Oh man, that was sweet too.
He got even closer and kept whispering, “I wonder what else it can do that I will like.”
Now that wasn’t sweet, that was hot.
“Um…” I mumbled for no reason whatsoever and when I did, I watched his eyes go sexy lazy at the same time they smiled.
It was a good look. No, it was the best look I’d ever seen. On him or any man.
Uh.
Wow.
I was about to do something, I didn’t know what, maybe throw myself at him or toss the basket aside and demand he take me home immediately, strip me naked and do as he pleased when his thumb slid back across my lower lip and he straightened.
“Your pecans, wife, my pie,” he murmured, I blinked then my body jerked and I pulled myself together.
“Right, pecans, pie, uh… dinner,” I muttered and turned to the nuts thinking maybe this adventure was going to be a lot better than I ever imagined.
Maybe even beyond my wildest dreams.
* * * * *
I spent the afternoon baking and cooking (and letting Penelope in and out a gazillion times). Frey spent the afternoon lugging logs in to replenish the supplies by the fires as well as reloading the back porch. Then he set about chopping more.
I was seeing it was good having a husband around because in my six weeks there, I’d already gone through the stash on the back porch and spent an hour of back and forth to the shed restocking it. This meant the supply in the shed was half gone and I’d been getting worried. To keep warm and cook, you went through a hell of a lot of wood. I wasn’t looking forward to another hour of back and forth, my favorite chore wasn’t lugging wood into the house and I was pretty pleased I’d done well roughing it but was not hankering to hone my currently nonexistent skill with an axe by chopping down trees.
With Frey there, I didn’t have to worry about any of this.
Bonus.
The bigger bonus was, even in the frigid temperatures, evidently chopping wood was hard work because Frey took off his sweater to do it and he did it at a stump that was clearly visible from the kitchen windows.
Watching this, I could see why my husband was seriously buff.
Watching this, I could also get distracted from cooking (and did).
So I stopped watching.
I went all out, using the china, silver and crystal in my trunks for the first time. It looked kinda silly on a farm table but this was our first dinner as husband and wife, this was our first dinner ever (for me) and this was our pre-consummation dinner so I wanted to make it an occasion and nothing said occasion like delicate china, heavy silver and elegant crystal, even in a rustic cabin.
So I used it.
I roasted a piece of beef, somehow pulled off potatoes dauphenois and boiled green beans which I was serving with fresh bread from the bakery and, after, my homemade pecan pie with cream for dessert. I called out to Frey at his stump (by this time, the sun was long gone so he was chopping in the totally frigid, totally dark evening and doing it by torchlight) twenty minutes before I reckoned it would be done, he quit ten minutes later and came to the table washed.
That was good.
He sat at the table and scooped out food on his plate without really noticing (and definitely not commenting on) the obvious effort I’d made.
That was bad.
When he was about to commence eating, I asked quietly, “Can you open the wine?”
That was when he looked at me, he looked at the table, half of his mouth hitched up for a millisecond then he got up and opened the wine we bought in town. Then he poured it. Then he sat down and commenced eating.
I started eating too and was pretty pleased with the results. The potatoes were burnt a little on the top but the roast was done to perfection, nice and brown on the outside, nice and pink on the inside.
Frey made light work of it and, even after tasting it, didn’t say a word.
This was bad too.
Or, perhaps, chopping wood gave you an appetite.
I decided to think of it that way.
He had refilled his glass of wine (and topped up mine) and was reaching for seconds when I decided conversation was in order.
And I also decided what we were talking about.
And I’d also spent a great deal of time while baking and cooking deciding how I was going to talk about it.
“Uh… Frey?” I called.
He showed me he’d heard and was listening by looking at me.
“Can we talk about something important?” I asked.
He stopped cutting into a slice of meat and gave me his full attention. “And what’s important to you, wife?”
“Um…” I started and stopped.
Frey put his silverware on his plate and aimed a minor scowl at me. It wasn’t terrifying but it wasn’t his best look either.
“I have manhandled you,” he made this surprising and maybe a little weird admission then went on to explain why he did it, “but I have never hurt you. This…” he paused, “hesitancy in speaking to me has not been earned.”