A Slow Boil (17 page)

“Miss Lane, I want to apologize if I was too forward Friday
night.  I don’t know quite what came over me.  The
oysters
maybe.”  He smiled, still toying with my earring.

I smiled back at him and shook my head the tiniest bit, not
wanting him to stop touching me.  “There’s nothing to apologize for, Mr.
Hunter.”  His fingers began to lightly stroke my neck, the same fingers
that had played such beautiful music earlier.  I could feel my pulse start
to pick up and wondered if he could feel it too.

He was still looking at me intently.  He swept a thumb over
my cheek as he noticed I’d put on mascara.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you get any prettier, Miss
Lane.”

I didn’t know what to say, so kept silent, but knew I was starting
to blush.

He noticed it too, running his thumb over my cheek again. 
Then he withdrew his hand and turned back to his stew taking another
spoonful.  He handed me his wine glass and I took a sip.  He offered
me the last of the stew, this time cupping my jaw as he eased in his
spoon.  He’d grown silent, and I wondered what he was thinking.  He
looked a little wistful.

I rose to take his empty bowl to the kitchen, walking slowly, and
came back with a plate of sautéed scallops and saffron rice.  I put it
down in front of him, refilled his wine glass and took my seat.

“This smells incredible,” he said quietly, glancing up at me with
a small smile.

“I hope you like it, sir.”

He took a bite of scallop. “Mm.”  He kind of grunted while
still chewing.  He swallowed and added, "Perfectly seared, not
overcooked.  Just perfect, my dear, perfect.”

I smiled and he brought one to my mouth with his fork, his left
hand wrapping lightly around my neck.  I took the scallop but had no idea
how it tasted.  The only thing my senses were aware of at that moment was
the touch of his fingers delicately stroking my neck.  I managed to chew
and swallow, Mr. Hunter watching my mouth.  He removed his hand again and
offered me some wine, which I took gladly, hoping for a moment to clear my
head.

I watched him try the rice.  I’d seasoned it with saffron,
paprika and cumin, hoping for a paella-
esque
result.  He nodded as he swallowed.  “I love saffron, Miss
Lane.  I think I’m going into sensory overload.”  He took a sip of
wine and smiled at me.

I smiled back, thinking I could certainly relate to that.  He
offered me some rice, holding his left hand under his fork so as not to
spill.  It had turned out well.  I’d added some canned peas and was
relieved they didn’t taste dull, but instead added a certain sweetness.

“Would you like another scallop, my dear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask me nicely.”

I raised my eyebrows at him.  This was new.  He gave me
a teasing smirk, so I decided to play along.

“Mr. Hunter, may I please have another scallop?”

The corners of his mouth turned up and he picked one up off his
plate with his right hand and brought to my mouth with his fingers.  His
thumb was in my mouth when I closed it, and I couldn’t help but lick it as he
pulled it out.  Then he lifted his finger to my mouth and I licked it clean
as well.  He briefly closed his eyes.

I wondered if he was having the same reaction I was; I felt like I
was about to spontaneously combust with desire.

If he was feeling the same thing, he had better self-control than
I.  His next action was merely to return to his dinner.  He ate a
couple more scallops and another scoop of rice before offering me more, not
touching me this time.  By the time he was almost finished, I realized
that he’d fallen silent again.

As he took the last bite of rice, I said, “There’s still dessert
tonight, sir.”

He glanced over at me and seemed to come out of his reverie. 
“My dear Miss Lane, forgive me.”  He looked down at his empty plate,
almost in surprise.

“Don’t worry, sir, there’s plenty left for lunch tomorrow.” 
I smiled and rose to take his plate.  He reached for my hand, turned it
over and kissed my palm.  “And you think I overpay you,” he said
quietly.  I picked up his plate and gave him one more smile before heading
to the kitchen.  He looked like himself again, amused and content.

I returned with a bowl of lemon sorbet and one spoon.  I put
it down in front of him and asked if he’d like more wine or perhaps some port.

“More wine, my dear.”

I filled his glass and took my seat.

He took a taste.  “Did you make this?”

