Unbearable

  Lilah wore thigh-high boots and black tights with a short skirt. Maggie, her opposite—and part snowman, I decided—had on a simple t-shirt and a pair of capris. I wore jeans and a button down shirt, along with a turtleneck underneath, and a bulky sweater to top it all off . . . and I was still cold.

  “Book said he wants to open the space up to the entire building so I think we should have at least three treadmills and three ellipticals,” Maggie explained as she added pictures of each machine to the board.

  “What about a couple of bikes?” Lilah suggested.

  “Great idea. We certainly have the budget for it.” Maggie wrote bike twice on the layout.

  “Hello, sleepy.” Lilah smiled as her daughter came over to the kitchen table we were gathered around and climbed onto her mother’s lap. Sofia stuck her thumb in her mouth and laid her head on Lilah’s shoulder as Lilah stroked her hair.

  “Any luck in the baby-making department?” Maggie asked Lilah, waving at the droopy-eyed little girl.

  “Not yet, but it’s only been three months.” Lilah’s attempt to sound casual failed. I rubbed the ache in my stomach, knowing I’d never carry a child.

  “I’m still adjusting to Sofia, so it’s okay. Sometimes, at night, Cole and I sneak into her room and watch her sleep.” Lilah laid her cheek on the now sleeping child’s head. “Okay, back to work.”

  “How is Innovative Interiors coming along?” I asked Maggie.

  “Slow. But we’ve decided not to push it too much until I graduate in April.” She grinned widely at Lilah and added, “In five more months. No more tests, no more papers. And most importantly, no more math. I’m done.”

  “Then watch out, Port Fare,” Lilah beamed, as she should. The two of them recently decorated Cole’s house and it was beautiful with its warm greens and browns. They’d accented with a few pops of orange that to my surprise looked terrific.

  Maggie nodded and drew our attention to the drawing. “Tess, we thought this area would be good for yoga and the self-defense classes the guys plan on teaching. What kind of flooring do you think—?”

  Cole, Booker, and Seth burst into the room. I had no idea that Booker would be there and the surprise put a smile on my face.

  “Not happening, Cole,” Seth said with a loud laugh. Sofia’s head popped up and Lilah shushed them. She pointed at her daughter as the child settled back to sleep. “Sorry,” Seth said, pressing a finger to his lips.

  “Did you tell them our exciting news, Maggie?” Seth whispered, kissing her cheek.

  “Not yet,” she said softly. “I planned to after we finished laying out the gym.”

  “Tell us what?” Lilah straightened in her chair. “And hello, Booker. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  “Cole invited me over.” Booker nudged Cole in the shoulder with his fist.

  “Seth has an announcement and he asked me to invite Booker over so he can tell everyone at once,” Cole explained. “Go ahead.” He signaled Seth.

  “I’m opening a restaurant,” Seth grinned ear-to-ear.

  “He and Maggie are heading out to New York next week to a restaurateur’s conference to figure out what they need to get up and running,” Cole added.

  “Next week?” Maggie turned to Seth. “But that’s the week of Thanksgiving.”

  “It is. I figured we’ll get a turkey dinner at one of the local restaurants,” Seth explained. Oddly, instead of their conversation sounding spontaneous, both Seth and Maggie’s words were stiff, rehearsed.

  “And what about Booker?” Maggie stood, facing him. Her eyes darted to me then back to Seth.

  “Lilah and Cole will be here. Not to mention Sofia.”

  “No, we won’t. We’re flying to Louisiana for a family reunion,” Lilah explained, in the same rehearsed tone. They were up to something. Lilah continued, “We can’t cancel. It’s the first time Sofia and I will meet his brothers and their families. Yeah, I’m petrified,” she added.

  “They’ll love you,” Cole reassured his wife. “We’re also having a ring ceremony for everyone while we’re there since they missed the wedding. Remember I told you about that last week, Seth?”

  “That’s right. I completely forgot.” Seth smacked his forehead with his palm. “Wait, Tess, do you have plans for Thanksgiving? Maybe you and Booker can get together for dinner.”

  So that’s what they were up to.

  “And the Academy Award for truly the worst acting job on the planet ends in a four-way tie.” Booker folded his arms and frowned.

