Five
She was going to bake.
Renee stood in the massive kitchen at Red Oak Hill, surveying the row of copper pots hanging from a pot rack over a massive island in the middle of the kitchen with stools tucked along one side. The countertops were a cool gray granite and the cabinets were cream with an aged patina. A Subzero fridge, better suited to a restaurant than a house with only one person living in it part-time, commanded almost half of a wall.
She didn’t know how to cook. Or bake. No one in her house had cooked growing up. On the few occasions they’d suffered through dinner as a family, either Rosa, the undocumented Guatemalan maid her mother had constantly threatened with deportation, had prepared a meal for them or they’d had food delivered in. Nothing good ever happened at those family dinners. She shuddered at the memories and absently rubbed her leg.
Otherwise, her parents ate out—separately, of course. Breakfast had been cold cereal to be eaten as quickly and quietly as possible before she and Clint made their escape to school because waking her mother up before noon was a surefire way to suffer.
Instead, she had happy memories of boisterous meals with the Lawrence family where everyone bickered and told jokes and only sometimes did she and Chloe switch out sugar for salt or drop peas in Clint and Oliver’s milk. If anyone yelled, they were laughing when they did it and no one ever jabbed silverware into someone else’s legs.
She had afternoon teas with Chloe and Mrs. Lawrence after they’d gone shopping or seen a show or even just because. She had fun afternoons with Mrs. Lawrence teaching her and Chloe how to bake cookies and cakes. Then Renee and Chloe and sometimes even Mrs. Lawrence would eat their creations with a big glass of milk while watching cartoons. Those times were all the more special because...
Because of Mrs. Lawrence. She’d been warm. Loving. There. How many times had Renee dragged her feet when it was time to go home? How many times had she prayed for Mrs. Lawrence to be her mother, the Lawrence family her family? Her and Clint’s. They could’ve been happy there. They had been happy there, all the happier because it was such an escape from home.
Mealwise, not much had changed when she’d married and moved into her own condo with Chet. They’d eaten out most of the time, often separately because Clint was working late or entertaining clients or dating other women, probably. And Renee hadn’t seen the point in cooking just for herself, so she’d gone out with friends. Everything else had been delivered. Cooking wasn’t a priority, not with some of the best restaurants in the world just a short phone call away.
Renee Preston-Willoughby didn’t do anything so menial as prepare food.
That was going to change, starting now. Besides, she was dying for some cookies. Giant gooey chocolate chip cookies, just like she’d made all those years ago with Chloe and Mrs. Lawrence. With ice cream. Did Oliver have ice cream? If he were here, she’d ask him. But she wasn’t going to wait around for someone else to solve her problems. Even if that problem was just ice cream related. She’d check the freezer herself.
Besides, what else was she going to do with her time? She could sit around and feel sorry for herself, but that was self-indulgent in the extreme. In addition to her nap yesterday, she’d had a solid night’s sleep. She’d eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner for the first time in...a while. Last night Oliver had made these amazing burritos that he had had seemingly pulled together out of thin air and there’d been leftovers. Marinated chicken and steak and a corn salsa that was possibly the best thing Renee had eaten in months, plus tortilla chips and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. It wasn’t true cooking, but she’d assembled her own food today and that was a start. A good start.
It helped that, for the first time since her husband’s funeral, food tasted good. Suddenly, she was starving.
She scrolled through Pinterest, looking for a recipe that promised both delicious and easy cookies.
It took a long time to assemble the ingredients. She had no luck tracking down baking soda, but baking powder was close, right? They both had baking in their names, after all. And it said 1 tsp of both baking soda and salt. How much was a tsp? She found a measuring spoon that had a T on it. That must be it.
At least there were chocolate chips. Really, that was all that mattered.
She wished Oliver were here. The peace and quiet of this big mansion out on the countryside was wonderful, but she’d love to share it with him. This morning, she’d walked around the small lake, watching Fred and Wilma as they cut gracefully through the water with two baby swans trailing after them. Oliver had a small dock on the far side, so she’d kicked out of her flip-flops and sat with her toes in the water, watching the breeze ruffle the leaves of the huge red oaks.
This afternoon, she’d sat on the porch with a big glass of iced tea and, surrounded by the scent of roses, watched dusk settle over the land. She’d watched a few episodes of her favorite TV show—the animated one about a diner Chet had thought was stupid. And she’d taken another delicious nap.
No one had yelled at her. No one had accused her of horrible things. No one had mocked her appearance or told her that her husband had got exactly what he deserved. All in all, it had been a nearly perfect day.