I nodded. “It’s probably not as frozen as it should be. It might
be a little soft, but hopefully it tastes okay.”

He just shook his head and brought a spoonful to my mouth. 
My eyes widened as the sorbet slid down my throat.  It was delicious, by
far my favorite of the desserts I’d made.

“How on earth did you do this?”

“I had lemons left over from the cake I made last week, and
everything else I found in your pantry, sir.”

He took a couple more bites.  “Add this to my favorites, Miss
Lane.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here,” he said, moving the bowl in front of me.  “You have
the rest. You deserve it.”

I picked up the spoon while he leaned back, reaching for his wine
with his right hand and bringing his left back up to my face.  He watched
me eat, his left hand playing gently with my hair, my cheek, my neck, my
earring.  I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy his touch, allowing him to
set the pace of what was happening between us.  Britt had been
right.  It was inevitable.

Mr. Hunter and I settled into a pleasant if somewhat
too-slow-for-my-inner-hussy routine that week.  Tuesday afternoon I biked
out for groceries, vacuumed the house and made dinner.  That night he
again touched me with his left hand throughout the meal, this time lingering
around the collar of my neckline as well.

Wednesday morning a truck pulled up the driveway and I answered
the door to a huge delivery of flowers.  Mr. Hunter came downstairs as I
was signing for them and helped me carry them into the kitchen.

“I thought it would be nice to have to have some fresh bouquets in
the house, so this will be your new Wednesday task, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, although they didn’t teach us the art of flower
arrangement at the finishing school I didn’t go to.”

He laughed.  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.  You have a good
eye for detail and I’m not particular.”

“Where will I find vases?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.  There are probably some in
the basement and I’ll get a couple more in town this afternoon.  Do you
need anything from Arnolds?”

“No, I don’t think so.”  Arnolds was the department store
where I bought things like underwear, but I was not going ask Mr. Hunter to
pick me up a few pairs of panties.  Or maybe I should.  That might
speed things up a bit.

“All right. I’ll be back around four today, probably. Feel free to
put a bouquet in your room, Miss Lane.”

I put one in his room too, and one on the dining-room table.

That night at six when I came in with his salad, he was standing
by the sideboard, rifling through one of the drawers.

“Good evening, Miss Lane.”

“Good evening, Mr. Hunter.”

“I knew I had some candles.”  He pulled two white pillars out
of the drawer, found a box of matches, lit them and set them on the table, one
of either side of the bouquet.

“There.  Now your flowers are being done justice.”  He
sat down and surveyed his salad.  “This looks interesting.”

“
It’s
baby greens with citrus, sir. 
Tonight’s dinner is kind of island themed.”

“You never fail to surprise me.  Would you recommend a red or
white wine this evening?”

“I’d say a red, a light red.”

“Hmm.  Let’s have another pinot noir tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”  I went down to the wine cellar and returned a
moment later with a bottle.  I opened it, poured Mr. Hunter a glass, and
took my seat.

“Very good,” he said after taking the first bite.  “Would you
like some?”

“Yes, please.  May I have a bite of salad?”

He fed me and looked at me pensively while I ate.

“Miss Lane, I appreciate your indulging me this way, but if you’d
like to have your own plate, I’d understand.”

“I don’t mind it, sir.  In fact, I kind of like it.”

“I’m afraid some nights I haven’t given you enough.”

“I have more when I clean the kitchen.”  I smiled at him
reassuringly.

“Ah, good.”  He ran his hand lightly over my hair. “Well,
then, my girl, let’s have dinner.”

The rest of the meal passed slowly, Mr. Hunter taking small bites
and pausing between them.  He said he liked the Jamaican-spiced pork
medallions and fried plantains, but most of his attention was on me, making
sure I was getting enough to eat.  As he fed me a third plantain, he
reached up and cupped my jaw.  “And this is okay with you, as well?” 
His eyes moved from his hand to my eyes and back to his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Hunter, more than okay.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded.  “I like it very much.  Very much, sir.”

He smiled and ran his hand into my hair, then down to my neck,
keeping it there while he continued eating,
not
letting go until we were finally finished.

