With my back to Owen as he ascends the stairs, I bite my lip to hold back the giddy schoolgirl smile that plays at the corners of my mouth. This kind of bantering isn’t anything new, but the events of this morning certainly lend some inappropriateness to it all.
And that excites me more than it probably should.
4. Sweet and Innocent
The entire time I’m in the shower, I can’t stop thinking about how seriously fucked up all of this is. That doesn’t stop me from taking things into my own hands, so to speak. And as much as I try to avoid it, I picture Amelia the entire time. Her soft white flesh. Her big eyes. Her full, pouty lips. Her perky breasts and tight little ass.
The guilt is back, and yet my dick is harder than before. Fucking perfect.
My shower takes longer than I originally intended, but I finish up and get dressed before heading downstairs to find Amelia sitting on the floor in front of the couch, hunched over the crossword puzzle.
“You ready?” I ask, running my fingers through my wet hair. She looks at me, her eyes roaming over my upper body, almost as though appreciating my appearance. I admit, my ego puffs slightly; it’s been a while since a woman has looked at me like that. Especially one as young and beautiful as Amelia.
“Mmmhmm,” she hums, one of her cheeks hollowing like she’s biting the inside of it lightly; it’s ridiculous just how attractive I find her.
The drive to the market starts off quiet. It must drive her a little mad, because she reaches out and turns the radio on, and she turns to me, looking like she’s going to ask me something when my cell phone rings. I pick it up from the console and scowl before dropping it back down.
“Gretchen?” Amy asks carefully, not wanting to upset him.
I sigh heavily and tighten my grip on the wheel. “She’s relentless.”
The silence that follows is awkward. I suspect she’s curious, but maybe unsure just how much I’m willing to share.
When we arrive at the store, I offer to push the cart while Amy piles everything we’ll need into it. Still hung up on what kinds of pie she should make, she eventually finds out that I’m a fan of apple pie. Even though I tell her pumpkin pie will be fine, she insists on making both before grabbing all of the ingredients she’ll need for the desserts. With the bottom of our cart almost completely full, we head over to the poultry section for the bird. It’s slim pickings, but that’s not surprising considering it’s the day before Thanksgiving.
“Is it just you, me, and Dad?” she inquires, looking through the six turkeys they have left.
“Actually, I think he was going to invite William and his boy, as well as Carla and her kids,” I explain. Hearing this, Amy grabs the biggest turkey and puts it in the cart before leading the way to the check out. After paying, we take the groceries to the car.
“Hey, do you mind if we stop for some wine?” she asks as we pull out of the parking lot. “I’d like a couple bottles for dinner tomorrow night, but I also enjoy a glass or two while I’m baking.”
“Sure. We’ll stop on the way back to the house.”
We stop at the liquor store on the corner, parting ways once inside so I can grab some beer for Alan and me for after dinner while Amy selects the wine. When we meet at the checkout counter, I notice she’s picked out a couple bottles of white and a couple bottles of red for variety. She sets the bottles down and starts reaching for her wallet when I place a hand over hers. “I’ve got this,” I tell her gently.
“Oh, no. I’ll pay for the wine,” she responds. “It’s fine.”
“Amy, don’t be ridiculous,” I order with a smile. “Just put the damn wine on the counter and let me take care of it. It’s the least I can do considering your dad’s letting me stay for the weekend and...well, after last night.”
The clerk looks between us, almost knowingly, and I notice her cheeks warm with color as she sets the four bottles on the counter so he can ring them through. Sensing her unease, I am quick to pay, and we gather our things and head back to the house.
It’s almost two in the afternoon when we arrive back at the house, and Amy places the turkey in the sink to thaw entirely before getting started on the pies. Grabbing a couple of wine glasses from the cupboard, she looks to me and smiles. “Owen, would you like a glass of wine?”
“I’d love one, thanks,” I accept, leaning on the island where she’s laid the ingredients for the piecrusts haphazardly. “You need a hand?”
She seems surprised by my offer, and honestly, I am a little too; I don’t know how to bake a pie. “Really?” I nod. “Okay. Yeah.” She pours us each a glass of red, and we each take a sip before starting on the piecrusts.