Except she wished Oliver had been here. Which wasn’t fair. He had to work, she knew that. As she dumped the sugar onto butter, she knew she didn’t need Oliver by her side. But she wanted to show him that she was doing all right. Better than all right.
She’d been fragile and shell-shocked when she walked into his office, exhausted with worry and drained from the flight. But that didn’t define her. It bothered her that he might think that was all there was to her.
But then again, she had a hazy memory of him telling her that she was strong for her unborn child. So maybe he knew? Or maybe he’d just been polite.
No matter. He would be here this weekend and by then, she hoped to have figured out the secret to perfect chocolate chip cookies.
The sugar blended into the butter—at least, she hoped that was what creamed butter and sugar was supposed to look like—she checked the recipe again. Dang, she’d forgotten to turn on the oven. The recipe said it was supposed to preheat—maybe she should crank it up? Would it preheat faster that way? It was worth a shot. She set the oven to five hundred and then went back to her recipe. It called for one cup of chocolate chips, but that didn’t seem like enough. So she doubled it. One could never have too much chocolate.
There. She had something that reasonably looked like chocolate chip cookie dough. If she wasn’t pregnant, she’d test it, just to make sure it tasted right. But raw cookie dough was one of those things that pregnant women weren’t supposed to eat, so she resisted the temptation. She scooped out the dough and set the sheets in the oven.
It was ridiculous, how proud she felt of this small accomplishment. Putting cookies in the oven to bake barely counted as an accomplishment at all. But still. She’d done it. God, she hoped they were good.
“What’s going on in here?”
Renee screamed in alarm as she spun, losing her balance and bouncing off the corner of the island. Seconds later, strong hands had her by the arm, pulling her against a warm, solid chest. Tingles raced down her back and she knew even before she got a look at his face that, once again, Oliver had caught her before she fell.
She shouldn’t be this happy to see him. But she was anyway. “You’re here!” she said, breathless as she wrapped him in a big hug. Now the day was perfect.
“I am,” he said, as if he were just as surprised to find himself back at the ranch—and in her arms—as she was.
Oh. Oh! She was hugging him, feeling every inch of his hard body against hers. She took a quick step back and let her hands fall to her sides. “I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.”
He leaned against the island, his mouth curving into a smile that sent another shiver down her back. “I wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”
Something warm began to spread in her chest. “You could’ve called.” After all, it wasn’t like he’d popped next door to check on her. He had driven a solid hour and a half out of his way. He wasn’t even in his suit. He was wearing a purple dress shirt but he had on dark jeans that sat sinfully low on his hips today. God, he looked so good. Better than chocolate chip cookies.
“I could’ve,” he agreed.
His dimple was back and Renee had an inexplicable urge to kiss him right there on that little divot.
“Is everything all right?” If there was bad news, she could see him wanting to deliver it in person because that was the kind of man Oliver Lawrence was.
He wouldn’t hide from the unpleasant truth. But instead of lowering the boom, he said, “Everything’s fine.”
They were words she’d heard hundreds, thousands of times. Chet had said them constantly, including in those last months when their lives had begun to unravel, even though Renee hadn’t known it at the time. But she’d been able to tell that things weren’t fine. But that’s all Chet—or her brother or her father—had ever told her, like she was a toddler who’d bumped her head and needed a simple reassurance.
Those words coming out of Oliver’s mouth were different. She was pretty sure. God, she hoped he wasn’t that good of a liar. “You’re sure?”
He lifted one shoulder. “I have Bailey scanning the headlines for any mention of you in the greater Texas area, but nothing’s cropped up. A few New York headlines are wondering where the pregnant Preston Pyramid Princess has disappeared to, but it’s more because they’re sad you’re not providing them with clickbait fodder. Your brother hasn’t accepted a deal yet. Your soon-to-be-former sister-in-law gave an interview to the Huffington Post where she eviscerated Clint, as well as your husband and your father, but only mentioned you to say that she’d always thought you were sweet and she really hoped you hadn’t had anything to do with the scam. She didn’t think you had.”
A breath Renee hadn’t realized she’d been holding whooshed out of her lungs. “Really? That’s...that’s great. I should send Carolyn a thank-you card. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about me in months.”
“I can think of a few nice things to say about you.” His voice was low and sweet, like dark honey and, as he looked her over with something that seemed like desire, her body responded. “More than a few.”