He stretched out and leaned back in his chair.  “Another
superb meal, Miss Lane.”

“Thank you, sir.  Would you care for dessert tonight?”

“I feel like I’ve already gotten dessert,” he smiled.

“I made something special, though.  Will you at least try
it?”

He sighed in mock reluctance.  “I suppose, if I must.” 
He gave me his hand and helped me to my feet I gathered up his plate and walked
slowly to the kitchen, spooned up some coconut pudding and brought it back to
the table.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Hunter?”

“No, thank you.”  He watched me sit back down, then turned
his eyes to his dessert. “What have we here?”

“Coconut pudding with a grapefruit syrup, sir.”

He took a taste and closed his eyes.  “This is superb, Miss
Lane. Here.”  He put his left hand around my neck and offered me a
spoonful.  I nodded appreciatively.  It was really good.

“How did you make this?”

“It was easy once I got the coconut open.  That was the only
hard part.  I’m surprised you didn’t hear me banging it on the cutting
board.”

“I did, actually.  I almost came down to see if you’d given
up cooking and taken up carpentry.”  He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling
in the corners, the candlelight sparkling in his eyes.  He’d never looked
more handsome to me and my apology caught in my throat, so I just shook my head
slightly and smiled.  “If you ever need help with anything, you can come
and ask me.”  His thumb was lightly stroking my neck.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to interrupt you.”

He smiled at me a bit wistfully, taking another spoonful of
pudding.  “How quickly I’ve changed all my rules since you’ve been
here.”  He gave me another taste too, watching my mouth as I took his
spoon, his expression growing serious.

Thursday morning when I got up to use the bathroom I found a small
box on the counter next to the sink.  Inside was a beautiful silver
filigree necklace.  I put it on and looked in the mirror.  It was
light and delicate, and small enough to fit just at the base of my
throat.  I couldn’t accept it, though, and started to take it off when it
occurred to me that this was the first thing Mr. Hunter had given me that
wasn’t work-related.  This was a personal gift and if I refused it, he
might take that as a rejection of him.

“You didn’t have to get me this,” I said, putting a finger on the
necklace as I entered the kitchen.

“I know, but I can’t have my princess buying her own
jewelry.  That’s not how it’s done.”

I brought a cup of coffee to the island.  “Mr. Hunter, I hope
on top of everything else you’ve done for me, you’re not going to start buying
me gifts.  I can’t accept them.”

“Yes, you can.  You’ll have to.  I’m the king,
remember?”

“Let me clarify.  I’ll accept this because I love it, so
thank you, but no more.  King or no king.  I’ll dethrone you if
necessary.”

“Will you be using the same maneuvers you employ against
ticklers?”

“Wouldn’t you like to
know.
  Maybe I
have a secret weapon.”

He smirked.  “Maybe you do.  Now I’m tempted to buy you
the matching bracelet just to see what kind of damage you’re capable of doing.”

“I’m serious, Mr. Hunter.”  I used the sternest tone of voice
I could muster but was struggling not to grin.

He stopped teasing me.  “Don’t worry, Miss Lane.  I just
happened to see that yesterday at Arnolds and thought of you.  I won’t be
hiding presents around the house for you to find while you clean.”  He
looked like he thought that wasn’t such a bad idea.

“You just happened to be in the jewelry department?”

He nodded innocently.  “It’s close to where they sell vases.”

I accepted his explanation with a sideways look of skepticism, got
up, grabbed the coffee pot and refilled our mugs.  As I was sitting back
down, Mr. Hunter ran his hand through his hair.

“Besides, Miss Lane, you do far more for me than I could ever
repay with a piece of jewelry.”  The gesture he'd made with his hair told
me he was referring to our dinners, not my housekeeping.

I looked down at my coffee.  “Mr. Hunter, you haven’t done
anything that I didn’t like.”

He was silent for a long moment, looking down at his own
cup.  “I haven’t felt so -”
  He
paused,
searching for the right word.  “- content in my own house for years. 
Maybe ever.  I didn’t even want to leave yesterday.”  He looked up at
me.  “That necklace made me think of you when I saw it at Arnold’s, and it
suddenly occurred to me how much I’ve come to love having you here. 
That’s all it was.”

