Until I Saw Your Smile (27 page)

Chapter 22

“M
atthew?”

Matthew looked down at a pair of sexy brown eyes. “Hi.”

“Any idea of what time it is?” Angela asked.

She's holding onto me, she isn't shaking, and she doesn't seem to mind my touch.
“No.”

“I think it's four,” she said. “My body usually wakes me at four.”

Is this the same woman I heard shrilly screaming a few hours ago? She seems so calm and in control.
“You don't need an alarm clock, huh?”

“Not anymore.” She pushed off his chest and sat up, looking out the window. “The snow's almost halfway up the door.” She wrapped her blanket around her, left the booth, and shuffled to the front window.

Matthew bounced out of the booth and joined her. “Got a shovel?”

Angela smiled up at him. “There's one outside the back door, but it's still coming down. Why don't you wait till it stops? No one's coming out in this mess. I don't expect anyone to show up today.” She wiped sleep from her eyes. “No one likes my coffee this much.”

“Think it's a record?” Angela asked.

“Might be.”
Do I ask about last night? I have to, don't I?
“You seemed to sleep much better the second time.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I did. Thank you.”

“Were you warm enough?” Matthew asked, holding her hand.

“You kept me warm enough,” Angela said. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I watched you sleep,” Matthew said. “I might have given you the world's longest backrub, too.”

Angela sighed. “My shoulders have never felt better.”

And we're
still
holding hands. I want to ask her so many things. I want to ask her about what happened to her. I want to tell her that I can help her, that we can work through this together, that I'm here for her. But I'm holding her hand, and she's holding mine. I don't want to break this contact.

“I could make
you
breakfast for a change,” Matthew said.

Angela took his other hand and rested her head on his chest. “I don't have any Pop-Tarts for you to burn.”

This is so ordinary, yet it is so intimate. Holding hands, her head on my chest, snow piling up outside, and we're talking about breakfast.
“Is that what you think of my culinary skills?”

“Yes.” She looked up, her lips mere inches away from his. “What
can
you cook me for breakfast?”

“Toast,” Matthew said. “Plain white toast and jam.”

Angela shrugged. “And what else?”

“Crispy bacon and a cheese omelet.”
I have made a cheese omelet exactly once, and it was a runny disaster.

Angela wrinkled up her lips, her eyes still smiling.

I want to kiss those wrinkled up lips so badly.
“And some hash browns.”

Angela slipped her hands around his waist. “You're going to feed me all that?”

Matthew rubbed her arms. “Aren't you hungry?”

“Not for all that.” She tugged at his belt loops. “You could make me oatmeal.”

Matthew smiled. “With raisins, brown sugar, cinnamon, and butter.”

Angela pulled him closer, her forehead brushing his lips. “Sounds good. Except for the raisins, brown sugar, and butter.” She rubbed her nose on his collarbone. “I have something better in mind.”

“You do have those little packets, right?” Matthew asked. “The ones you add water to.”

She shook her head, her hair brushing his chin. “Nope. We do things from scratch around here.”

“Uh-huh.” He pulled her closer, letting her hair tickle his nose. “Do you have any recipes back there?”

“Nope,” she said. “They're all in my head.”

He lightly kissed her hair. “Will you help me?”

She closed her eyes. “You said you were going to make me breakfast.”

“I am.”
If I ever leave this embrace, and I'd be a fool to leave this intimate moment now.
“I just need some guidance. It's your kitchen, right? I wouldn't want to break anything.”

Angela opened her eyes, stepped back, and took off her blanket. She took his hand. “Come on. Let's go cook.”

She led him to the middle sink. “We have to wash our hands properly first.” She stood behind him, reaching her hands around him to the tap, turning it and waiting for the water to warm up, her head resting on his back. “It takes about a minute to get hot.”

“Get our hands wet,” she whispered.

Matthew checked the water then placed their hands under the stream.

“Now soap us up,” she whispered.

He soaped his hands and hers, massaging her fingers.

“That feels good,” she whispered.

“The water's not too hot, is it?” Matthew asked.

He felt her head moving on his back. “Just right. You can dry us off now.”

He took a towel from a metal hook and dried her hands first, digging his thumbs into her palms.

“You're good at this,” she whispered.

“It's my first time,” he said.
Stay gentle.

She spun him around and looked at his hands. “You have big hands.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Matthew asked.

She placed her small hands in his. “A good thing.” She sighed. “Get a saucepan.” She pointed at several hanging from a rack above his head.

Matthew stepped over and tapped a large one. “Are you this hungry?”

She shook her head.

He pulled a smaller saucepan from the rack and placed it on the smallest eye on the stove.

Angela opened a drawer and handed him a measuring cup. “Add two and a half cups of water.”

As he filled the cup and emptied it into the saucepan, he felt her hot hands on his hips. He set the measuring cup in the left sink. A small saltshaker appeared in front of his belt.

“Add a dash of salt,” she whispered.

He shook it once into the saucepan.

“Turn the heat to high,” she whispered.

It already is. Angela has busy little hands.
He turned the knob as Angela's hands and body disappeared. A moment later, a container of oats and another measuring cup appeared in front of him, her heat returning to his back.

“Measure out one heaping cup,” she whispered.

Matthew poured the oats into the measuring cup, Angela's hands clasped together in front of him. “Is this heaping enough?”

Angela ducked her head under his arms. “Yes. Is your water boiling?”

