Sadie (18+)

Chapter 13

I awoke in Julia's dark bedroom in the lodge, a sliver of morning light shining through an opening of the thick curtains. Julia groaned, shoving a pillow over her face.

I let her go back to sleep while I showered and dressed, then headed into the kitchen. Deciding I'd make everyone breakfast, I rummaged through the cabinets, searching for supplies.

After everything that happened with Vincent, I'd needed that rest, as I was emotionally exhausted. I had a much clearer head today, and I really wanted to enjoy this trip and fix whatever was going on between us.

It's pretty easy to change plans, though, especially when he's padding across the floor to where you stand, with disheveled hair and sleepy eyes and a deep, husky voice. Great. So much for a clean slate. All it took was one look at him for me to take back all of my resolutions.

"Morning," he said dryly, walking past me to the Keurig. As he waited for his mug to fill, he tiredly dragged a hand across his face. Even the dark rings under his eyes and the crow's feet were beautiful.

"I'm making breakfast," I said quietly, attempting to rid the tension that has settled between us once again. "I can't find any pancake mix."

"We don't have any," he said. "We have eggs, though."

"Eggs it is, then," I replied, walking over to the fridge. I tried to ignore his presence as I got to work, but it was nearly impossible. As I gathered ingredients, I discreetly peeked glances at him as he took a seat at the dining table, then raised the steaming mug to his lips.

I turned back around, focusing on the task at hand. I didn't cook much, but I at least knew how to make scrambled eggs. As the butter sizzled in the pan, I began cracking eggs, then realized I never figured out how to crack them with just one hand.

As I attempted to do just that, I watched bits of shell fall into the pan instead. I cursed under my breath while trying to dig out the pieces of shell with the spatula, the steam tickling my face.

"Ouch," I hissed when my pinky made contact with the edge of the pan. "Dammit."

"What'd you do?" Vincent asked tiredly, the chair scooting against the floor.

I cringed, feeling humiliated yet impressed that I'd found a way to get his attention. "I was trying to crack an egg with one hand like they do in those cooking shows."

I held my pinky in defeat, a remaining piece of shell sizzling with the uncooked yolk. He came up beside me, staring at my ruined meal. He grabbed the spatula and dug it out himself, his hand firmly grasping the handle, his veins rather prominent. I swallowed hard, tearing my gaze away.

"I'll make the eggs," he said, shaking his head. "Run your finger under cold water."

I sulked my way over to the sink, feeling childlike in the worst way, then wrapped my pinky in a paper towel after holding it under the faucet. Ignoring the mild pulsating, I walked back over to him as he added more eggs to the pan, of course using one hand.

I narrowed my eyes at him, though he was too focused on cooking to notice. "You're not going to show me?"

He sighed, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth, a smile threatening. "Get on my other side."

Gina was known for her cooking, especially her pasta sauce and cookies, but Vincent wasn't so bad at it, either. Once I'd walked around to his other side, I watched him intently, savoring our closeness.

"Cradle the bottom of the egg like this," he said, showing me. "Your index and middle go over the top, and your thumb is on the side."

I nodded, though I admit I retained almost nothing of what came out of his mouth. I cared more about the fact that we were standing so close to each other.

He cracked the egg against the counter. "Now use your thumb to get half of that shell away, then let it drop in the pan. That's all there is to it."

Again, I didn't pay attention, but I pretended like I did, even making a satisfied noise as though I'd mastered the art of egg cracking by just watching him.

"Now do it yourself," he said, backing up. "Practice in the bowl. I'll finish up here."

I grabbed an egg, ready to impress him, but when my thumb slipped into the shell at the first break, everything fell apart. I looked over at him with a helpless glance.

"Guide me," I said quietly, my hand wet with cold yolk. "Show me with your hands, Vincent."

My tone had seemingly reeled him in like a fish, his body language reacting accordingly. Caution flickered in those hazel eyes as he drew his lower lip between his teeth, his jaw clenching.

The playfulness that had danced across his face only moments ago, the expression I had worked so hard for was once again wiped away by my impulsive and completely feral nature. I simply couldn't act normal around him; my heart was far too loud, too fast, to act as we once were, as our relationship had once been.

I couldn't pinpoint when this realization hit me, but it was destructive and chaotic in the best way. I still wanted him as I had before, as a father figure, as a man I could trust and love in an appropriate, familial way, but I wanted him in the way my body was asking for, too. Could I have both?

I reveled in the conflict that continued to affect his body—the bob of his Adam's apple, the dotting of sweat against his forehead. I grabbed another egg and held its oval body in the palm of my hand as it's innocence awaited destruction.

He slowly inched closer, just hovering behind me, his rough hand clasping my slimy one, our bodies going still as though enveloped in a precious, natural sync.

"Like this," he mumbled, his torso pushing into my back, his angular jaw brushing against my head. He squeezed the egg in my hand, the yolk spilling between us, the shell now sharp and cracked into pieces against my palm. He pressed harder into my back as the gelatinous egg white slipped between our fingers, leaking onto the counter.

"Another," I whispered, breathless, quickly grabbing another egg as his large hand found my smaller one again. "Crack it."

He applied pressure to the next victim, his large, firm body pushing against me as the egg cracked, our breathing simultaneously growing labored. His free hand found my waist, though his fingers were careful, gentle. I suppressed the urge to collapse and melt into a puddle just as the yolk had, my legs weak and wobbly, my heart pounding vigorously in the depths of my chest.

We stood by the now burning mess in the pan, though neither of us reached for the dial on the stove. I turned my head just slightly, his mouth inches from my neck, his breath puffing against my skin. I wanted to crack the eggs over and over again, to let the shells slice my skin, to keep his grip on me.

"We don't talk about this," I whispered, pressing my wet hand against his ticking jaw, tracing it with my fingertip. A low, troubled groan came from his throat, a sound so painfully arousing.

"What's that smell?" Julia hollered from the bedroom; I instinctively ducked below the counter, awaiting her arrival, the moment dissolving. I blinked rapidly, then placed a hand on my heart, feeling its frenzied thump beneath the skin. 

Vincent backed away quickly, his hand flying to the dial on the stove as though his senses had suddenly returned. The eggs were blackened now, crumbly and stuck to the base of the pan. The counter was full of egg shells and slimy yolk. I left him there, alone in the kitchen, fumbling and distressed while he tried to savor the silver pan. I heard him explaining the situation once I had escaped into the bathroom.

We went out to eat that morning for breakfast. According to Julia, Vincent had burnt the eggs.