Sweet Jesus, she wanted to melt into him. The space between her legs got hot and sensitive and her stupid nipples went all tight again. Which was the exact moment she remembered she didn’t have on a bra.
Oh, hell! She didn’t have on a bra and she’d hugged him and now he was making her blush. She crossed her arms over her chest and hoped he hadn’t noticed.
He lifted an eyebrow and her face got even hotter. Of course he’d noticed.
But he had the decency to refrain from pointing out the pointedly obvious. Instead, he looked around the kitchen. “Baking?”
She was not disappointed that he hadn’t lavished her in compliments. She was relieved, dang it. “I thought I’d give chocolate chip cookies a try. But fair warning,” she said, desperately trying to keep her voice light, “I haven’t baked anything in years.”
He began to round up the dirty dishes without protesting or anything. “And you wanted to get back to it?”
“I do.” She took a deep breath, thankful to have something to talk about that didn’t have anything to do with her nipples or their willingness to turn into hard points around this man. “I have these wonderful memories of your mom taking the time to bake with me and Chloe and sometimes it was awful and sometimes we actually made something good and it was always so much...fun. Do you remember?”
Because now that she thought about it, she remembered that although Clint and Oliver hadn’t been baking with them, sometimes Renee and Chloe had shared the cookies or cupcakes with them. But only when they were feeling generous.
He paused in the middle of dumping the mixing bowls in the sink. “Yeah, I do.”
“Good.” It made her happy to know that he still had those shared moments in an otherwise-fraught childhood relationship. “I want to have fun again. I want to be the kind of mom who enjoys making cookies and won’t scream if the cookies don’t turn out perfect. I want to be the kind of mom my kid looks up to, who’ll...” Her voice caught in her throat. “Who’ll be there for her kids. And her friends’ kids.”
Not like her mom had been.
The bowls clattered in the sink and Oliver turned. He studied her with that smoldering intensity of his that sent flashes of heat down her back.
But he didn’t say anything. “Yes?” she finally asked nervously. She kept her arms crossed.
“I know my mother loved you. She considered you another daughter.”
The sense of loss that hit her was more painful than she’d expected, mostly because she hadn’t been expecting it at all. “Oh,” she said, her throat closing up and her eyes watering. “That’s...that’s sweet. I was...” She swiped at her cheeks. “I was sorry we couldn’t come to her funeral.” Her mother didn’t look good in black and funerals were dreary. Which meant Renee hadn’t got a chance to say goodbye.
Oliver nodded. “And then we moved to Texas right after that.”
It had been a one-two punch and honestly, Renee wasn’t sure she’d ever got over it. She’d not only lost the wonderful mother of her best friend, she’d lost the entire Lawrence family. She’d lost the feeling of home that day.
But she hadn’t been a little girl anymore. When Mrs. Lawrence had died, Renee had been thirteen and better equipped to deal with her mother’s insanity. She’d joined more after-school clubs, found new friends.
Nothing had ever replaced the Lawrence family.
“Hey,” Oliver said, stepping forward and pulling her into his chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, her words muffled by his shirt. “Sorry. Hormones. It doesn’t take much these days.”
“No, I’d imagine not.” He leaned back, stroking his hand down her cheek and lifting her face so she had no choice but to look him in the eye. “Renee...”
Her breath caught in her throat again but this time, it had nothing to do with a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. Instead, Oliver’s one hand was tracing slow circles around the small of her back, pushing her closer to him. To his lips. His thumb dragged over her cheek, sending sparks of electricity across her skin.
“I’m so glad you came back,” Renee whispered, even as she lifted herself on tiptoe, closing the distance between them.
“I’ll always come back for you,” he murmured against her mouth.
Dear God, please let that be the truth. She didn’t want easy lies. She couldn’t bear the thought of him lying to her at all. Not him. Not now.
His lips brushed over hers, the touch a request more than a demand. She inhaled deeply, catching his scent—spicy and warm, with his own earthy musk underneath and a faint hint of something burning.
Something burning?
She jolted as he asked, “What’s that smell?” at the same time a loud beeping filled the air.
“The cookies!” She twisted out of his arms and raced to the oven.
By the time she got there, smoke was beginning to curl out of the oven door. “Oh, no!” She frantically looked around for the oven mitts or...something. Anything, before she set his house on fire! But she didn’t know where anything was!
Oliver picked her up and physically set her to the side. Then, as cool as a cucumber, he turned off the oven and produced the missing oven mitts. In short order, he had the cookie sheet and the nearly black puddles that had once aspired to be cookies out of the oven, a fan running and windows open to clear the room, and he was...
