Chapter Eight
Stacey had left a table lamp on in her living room; rather than switch on the overhead lights, she switched on a second lamp and the room was suffused with soft light.
“Would you prefer red or white wine?” she asked.
“To be honest, right now I don’t want wine,” he said softly. “Instead, I’d really like to dance with you.”
Her cheeks went pink. “Oh. OK. I, um… W-what sort of thing do you want to dance to?”
He knew from the stutter that he’d flustered her again. Which he hadn’t meant to do: he just wanted to hold her. Dance with her. Kiss her. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to her speaker dock.
“S-sure.”
He hooked up his phone and chose an old Lonestar favorite, “Amazed”, then drew her into his arms.
It didn’t matter that they were both dressed for ice-skating rather than dancing. It didn’t matter that they were in her living room rather than in some nightclub. The only thing that mattered was that she was in his arms and he was holding her close.
They swayed together to the beat of the music, cheek to cheek; he couldn’t resist turning his mouth very slightly so he could press the tiniest kiss against her cheek. Her skin was so, so soft, and she smelled of vanilla and strawberries.
The next thing he knew, her face turned very slightly to meet his, and at last his mouth skated against hers. The lightest, gentlest, sweetest touch that made every nerve end in his mouth tingle.
And then her head tipped back and she touched her lips to his in answer to his unspoken question: yes.
Need surged through him. He wanted to kiss her properly, feel her mouth open beneath his. He hadn’t felt this kind of desire for a long, long time; part of him was scared, but he locked the emotions away in the back of his head. Not now. He wasn’t going to let his past spill over and stop this. He needed this, and he had a feeling that Stacey needed it just as much.
She kissed him again, and it felt as if tiny stars were flickering in his head. When her mouth opened beneath his and the tip of her tongue touched his, the flickers became stronger and brighter. As if he was standing on top of the world and could see all the way to the edge of space, the brightness and the beauty and the crazy spirals.
“I want you,” he whispered.
“I w-want you, too.”
Was she stuttering because he was pushing her into something she wasn’t ready for, or was it because the emotion was overtaking her, too? Unsure, he pulled back slightly so he could look into her eyes. Tonight they were more blue than grey, and he really hoped he was reading this right.
“I think I’ve wanted you for a long, long time. Except I didn’t know how much until tonight,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “Me, too.” And her face was filled with sincerity.
“Take me to bed, Stacey. Do with me what you will,” he said.
In answer, she took his hand and led him through to her bedroom. She switched on the overhead light just long enough so she could turn on the light on her nightstand; and he wasn’t surprised that the room was painted a soft duck-egg blue, with a white wrought-iron headboard on her queen-size bed and a traditional rug on the floor. Her bed linen was also duck-egg blue, embroidered with white daisies. And yet it felt relaxing and calming rather than over-fussy.
She bit her lip as she turned to him. “I, um… It’s been a while for me.”
“Me, too.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to d-disappoint you, Tyler.”
He wrapped his arms round her. “You’re not going to disappoint me. Of course it’s not going to be perfect, the first time. This is all about exploring. Finding out what each of us likes.” He paused. “If I’m rushing you, I’ll back off.”
She shook her head. “You’re not r-rushing me.”
“Good.” He stole a kiss. “I, um, bought a couple of condoms from the machine in the restroom at the Chinese restaurant. Not because I was expecting this, but just in case. Because I didn’t think I had any, and if there are any tucked away then they’re most likely out of date.”
“Me, too.” Her face went adorably pink. “For the s-same reason.”
“Well, now. It’d be a shame to waste all that joint enterprise, wouldn’t it?” he asked, and kissed her again.
His fingers slid under the hem of her sweater and up past the waistband of her jeans until he found bare skin. She shivered as he made tiny circles on her skin with his fingertips. And then, to his delight, he felt her palms splaying against his back. Skin to skin. Just what he’d really, really wanted.
She let him remove her thick sweater—and then he let her remove his.
Her thin T-shirt was next, followed by his.
She caught her breath. “I knew you’d look like…” She gestured to him, and blushed. “Well, y-you own a gym.”