  “What are you talking about, Booker?’ Maggie stood and walked over to Seth, wrapping her arms around his waist as he wrapped his around her shoulders.

  “Well, Magpie, that’d be your first mistake,” Booker said. “If this were a genuine spontaneous conversation, you’d have called me Garfield or . . .”

  “CC.” Pretty much everyone greeted Cole’s reply with blank stares. “CC, stands for Copy Cat or Carbon Cat depending on who you ask. It was the first cloned cat.”

  “You’re making that up,” Booker insisted.

  “No. I read an article about it in the New England Journal of Medicine just last week,” Cole said, taking the sleeping Sofia from his wife. She smiled up at him.

  “Who knew smart could be so sexy?” Lilah stretched up and kissed his cheek.

  “Thank you, beautiful wife.” Cole bounced his brows at Lilah.

  Booker tossed his head back and grumbled something under his breath. “Tess, so we can put an end to our misery and stop all this PDA’ing—”

  “PBA’ing?” Cole interrupted.

  “PDA, sweetie. Public Display of Affection,” Lilah informed him.

  Cole smiled. “Yes, of course. PDA, something I am rather fond of.”

  “Please say you’ll spend Thanksgiving with me so I can get out of here before I have to throw up?” Booker asked me. “I’ll even make you a tofu turkey.”

  Not so sure Thanksgiving alone with Booker was a good thing. Being in an intimate setting, like his home, with just the two of us, may prove dangerous.

  On the other hand, I’d spent the last four Thanksgivings . . . and every other holiday for that matter, alone. It’d be nice to have someone to share the day with.

  Booker wrapped a hand around mine. “Tess,” he said quietly, “no pressure. If you have other plans, that’s fine.”

  “No. I’d like to spend Thanksgiving together, but only if you promise no tofu turkey.”

  “Lazy vegetarians eat turkey, I take it.”

  “Since I made up the term I guess I can set the rules down. Seriously, Thanksgiving just wouldn’t be that same without a turkey.”

  “Then turkey it is.” We glanced at his friends as we fist-bumped. Each had an ear-to-ear grin. Booker turned back to me. “Just ignore them. I do.”

  Chapter 13

  Thanksgiving morning I ran to the store and bought a readymade pumpkin pie and veggie tray before driving to Booker’s. The weather, its typical freezing cold, had me wrapped up in two sweaters and a thick coat before leaving the house. The nasty wind laughed at my vain attempt to block its harsh lashes as it easily cut through my clothing and stung my skin. Despite cranking the car heater up all the way, I still shivered. I pulled into Booker’s driveway as the snow started. I thumped my head against the headrest with a groan. “I hate snow.”

  Grabbing the food, I scurried up the steps of the red brick home and pressed the doorbell, dancing around to help keep warm. Booker answered wearing jeans and a burgundy Henley shirt with a blue one layered underneath. A black apron with the words “Real Men Cook” hung from his neck.

  “Come on in.” He held the door open, taking the pie and veggie tray so I could remove my coat.

  “Store bought pie on Thanksgiving, Tess?” He scowled. “You do know this is a criminal offense. In fact, the last person who tried it is still in jail.” I followed him into the kitchen. “This isn’t part of your lazy vegetarian criteria, is it?

  “No. I told you bef
ore, I can’t cook. I’m absolutely hopeless in the kitchen.”

  Booker set the pie on the counter with a look of disdain. “I don’t believe it. I bet I can teach you to cook.”

  “I bet you can’t,” I grumbled. He took an apron from a hook inside the pantry and handed it to me. It was covered in pictures of kittens, cute fluffy kittens, playing and tumbling. I slipped it over my head and tied it at the waist. “From Maggie?”

  “How’d you guess?” He chuckled. “Now, what do you say to baking the most delicious pumpkin pie you’ve ever eaten?”

  “Alright, but I’m warning you, this is not going to turn out well.” I took the red bowl he held out to me.

  “Bet you’re wrong. In fact, loser does dishes, deal?” he suggested. “And before you agree, you should know that I’ve never lost a bet. Not ever.”

  “Never?” I asked, debating. I planned to do the dishes anyway since he’d done all the cooking so I had nothing to lose. But I also knew how hopeless I was in the kitchen. Betting him would be unfair.