Laughing?
He was, the wretch. He was mocking her failed attempt at baking while he pulled the battery from the smoke detector and for a moment, it felt like they were kids again, always poking each other until the other responded. She wondered if she could hit him with a water balloon—and what he might do in retaliation. Renee tried to scowl at him, but she was suddenly giggling along with him.
“Why, in the name of all that is holy,” he sputtered, dumping the ruined cookies into the sink, “was the oven set to five hundred degrees?”
God, she was an idiot. “Oh! I forgot to preheat it so I thought I’d turn it on high to make up for it and I must have forgot to put it back down to the right temperature.”
He laughed so hard that he slapped his thigh. She had to wrap her arms around her stomach to make sure she didn’t accidentally wet her panties. When she thought she had herself under control, she eyed the mud puddles. They clearly had spread beyond the ability of the cookie sheet to contain them—but now that they were charred, they weren’t going anywhere. “I may owe you some new cookie sheets,” she said, which set off another round of giggles.
“What did you do to those poor things?” He grabbed the spoon she’d used to scoop out the dough and poked at the closest mud puddle.
And then they were off again. God, when was the last time she’d laughed?
She couldn’t remember when. How sad.
But she was laughing too hard to let self-pity take control. She sagged into Oliver’s arms and he buried his head against her shoulder, which didn’t do a whole lot to muffle the almost unholy noises of glee he was making. They both were making.
Eventually, the giggles subsided. But her arms were still around Oliver and his arms were around her and he’d promised he’d always come back for her and then he’d almost kissed her, and she still wasn’t wearing a bra.
“It’s a good thing I came out here to check on you,” he murmured against the skin of her neck.
“It is,” she agreed, holding her breath. Would he kiss her again? Or let her kiss him? She shifted against him, bringing her breasts flush against his chest again. “I’d feel really bad if I’d burned your house down.”
“That would’ve been tragic.” Then she felt it, the press of his lips against the sensitive skin right below her ear.
She exhaled on a shudder as his mouth moved over her jaw. Then his lips were on hers and this time, it wasn’t a hesitant touch.
This time, he kissed her like he wanted her.
Even though she knew she shouldn’t because complicated would never be a strong enough word to describe her life, she kissed him back.
Months of sorrow and anger drifted away under the power of Oliver’s kiss. Because it was an amazing kiss, sweet and hot and a seduction, pure and simple. His hands circled her waist, his thumbs tracing a path along her lower ribs. All the while, his lips moving over hers, his tongue lapping at the corners of her mouth. She opened for him and his tongue swept inside, claiming her.
Branding her as his own.
Because he wanted her. Not because she was her father’s daughter, but in spite of that, Oliver Lawrence wanted her.
God, it was so good to be wanted.
So Renee kissed him back. She looped her arms around his neck and lost herself in the rhythm of their mouths meeting and parting and meeting again. Her body went hot and soft and hard all at once and she wanted him with a fierceness that left her dazed.
She wanted this to be real. She needed it to be honest and true.
But the niggling doubts in the back of her mind wouldn’t be quieted. Because what if it wasn’t? She couldn’t bear another person lying to her.
She pulled away. Slowly, but she did—and just in time, too, as Oliver’s hands had begun a slow but steady climb up her ribs and toward her aching breasts. She wanted him to touch her, wanted him to soothe the tension with his touch. With his mouth.
But she wasn’t going to throw herself at him. She wasn’t going to do anything until she was sure.
She had no idea what that certainty would look like, however.
He let her pull back, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, he clutched her to his chest, breathing hard. She curled into him, unwilling to break the contact.
“We should...” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “We should do the dishes.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved.
He stroked her hair. “I’ll need to head back tonight. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
That was a good thing. Because if she knew Oliver was asleep right down the hall, she might do something stupid, like slip into his bed in the middle of the night and pick up where they’d just left off.
Funny how him leaving didn’t feel like a good thing.
“You can’t miss your meetings,” she said, her voice wavering just a little. “Not for me.”
He made a snorting noise. “I might be able to come back out tomorrow night. Just to see how you’re doing. But I can’t make any promises.”
She smiled and hugged him tighter. “I’m going to try cookies again.”
“Maybe this time, you could follow the recipe?”
“Maybe,” she agreed.
They laughed and, as if by silent agreement, pulled away from each other. “Then we better wash the dishes.”
She grinned. The ways she’d messed up those cookies... “And find the baking soda.”