He smiled and stole a kiss. “I’m not vain, but thank you for the compliment.” He traced the lacy outline of her bra with one finger. “And you’re all curves. Beautiful.” He could see in her expression that she was about to put herself down, and he kissed her lightly again. “Don’t say it. You’re lovely just the way you are. You’re sweet and curvy, and I can’t remember wanting anyone this much for a very long time.”
He could see the moment that she relaxed again with him, and this time she let him undo the button and zip of her jeans, then slide the faded denim over her hips. He dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss just above her belly button. “You smell of vanilla.”
“Shower gel,” she said.
And cookies, he thought. It made him want to taste her.
Would she be shy with him again, hiding away from him, or could he make her self-control snap so she was her true self with him?
He finished helping her out of her jeans, removing her socks at the same time; and then she was standing in front of him wearing only a white lacy bra and matching knickers.
“So beautiful,” he breathed.
“Y-you’re wearing too much,” she said.
He got to his feet. “I’m in your hands.”
Almost shyly, she undid the button and zip of his jeans. He knew his reaction to her would be obvious through his soft cotton underpants, and the color in her face deepened as soon as she noticed.
But then she smiled and pulled the duvet back from the bed.
And, unable to resist, he picked her up and laid her back against the soft downy pillows.
“Well, now,” he said as he knelt between her thighs. “Just you and me.” He dipped his head and nuzzled the hollow of her collarbones, then hooked one finger into the strap of her bra and drew it down. When he drew the other strap down, she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. And it was a moment’s work to unclasp her bra and drop the lacy garment over the side of the bed.
“OK?” he asked softly.
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“If you want me to stop at any point, and I mean at any point,” he said, “you tell me and I’ll stop.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Even if…?”
He nodded, knowing exactly what she was asking. “Even if.”
Had someone pushed her too far, too fast, in the past? he wondered. Not that he was going to ask her right now. He just wanted her to feel good about what they were doing.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and cupped his cheek with one hand.
He turned his face to drop a kiss into her palm. “This is about you and me,” he said. “About having fun.” It had been a long time since he’d had fun in his personal life, and he was beginning to think it was the same for her.
He cupped her breasts in his hands, circling her nipples with his thumbs; again, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back, arching toward him and telling him with her body that she wanted more. He traced a path of kisses down from her collarbone; when he circled one nipple with the tip of his tongue, flicking against the hard peak, she gasped and pushed her fingers into his hair, urging him on.
Tyler loved the fact that she was so responsive to him. And he was thoroughly enjoying exploring her, finding out just where she liked to be touched and kissed, and how.
But what he really wanted was for her to explore him.
To take the lead and let herself go. To kiss him, touch him, stroke him, until they were both at fever pitch and desperate for the ultimate closeness.
“Stacey,” he said softly. “Make love with me.” He rolled over onto his back, bringing her with him so she was straddling him.
She gasped, looking shocked; but then understanding dawned in her expression and he knew she’d worked out his intentions. He was letting her take the lead.
Then she dipped her head, caught his lower lip between hers, and nipped gently until he opened his mouth and let her deepen the kiss.
Tyler loved every second of this. The way her fingertips skated over his skin made him quiver, and the feel of her mouth against his throat made him reach up to grip her headboard and try to keep his control. He wanted to take this slowly and wring every ounce of pleasure from it—for both of them. And so he let her explore him, let her touch him how and where she wanted. He dragged in a breath as her fingers dipped under the hem of his underpants, and he felt her draw the soft material downward. He couldn’t help closing his eyes as she touched him, sliding her fingers round his shaft. She made him ache; and right at that moment he wanted to be inside her. The ultimate closeness.
“Stacey,” he whispered. “I want you so badly, it hurts.”
“Me, too,” she whispered back.
“The condoms are in the back pocket of my jeans,” he said.
“OK.”
He felt the mattress shift as she climbed off the bed and found the packet in his jeans.
“Now?” she asked, returning to the bed.
“Now,” he confirmed, and a tremor ran through him as she undid the little foil packet and smoothed the condom over his shaft.