  “How about we make this a promise instead of a bet: you promise to do the dishes if I fail to make an edible pie. If I succeed, I promise to do the dishes. Okay?”

  “Don’t you think that’s picking at straws, calling it a promise instead of a bet?”

  “I’m just trying to protect your winning streak,” I said in my best martyr tone. I even added a dramatic sigh.

  He laughed. “Deal—ah, promise,” he amended quickly. “I wanted to watch the football game after dinner and you just made that possible,” he added, rubbing his hands together.

  “Pretty confident, aren’t you, Gatto?” I set my hands on my hips.

  “Yup. Here’s the recipe.” He handed me a battered cookbook, opened to Grandma’s Pumpkin Pie recipe. “Add the first five ingredients to the bowl. Most everything you’ll need is in the pantry.” He pointed to a walk-in pantry next to the refrigerator. “Go ahead and start. I need to baste the tofu turkey,” he teased. At least, I hoped he teased. I hated tofu. He glanced back before opening the oven door. “You do know how to use measuring cups, right?”

  “I’m ignoring your comment,” you extremely sexy, even in an apron, man.

  I stepped into the pantry, worried I’d get lost. The room, truthfully the best word to describe the space, was bigger than my bathroom. Cans and boxes of all sizes and colors aligned perfectly on the many shelves. Each label faced forward and like-things stood next to each other. Nothing was out of place. My thoughts went immediately to Garen and his obsession with order. Nausea wrapped around my stomach. I closed my eyes to block out the memories.

  “I forgot to tell you, the pastry flour is in the red cans . . .” I jumped at the sound of Booker’s voice. “Tess, are you okay? You’re pale.” He slipped an arm around my waist.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “Tess,” Booker pressed, his brows forming a vee.

  “I . . . um . . . My ex . . . He had a thing for neat, orderly cabinets . . . He’s sort of a neat-freak.” I glanced around the tidy space again.

  Booker immediately began pushing cans over and shoving boxes onto their side.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, my eyes wide with confusion.

  “I stayed up late last night organizing the pantry so you wouldn’t think I was a slob.” He scattered a few more cans.

  I grabbed his hands. “It’s okay. Don’t mess everything up on my account.” I smiled. “But thank you.”

  He nodded soberly and grabbed the red canister before heading back to the kitchen. I quickly straightened the cans, touched by the simple act of compassion he’d offered. If you’re not careful, Tess . . .

  “Okay, you’ve added everything just like it said?” he asked as I mixed in the salt several minutes later.

  “Exactly, but I’m telling you, it’s not going to work,” I warned for the fourth or fifth time.

  “Can’t wait for the kick-off,” he all but cooed.

  “It says I need two cups of pumpkin, but I couldn’t find the can in the pantry.”

  “Canned pumpkin? Disgusting.” He opened the stainless steel fridge and removed a second red bowl. “Fresh pumpkin. Seth brought this by before he left. He didn’t want it to go bad. I cooked it up this morning. You’ll need to add the chunks to the blender to puree it before scooping it into the mix.” He set a blender on the counter and I added the orange chunks to it while he gathered the pie tins.

  “How long should I blend them for?” I asked.

  “Thirty, maybe forty seconds.”

  I pressed the lid in place and pushed the puree button. The blender roared to life. Booker looked through the glass when it stopped before removing the blender from the base, lifting the lid. He inspected the pulverized pumpkin.

  “Better give it another twenty seconds.” He handed me the blender, brushing his hand along mine. Goose bumps raced up my neck. While setting the blender back on the base, I knocked the recipe to the floor with my elbow. He pressed the puree button and it roared to life once again as I bent to pick up the recipe.

  That’s when something went horribly wrong. The lid flew off the blender and smashed into the refrigerator, sending pumpkin everywhere, including clear up to the ten-foot ceiling. Booker slammed his hand down on the base, turning the blender off. He was covered in the orange goop. It landed in his hair, on his neck, all over his shirt and apron, even a little on his jeans.

  I stood in horror, my body shaking. I stepped out of his reach. “I . . . I . . . I’m so sorry.” The words about choked me. I began speaking quickly. “I’ll clean it up, all of it, I promise. You won’t even know anything happened.” My breath came in short gasps.