I swallowed some coffee, collecting my emotions for a
second.  It almost felt like he’d been about to say he loved me.

“You’re getting a very special dinner tonight, Mr. Hunter,” I
finally answered.

I met Britt for lunch at our usual pizzeria.  We chatted for
a while and then she asked me how things were going with Mr. Hunter.

“Great.”  I told her how he’d played the piano while I dusted
on Monday and showed her the necklace he’d given me.  “And, as you can
see, he unchains me from the basement to let me meet you for lunch.”

She laughed.  “Such a nice guy.  You’re kind of falling
for him, aren’t you?”

“I think I am.”  I fiddled with a strand of my hair. I knew I
was.

“And how goes the mutual game of seduction you two are playing?”

“Slowly.  It’s going very slowly.  I’m going to be
climbing the walls in frustration if he doesn’t do something soon.”  I
sighed, wondering if it would be possible to get through the summer on nothing
but his light caresses at dinner.  “Maybe he’s holding back because I’m
his employee, or maybe he thinks he’s too old for me.  Or that I’m too
young for him. I don’t know.”  I shook my head.  “I can’t figure it
out. It’s too hard.”

“You hope it’s going to be hard.”

I burst out laughing so loudly several other diners turned to look
at me, and I had to drink some water to compose myself.

“Britt, you are too much sometimes.  Too much.”

I biked to
Southbay’s
after lunch. 
It was a beautiful warm June day.  I thought I’d grill again.  Maybe
something simple, like ribs?  I pictured Mr. Hunter eating ribs and
realized he’d need both of his hands.  Scratch that idea.  I wanted
his left hand free.  I was shameless like that.  Sue me.

Pete greeted me at the meat counter and we looked over the day’s
selections together.  I kept the new one-hand-only requirement to myself
while I passed on his suggestions that would either require two hands to eat or
his left hand to hold a knife.  Finally I decided on the fresh tuna. 
I was thinking Mexican food tonight, something about the warm weather inspiring
me.  I put a quick menu together in my head, added the rest of the
ingredients I needed, checked out, and on impulse, biked over to the liquor
store down the street and bought a bottle of tequila with my own money. 
Once I’d committed to offering Mr. Hunter margaritas, I quickly went back to
Southbay’s
and got some lime-aid.

It was almost two when I returned to the house and by the time I’d
finished my afternoon chores and entered the kitchen, it was close to
four.  I had a lot to do in the next two hours, so I grabbed my apron,
turned on the radio and got to work.

“Good evening, Mr. Hunter,” I smiled as I entered the dining-room
at six on the dot.  He gave me a smile in return.  Yes, he was a
fine, fine looking man, especially when he smiled.

“Good evening, Miss Lane.  What's this?”  He asked as I
placed a bowl in front of him.

“Corn chowder, sir.”

“It smells delicious.”

“Thank you.  I fixed Mexican food tonight, so may I get you a
margarita?  Or a beer perhaps?”

“I’d love a margarita, haven’t had one since I don’t remember
when, but I don’t have any tequila.”

“Yes, you do, sir.”

He looked up at me and raised his eyebrows, realizing that I must
have bought some. “In that case, I’d love one.  Leave slowly but hurry
back.”

“Yes, sir.” I smiled back at him.

I came back with his drink a minute later.  I liked my
margaritas simple – on the rocks with lime-aid instead of mix, which was too
sweet for my taste, and I’d stuck with my usual recipe tonight, hoping he’d
like it too.  I put it down next to his bowl and took my seat.

He took a sip of his drink.  I watched his tongue lick the
salt off the rim.  He nodded and handed it to me.

“Very nice, Miss Lane.  Not too sweet.”

“Thank you, sir.”  I took a sip and gave it back to him.

He took up his spoon and tried the chowder.

“
Mmm
, this is delicious.  How you
spoil me.”  He reached his hand up into my hair, his fingers playing
lightly with the strands.

“Would you like some?"

"Please, sir, may I have a taste?”  I'd been working on
asking him nicely and was rewarded when the corners of his eyes crinkled.