“Make love with me,” she said, and lay down next to him.
He didn’t need a second invitation; and then it was exactly what he’d been thinking about all week, with Stacey leaning back against her pillows, her hair slightly mussed and her mouth parted and those beautiful blue-grey eyed filled with desire. He knelt between her thighs and dipped his head to kiss her as he eased into her.
“OK?” he asked.
“Very OK,” she confirmed.
And then he pushed deeper, watching her eyes widen with pleasure and feeling her breasts tightening against his check. He could hear her making little breathy sighs and tiny, incoherent murmurs, and he was aware of the pleasure spiraling through his own body.
“Let go,” he whispered. “Because I’ll catch you.”
He felt her body start to ripple round him, and he wrapped his arms tightly round her, holding her close as they both fell over the edge into their climax.
When their breathing had slowed to normal, he gently withdrew.
“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked.
“Sure. It’s the door over there,” she said, gesturing toward her en suite.
Once he’d dealt with the condom, he grimaced. What now? He hadn’t thought to grab any of his clothes from the floor; and he was pretty sure that Stacey would have gone shy on him. Would she want him to dress and leave? Or would she want him to stay?
He had no idea. So he was going to have to bite the bullet and ask her.
He walked back into her bedroom, and she’d pulled the duvet over herself.
“Sorry. I didn’t think to…” He gestured to the pile of clothing on the floor. “Maybe you should close your eyes?”
He’d kind of hoped that it would make her laugh and tell him not to be so ridiculous; considering the intimacy they’d just shared, there was no need for her to be shy with him.
But when she said nothing, he risked a glance and realized that she had actually closed her eyes.
OK.
He pulled on his underpants, then went to sit on the bed. “Stacey.”
She opened her eyes again. “So what happens now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Do you want me to go? Or do you want me to stay?”
“I don’t do this kind of thing very often,” she said. “Hardly ever. I have no idea what the etiquette is.”
“It’s negotiable,” he said. “Do you want me to stay or go?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Both,” she admitted. “I feel kind of awkward. But, at the same time…” She let the words trail off.
“Me, too,” he said. “We’re new at this. At least, you and me together,” he amended.
“So do you want to stay or go?” she asked.
“Both,” he said. “But just a tiny bit more of me wants to climb back in that bed with you, hold you, and go to sleep with you in my arms.”
“I’d like that, too. But…” She bit her lip.
“We’re still working out how this thing works between us,” he said. “What just happened…that’s between you and me. I wasn’t even planning on dating anyone, let alone anything else—my focus has been totally on my business. This came out of the blue. So if I’m totally honest with you, right now I can’t say whether this is for now or for always, and I’m guessing it’s the same for you.”
She nodded.
“So maybe,” he said, “we should both stop overthinking it and just let it happen, see where it goes.”
“Sounds good to me.” She looked at him. “So are you planning on sitting there for the rest of the evening, or are you getting back under the covers?”
He smiled. “I’m taking that as an invitation.” He climbed back under the duvet and drew her into his arms. “I’m working the late shift tomorrow, so I won’t wake you three hours before the crack of dawn.”
She blinked. “People really go to the gym that early?”
“We open slightly later on a Sunday,” he said. “But yes, we have people who like to do their workout first thing before work on a weekday because it sets them up for the day.”
“Well, if you’re not working first thing tomorrow, maybe we could do that pastry lesson,” she suggested. “Meaning you make us breakfast.”
“Pastry for breakfast?” he asked, mystified.
“Pie.”
“Ah. As a personal trainer, I really ought to protest about healthy eating,” he said with a grin.
“Pie with cream,” she added. “Or ice cream. Or both.”
His grin broadened as he realized she was teasing. “Make that really, really protest,” he teased right back.
“Joking apart, Sunday morning means pancakes, right? Pie isn’t so different. Anyway, I don’t eat pie for breakfast every day,” she said.
“So what do you eat for breakfast?” he asked, curious.
“Oatmeal. Made with flax seed and blueberries, and no sugar.”
So she ate healthily. Actually, he wasn’t so surprised. He’d already worked out that she liked baking, but what she liked more was baking for other people to enjoy.