  Booker just stood there, his mouth twisted tight, his eyes radiating a murderous glare. He stepped forward. I cringed, waiting for the blow, the slap, the punch. My hands shot up in front of my face. Pure instinct took over as I cowered.

  I never thought Booker would’ve hit me, yet there he stood, teeming with anger. Maybe I was the problem after all, just like Garen always claimed. Somehow I brought out the worst in people.

  But instead of a punch, Booker pulled me into his arms. “Tell me his name,” he demanded, holding me tight against his chest. “No, don’t, because if you do, I’ll kill him.”

  Only then did I realize I was crying. I felt foolish and forced myself to get control. “I’m getting mascara on your shirt.” I pulled my head back and dried my face as the panic leeched from my body. Booker laughed softly as I dabbed at the spot. “What?” I asked.

  “You’re seriously worried about a little mascara.” He pointed to the pumpkin blob on his shoulder and apron. My apron now, too, had pumpkin from his hug.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Point taken.” I took a deep calming breath as Booker lifted my chin to his face.

  “I wish I could take the memories away, Tess. If I live to be five hundred I’ll never understand how a man could hit a woman.” He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head slightly, before opening them again. “I’m—” a chunk of pumpkin dropped from his hair onto my nose. I pinched my lips together. “I guess we should get this mess cleaned up, after which I’ll excuse myself and take a shower.”

  “I’ll clean up, you go shower. This is not your fault. I forgot to tighten the lid,” I said hesitantly.

  “Tess, it’s my fault. I know better than to turn on a blender without putting my hand on the lid. The sheer force of the food being tossed around—” Another chunk of pumpkin fell from his hair. I grabbed a paper towel and removed the pieces still in his hair, well, the big pieces anyway. The small stringy ones would have to be showered out.

  “Thank you.” He stroked my cheek. Fire burned inside me at his touch. “You had some on your face.”

  We cleaned up the stringy puree. Booker blended a fresh batch and I poured everything into two piecrusts and set them in the oven while he showered.

  I sank onto the couch and cried, completely humiliated. Humiliated over the mess I made with the pumpk
in and humiliated at my reaction. I wondered if I’d ever truly put Garen and all he did behind me and move on. I dried my face and resolved to let the pumpkin incident go. I didn’t want Booker to know I’d been crying.

  “Garen’s out of your life. Let him go,” I muttered to myself, applying a fresh coat of mascara.

  Book came back fifteen minutes later, looking sexier than ever in dark blue pants and a white t-shirt. Daisy trotted along at his side.

  “You’re taking a chance wearing a white shirt. I may decide to explode cranberries next,” I warned, proud of my joke, despite the guilt still churning in my belly.

  “I’m willing to risk it. Besides, both me and my clothes are washable,” he assured. I couldn’t help but compare how Garen would’ve reacted to the exploding blender. I shoved the thought out of my head, vowing not to give that creep one more second of my thoughts today. We gathered the food and set it on the table, along with red and green Christmas plates.

  Daisy came and sat quietly near the head of the table, waiting. “She’s a quiet dog.” I rubbed the Lab’s head. Her mouth dropped open and her tongue flopped out, clearly pleased at being petted.

  “Daisy is a wonderful dog, but she prefers to spend most of her day sleeping, unless there’s food around,” he explained as he carved the turkey—a real turkey. He tossed the dog some skin, which she immediately inhaled. “Happy Thanksgiving, Daisy May.”

  I swiped a piece of the turkey Booker cut up also, moaning as I chewed.

  “So lazy vegetarians eat turkey.” He chuckled as I stuffed another much too big piece of the bird in my mouth.

  “That’s the beauty of being lazy. You get to pick and choose which rules you follow,” I said after swallowing.

  “But no beef or pork?”

  I scrunched my nose as I shook my head. “Not for me.”

  As we sat, Booker poured us each grape juice. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t drink. I should’ve asked you if you wanted something. I could’ve picked it up for you.”

  “Juice is fine. I rarely drink either,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t handle my liquor. I usually end up sick so I seldom drink.” He passed the potatoes to me. “Are you a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, too?”