Unbearable (11 page)

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 before, 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 pumpkin 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?”

“No. I’m afraid my reasons are a little more complicated,” he said, solemnly. “I told you my mom and sister were killed during a home invasion robbery, right?” I nodded. “Afterward, I went off the deep end for a while.” He set the juice down and picked up the gravy bowl. “I didn’t handle their deaths well and started drinking, heavily. It was pretty bad. Seth’s family took me in after they died and I gave them a rough time of it. My grades slipped. I seldom went to classes, barely graduating.”

I didn’t know why he poured gravy on the moist turkey, and then I tasted the gravy. Incredible. I added it to my turkey, eating everything way too quickly. The guy could cook.

“So what happened after graduation?” I asked.

“A couple of my buddies talked about wanting to join the military. I spoke to Seth’s dad, Eric, and he encouraged me to join. No doubt he thought the military would force me into straightening up my act.”

“Did it?” I asked, slipping Daisy a piece of turkey.

“Spoiled.
” He waved a finger at the dog. Her tail beat rhythmically against the wood floor. “Unfortunately for me, you can legally drink on base at the age of eighteen in the military. Though I never drank on the job, nor did I ever go to work under the influence, all my free time was spent in the on-base bars.

“Eric pulled a few strings and got me stationed under him, but I lived in the barracks so he seldom saw me outside of work. One day I got completely wasted and somehow ended up at their home. To this day I don’t know why I went there. Out of habit, maybe.” He put his fork down. “Eric found me early the next morning, passed out in his driveway in a puddle of my own vomit. He helped me inside, and into the bathroom where I took a shower and cleaned up. I went into my old room and crawled into bed. Before I fell asleep again, Eric came to me and said, ‘Sam, those men robbed you of your mother and sister. Don’t allow them to take any more from you.’ I’ll never forget that.”