“In fact,” she said thoughtfully, “you could say that tomorrow morning I was just planning on swapping the porridge for pastry.”
“And cream,” he reminded her.
She gave him the cutest, cutest grin. “Yeah. And cream.” She paused. “Actually, I should’ve asked instead of assuming. Do you actually like blueberry pie?”
“It’s my favorite,” he said, “and, speaking on a professional level, blueberries are a superfood—so it’s not as bad as eating one of those pies full of toffee and cream and marshmallows.”
“Then we’ll make blueberry pie tomorrow,” she said.
It felt weirdly domestic, and very different from the life he’d shared with Janine. She’d worked long hours and hadn’t been that keen on cooking, either, so they’d always eaten out on the way home from work or bought takeout; whereas Stacey actually enjoyed cooking and was perfectly at home in the kitchen.
“Blueberry pie,” he agreed.
She lay curled in his arms; Tyler heard her breathing become slower and deeper as she fell asleep, but he was still wide awake—and brooding, thinking of the last time he’d shared a bed with someone.
He and Janine had ended up sleeping with their backs to each other. They hadn’t been able to take comfort in each other; after the miscarriage, he hadn’t had the right words and neither had she. Even during the night, they hadn’t ended up curling into each other’s arms—and the gap between them had just got bigger and bigger. The more time went on, the more it seemed impossible to bridge it.
He’d thrown himself more and more into work, not delegating a single thing—even though he trusted his team to run things just as well as he did. It was simply easier to tire himself out physically than to face Janine and know that he could never, ever make up for what she’d been through. Nothing he could say would make things better. Nothing he could do would make things better. Nothing he was would make things better.
It was hardly surprising that Janine had gone back to her mother in Bozeman, and he’d left it too long before trying to win her back. He’d learned from his mistakes—not communicating was the quickest way to kill a relationship—but, at the same time, this whole thing with Stacey scared him stupid. He needed to move on, and he was pretty sure she was the one he wanted to move on with. But supposing he got it wrong again? It was a huge, huge risk. Had he done the right thing by taking it?
*
The next morning, Stacey woke in Tyler’s arms. He was still asleep; not wanting to wake him, she lay there quietly. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d woken up in someone’s arms; after her last relationship had crashed and burned, she’d given up on the idea of being with someone and concentrated on her career.
She didn’t think Tyler would be like her exes and be scared off by her father. But was this thing between them going too far, too fast? Was she just setting herself up for failure again? Would she disappoint him? The doubts spun round and round in her head.
She’d just about worked out how to say to Tyler that last night had been amazing but she thought they’d be better off being just good friends, when he opened his eyes.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Um, good m-morning,” she replied, all flustered because the words had just gone out of her head again.
He kissed her. “It’s a good morning, because I’ve woken up with you,” he said softly.
The heat in his eyes sent answering heat through her, and her nagging doubts were forgotten when he made love with her again, then soaped her thoroughly in the shower afterward and dried her tenderly with a towel.
“So, Madam Teacher,” he said. “I need some clean clothes—how about I go next door, get changed and make us both a decent cup of coffee, and then we have our baking lesson?”
“Sounds good to me,” she said.
And she was still smiling by the time she’d set out all the ingredients for the pie and he’d come back in bearing an espresso for himself and a cappuccino for her. “A spoonful of sugar, right?” he asked with a smile.
“Perfect. Thank you.” She smiled back. “Ready to start making pastry?”
“Ready,” he confirmed.
“OK. I’ve already turned the stove on to preheat it. The two things you need to know about pastry: first, keep the handling to a minimum, and second, don’t add too much water or the pastry will go hard.”
“Minimum handling, and easy on the water.” He frowned. “Why minimum handling?”
“Because you’re trying to minimize the formation of gluten. The idea is that the fat coats the flour cells and makes it hard for the water to hydrate the flour, so the pastry goes all nice and flaky,” she explained.
“OK. So what do I do?”
“Two cups of all-purpose flour into the big bowl,” she said.
He measured them out.
