A Sip of You(51)

Then he started talking, softly but so earnestly it leveled me. “Catherine, I understand why you’re upset, but the fact remains that you can’t keep thinking the worst and running away. You shut down before you even give me a chance to explain. I know you’ve been through so much, and it kills me that you’ve gone through all that you have. But you need to trust me and to let me take care of you. I need to do that and you need that too. And I’m not going anywhere. I promise, I’ll always come back. Always. I won’t leave you.”

Holy shit.

Neither of us spoke, the hiss of the burners the only sound in the kitchen. We were at an impasse. My body was rigid with tension and anguish, with grief and guilt, and I kept my hands wrapped around my upper arms as I stared at the floor.

“The stew has to simmer for a while,” William said. “And I need to clear my head. I’m going out.”

I raised my eyes and must have looked shocked because he immediately added, “I’ll take Laird for a walk.” Laird, who’d been lying on the floor keeping an eye on the two of us, jumped up at the sound of his name. “I enjoy the quiet after a big snow,” he said, whistling for the dog. Laird followed. Even he couldn’t resist William Lambourne.

I stood in the kitchen without moving. I knew William was upset. The only other time he had walked away from a discussion was when I told him I was a widow and that I knew about his family’s deaths. William Lambourne was a man who didn’t like surprises and that had been a huge one. He hadn’t been prepared to handle it that night. But he had handled it eventually, and he was doing a much better job of handling it now than I ever could have imagined. Holy, holy shit. I hated fighting, and I hated that I’d, again, made him so upset he needed a break. And I hated that I had the power to really hurt him and I was already doing it without even trying.

I poured another glass of wine and sipped it, moving to the couch. Between the aromas of the food making my stomach rumble and all the thoughts swirling around in my head, I couldn’t concentrate on anything and didn’t try. I just sat.

A while later—it was probably an hour, but it felt like three times that—William and Laird returned. Laird greeted me with a cold nose and a furiously wagging tail. William nodded and headed into the kitchen. I followed, watching while he checked on the stew. He stirred and tasted it. “Should be ready soon.”

“I’ll set the table,” I said. Anything to get away from the tension. The air seemed pregnant with it. I carried two plates into the dining room and stopped cold at the sight of Beckett’s baking bonanza. I’d eaten my way through quite a bit last night and Beckett had taken as much as he could carry, but there was still a lot left, and it was spread out on the dining table. I consolidated the smaller treats—the cupcakes, tarts, cream puffs, and éclairs—onto one plate and set it aside. But that still left a small but untouched chocolate cake. Neither Beckett nor I had wanted to cut it last night. He’d frosted it in pink vanilla buttercream and styled it to look as though it was covered with rose petals. It was so pretty that I almost wanted to photograph it, but now I had to move it. I didn’t have any more room out here, so the cake would have to go to the kitchen.

Cake in hand, I walked around the breakfast bar and spotted an empty square of counter near where William was cooking on the AGA. We’d said no more than ten words to one another since he’d returned, and I wasn’t expecting him to speak. But just as I moved past him, he abruptly turned. I couldn’t stop in time and smashed the cake into his expensive tailored shirt.

I gasped, and William muttered, “What the hell?”

Pink frosting and crumbled cake plopped from his shirt onto the floor, and we both burst out laughing. We couldn’t have planned it if we’d tried. We’d both been in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time. “I am so sorry,” I said between giggles.

“I didn’t see you.”

I set what was left of the cake on the counter and stared at the damage. William’s hands had frosting on them, as did mine, and I grabbed two towels and handed him one, using the other to wipe my hands. He licked a finger. “This is good. Beckett’s work?”

“He goes overboard when left unsupervised with the AGA,” I said. I crouched down and wiped cake and frosting from the floor. Above me, William unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the counter. I rose, intending to throw the ruined cake into the trash, but William, now shirtless, stood in my way. My breath caught, and I stood there with cake in my hands, staring at his sculpted torso. Those four AM workouts might annoy me, but the results were evident. Every muscle of his naked chest and abs was clearly defined. His trousers were loose and hung on his hips without the shirt tucked in. I could imagine slipping my hand into the waistband and teasing him into arousal.