge to get out the creamer. I pull out a glass bottle with a stopper. When I take a whiff, I realize this sneaky woman is a law breaker.
“This is raw milk.”
“Damn skippy. There ain’t no law.”
Well, yes, there is, but far be it from me to point it out. And shit yes, I’m having some of it in my coffee. I haven’t had raw milk since way before NaNa died.
Then I go on a hunt for the sugar. I take a guess as to the location of the pantry. My guess is correct. I grab a couple of mugs, which—I should not be surprised—are the old-school brown pottery kind used in diners back in the day.
It occurs to me that I’m feeing cozy and comfortable with her. It’s like the life I sometimes dream about: A beautiful woman and me, both of us half-dressed, having a midnight snack together. Of course, in my dreams, we’re having that midnight snack because we’ve just finished devouring each other in the bedroom and we’re both starving.
I’m not even bothered that she’s added to this domestic fantasy a huge family of dogs sprawled out in dog beds all around the kitchen, mud room and hallway. It’s like some kind of witchcraft she’s using on me. This feels…the way it should be.
It’s nice. It feels good. And because I let it feel good, I feel guilty about taking all of this away someday to check off the first box on my list of goals as an up-and-coming real estate developer.
I locate spoons in a drawer right where she’s standing by the counter. My hand brushes past the fabric of her skimpy yellow nightshirt to pull out two silver spoons with dainty embossed flowers on them. As I close the drawer, I feel her eyes on me. I glance over, and she’s more than sneaking a look at my biceps. She’s full-on staring.
I set the spoons down on the counter next to the mugs and pivot toward her. I can’t help but smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, yourself.”
The silence that follows is more than awkward. It’s spiking my heart rate so much there’s no way she’s not hearing it.
I try to focus on something else. The rhythmic percolating of the coffee. The ticking of the silly vintage cat clock. The rustling of her gingham curtains at the open window.
“Nice house you have here,” I say. “It’s surprisingly…organized.”
She smiles with her eyes. “You expected chaos?”
I lift one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “I guess I assumed with all these dogs, it would be more…”
She raises her eyebrows. “More what?”
“Damaged from the dogs. Constant barking.”
She laughs. “You expected the dog equivalent of the crazy cat lady.”
I totally did, but I do not say that out loud.
The scent of her skin is getting to me when we’re this close, and her ruby red grapefruit scent is mixing with something in this kitchen that smells like Christmas. Up this close, her flawless skin taunts me to reach out and touch her, to see for myself how soft and warm she is. She isn’t playing fair, and she doesn’t even know it.
My eyes dip down to the lace-trimmed neckline between her breasts. The rise and fall of her chest tells me she’s breathing hard. I can see exactly how taut her nipples are through that thin, flowery fabric.
“Something smells good in here,” I say, forcing my eyes away from her breasts.
Her lips part—probably unconsciously—when her gaze travels to my mouth.
“I baked some cookies earlier.”