“A stick of butter—straight from the fridge, then cut into small dice so it’s quicker for you to rub in and the fat stays as cold as possible.”
“Rub in?”
“Cut up the butter, and then I’ll show you,” she said.
He started to dice the butter. “Is this small enough?”
“A little bit smaller,” she said.
He cut the rest of it up into smaller pieces.
“OK. Rubbing in.”
“Tip the butter into the flour,” she said.
When he’d done so, she demonstrated rubbing in. “Rub small amounts between your fingers and your thumbs, like this, and keep your hands out of the bowl so you keep the mixture as cool as possible. You want it to look like breadcrumbs.”
He moved to stand behind her, then put his hands into the bowl so she was held close against his body. “Like this.”
“Uh-huh.” Stacey was aware how croaky her voice sounded.
He pressed a kiss against the curve of her neck. “Keep it cool, hmm?”
She knew he meant the pastry and he was teasing her, but all the same a shiver of desire ran through her.
“You’re supposed to p-pay attention to the teacher.”
“Yes, Miss Allman.” This time, he nibbled her earlobe.
“And d-distracting your teacher,” she said, “is the quickest way to guarantee your pastry will be hard.”
He chuckled. “Pastry. Now there’s a good word for it.”
She felt herself flush to the roots of her hair. Her double entendre had been totally unintentional. “Um.”
He spun her round and stole a kiss. “Sorry. That’s unfair of me, especially as you’re giving up your time to help me. I’ll behave. Tell me when it looks like breadcrumbs.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know what breadcrumbs look like?”
“I don’t cook. At all,” he reminded her. “I’m the one whose grilled cheese set off the smoke alarm in the staff kitchen and the fire crew heard it from the other side of the road. And remember you offered to help me after I set off the smoke alarm here, too?”
“Point taken. Keep going,” she said.
Finally, the pastry was at the stage where he could add the salt. “And now two or three tablespoons of cold water. Less is better. You can always add more but you can’t take it away,” she said.
He added two tablespoons of water. “What happens if I add too much?” he asked.
Clearly he was worried that it might happen on the day by accident. “You can add more flour, and you might have to knead the pastry a bit more on the pastry board to work the flour in,” she said.
“Right.”
“Mix it with a knife and the crumbs will start to come together to make the dough,” she said.
He followed her instructions until he had a ball of sticky dough; then she showed him how to knead the dough lightly.
“And then you put the pastry in plastic wrap in the fridge so it can rest.”
“Why?” he asked.
“It makes the pastry easier to work with and means it holds its shape better,” she said. “It gives the water a chance to diffuse through the dough and relax the gluten strands.”
He smiled at her. “My gorgeous science girl.”
“If you understand why something works, you remember the method better,” she said.
He kissed her. “You’re a secret nerd, aren’t you?”
“Not so secret,” she said ruefully.
“I like it,” he said. “OK. So what do we do while the pastry rests?”
“Grease the pie plate and make the filling,” she said promptly.
Once he’d followed her instructions to grease the pie plate and put blueberries in a bowl with sugar and flour, ready to go in the pie, it was time to roll out the pastry.
“The base needs to be bigger than the lid,” she said, “so you divide the dough into not quite equal halves, and roll each part into a ball so you can roll it into a circle. You dust the marble board and the rolling pin with flour, so the pastry doesn’t stick to it—and then you roll the pastry with even strokes away from you, giving the dough a quarter turn between each roll.” She demonstrated the first couple of turns and then let him take over.
The pastry wasn’t even, and by the time he’d finished the circle shape she’d started was totally lopsided.
“Help?” he asked.
“Roll it back into a ball and put it back in the fridge for five minutes to cool down,” she said, “while we make the lid.”
This time, he rolled the pastry evenly. “I’ve actually got a circle.”
She kissed him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“This is way harder than ice-skating,” he said. “I can turn a perfect circle there. But give me a rolling pin…”
“Believe in yourself,” she said. “You’ve got this.” She retrieved the dough from the fridge.
This time, the dough was more or less in a circle.
“I take it there’s an easy way to get it into the pie plate?” he asked.
“You fold it into quarters,” she said, showing him how, “then put it in the pie plate and unfold it. Press the pastry into the bottom and the sides so it’s even.”
“So far, so good,” he said when he’d done it.
“Add the filling—and dot a little bit of butter on top,” she said.
“And now I put the lid on?”
“You brush the edges with water first so it’s easier to seal the pastry,” she said, handing him a pastry brush.
He followed her instructions.
“Trim off the excess.” She demonstrated the first half.
His half was a bit less even, but he guessed it was reasonable for a first effort. He’d practice so it looked better by Saturday’s Bake-Off.
“Then you seal the pastry—just press a fork around the edge.” Again, she showed him the first half and let him do the second half.
“Then cut a couple of slits in the top so the steam can escape, and put it in the stove at 425 for about half an hour—the pastry will be golden and the blueberry juice will just start to bubble through the slits.” She handed him the oven gloves. “Remember how to set the timer?”
He nodded.
“It’s all yours,” she said with a smile.
Once he’d put the pie in to cook, he drew her over to the little bistro table in the corner of her kitchen and scooped her onto his lap. “So you’ll write down your blueberry pie recipe for me?”
“If you like it,” she said. “Or we could do something else, if you’d rather.”
“Blueberry pie’s good for me,” he said. “Nice and simple.” He kissed her. “I’m going to write the first draft of my proposal for the kids’ exercise classes today—Sundays are fairly quiet so I can catch up with my admin at the gym. Would you mind looking it over when I’m done, to see if I’ve missed anything or got anything way off beam?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’d be glad to.”
“Thank you.” He kissed her again. “I like working with you.”
“It’s hardly working—I just made a couple of suggestions. Most of it was you.”
“But the baking has been mainly you. You’ve been brilliant. So don’t put yourself down.” He paused. “And I’m betting I’m not the only one who says that.”
“My aunt Joanie says the same,” she admitted.
“So why can’t you see how great you are, Stacey?” he asked.
“I’m just ordinary,” she said, squirming. “And people who boast about themselves when they’re nothing special—well, everyone laughs at them.”
“Would I be guessing right if I said that was something your dad used to say?”
She looked away. “Do we have to t-talk about this?”
“No. But would you let your kids be defined by one person’s opinion?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Then it applies to you, too,” he said softly.
“So have you thought about what kind of cake you want to make?” she asked brightly, desperate to change the subject.
To her relief, he didn’t call her on it. But he didn’t let go of her, either. He kept holding her close, almost cherishing her. “Given the mess I made of it last time, probably not a layer cake,” he said. “What would you recommend?”
“Maybe a glazed cake,” she said. “Because then you only have one cake pan to think about and you don’t have to worry about two layers being even.”
“Glazed cake sounds good.”
And then the timer on the stove pinged, saving her from the risk of any more awkward conversation.
The pie looked perfect. She made them both a mug of coffee to go with it, set the table, and put a jug of cream next to the pie and the pie-server.
“Ready for this?” she asked.
“Ready.” He took a deep breath, and cut a slice of pie for her and another for himself. “Does it look OK?”
“I can’t see any sogginess,” she said. “But you know what they say about the proof of the pudding…”
He poured cream on top, then took a mouthful. “Oh. It actually tastes all right.”
“It’s good,” she said, when she tried a mouthful. “You ought to take the rest of the pie with you this morning to share with your team at the gym.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
When they’d finished breakfast and cleared up, he kissed her again. “I need to get going. But thank you for the lesson.”
“My pleasure.” She smiled at him. “And I’ll write down this recipe for you so you can practice.”
“I’m going to be late tonight, but see you tomorrow, maybe?”
“I’m going over to Tara’s with some of our other colleagues tomorrow,” she said. “We’re having a movie night. How about Tuesday?”
“Tuesday’s good. I’ll cook—well, order in the main course from Rocco’s, and we’ll have pie and ice cream for dessert,” he said.
She smiled. “I’ll email you the recipe, then.”
“Thanks.” He kissed her again. “Tuesday. Seven.”
“I’ll be there.”