Matthew looked down. “It's bubbling.”

“Turn it to low and stir in your oatmeal,” she whispered.

A spoon slid into his hand.

Some magic trick.
He stirred in the oatmeal. “It's getting thick.”

Angela hugged him tightly from behind. “Let it cook a bit.”

He covered her hands with his. “How long do we let it cook?”

Angela sighed softly. “A bit.”

“Don't you time anything?” Matthew asked.

She rubbed her face back and forth on his back. “I cook by feel.”

“I like cooking with you,” Matthew whispered.

Angela's hands left his, and he felt her step away.

I'm actually cold.
He turned. “What's next?”

She pointed left to a cupboard. “The cinnamon's in there.”

Matthew turned and extended his arms to open the cupboard, Angela's hands reaching under his arms to grip his shoulders. He saw vanilla extract, cinnamon, ground allspice, cardamom, cloves, nutmeg, poppy seeds, juniper, whole allspice, cinnamon sticks, coriander, and sage. “This is a very spicy cupboard.” He took down a metal container of cinnamon.

“Add a pinch to the pan,” Angela whispered.

He poured a tiny amount into his hand and turned his hand over. “Cinnamon in.”

Angela's hands slid slowly off his shoulders, drifted down his chest, and stopped on his hips. “In the middle cupboard above your head, there are some chopped walnuts.”

Matthew reached up, and this time Angela's hands slid down to his thighs.
This is getting very interesting.
He moved aside packages of shredded coconut, cashews, almonds, peanuts, hazelnuts, and pecans until he found the walnuts. “How much?”

Angela's hands wormed their way into his pockets. “A handful.”

I like how Angela's little hands think.
He opened the package and filled his hand, shuffling back to the saucepan as Angela held on. He dropped them in. “Should I stir it?”

“
Yes,
” she whispered, hold a long time onto the S.

He stirred the walnuts and cinnamon into the oatmeal.

“Behind us in the top left cupboard are some dried cranberries,” she whispered.

Do I turn around? I don't want her hands to leave my pockets.
“Is my caboose ready to move?”

Angela dug her hands deeper into his pockets. “Yes.”

He turned slowly and faced the cupboard, opening it and finding dried apricots, cherries, and cranberries. “Another handful?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He measured out a handful of dried cranberries, dropped them into the saucepan, and stirred them into the oatmeal.

Angela's hands left his pockets. A moment later, a lid appeared. “Put it on and turn off the heat.”

He set the lid on the saucepan and turned off the heat. “How long do we wait?”

Angela's hands returned to his hips. “Until it's done. I need to steer you to the refrigerator.”

She spun him a half turn and pushed him toward the refrigerator. “Open it and take out the milk.”

He opened the door and took out a carton of milk.

“Close the door,” she whispered.

He closed the door.

Angela steered him back to the saucepan. “Put the carton down.”

He did.

She turned and positioned him under another cupboard. “Get out the blackstrap molasses.”

“No brown sugar?” Matthew whispered.

“Blackstrap molasses is best,” she whispered. “Above the spices.”

Matthew found the molasses, and she drove him back to the saucepan.

“Take off the lid,” she whispered.

He picked it up and set it to the side.

“Add some milk and some molasses.” She ducked her head under his arm and picked up the spoon. “I'll stir it in.”

Matthew splashed the milk in as Angela stirred, her hips grinding on his leg. He dribbled some molasses into the oatmeal, and Angela continued to stir and grind.

“Is it ready?” Matthew asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Pick up the pan.”

He did.

“Get another spoon from that drawer,” she said.

He did.

“Let's go back to the booth,” she said.

Matthew moved carefully out of the kitchen and around the counter to the booth, Angela's fingers hooked onto two of his back belt loops. He walked on his knees into the booth and extended his legs. Angela slid in beside him and snatched the other spoon.

“No hogging the cranberries,” she said.

“I wouldn't think of it,” he said.

They alternated spoons full of oatmeal until they were scraping the bottom of the saucepan, finishing their breakfast in less than five minutes.

“Now isn't this better than those little packets?” Angela asked.

“I will eat nothing else for breakfast as long as I live,” Matthew said.

“It's not
that
good,” Angela said.

It's good when the preparation of the oatmeal is erotic! Her whispers were driving me insane!
“It is when you've never had real oatmeal before. It's so rich.”

“About three hundred calories per serving,” Angela said. “And it's good for you. Eight grams of dietary fiber.”

Matthew set the empty pot aside and stretched out his left arm.

Angela squirmed closer, placing his hand on her side.

This is more like it.
“So, Miss Smith, what are we going to do all day?”

Angela rested her left hand on his chest. “What do you suggest?”

“We could go for a walk once the snow stops, or even if it doesn't,” Matthew said. “We could make the world's deepest snow angels.”

“I'm not going out there, Matthew,” Angela said.

Wrong idea.
“I assume you have a television upstairs.”

Angela nodded.

“We could do something innovative with it,” Matthew said.

“What?” Angela asked.

“We could watch it,” Matthew said. “I'm sure we can find an old movie to cuddle to.”

Angela turned further into him, sliding her right arm behind him. “I have the most basic cable, and the picture is often as fuzzy as the snow in the window, and you know whatever we watch will be interrupted with weather bulletins.”

I hate those.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt something a lot more interesting than what we're about to tell you to tell you what you
already
know if you look outside, and we're going to interrupt what's not
really
your favorite show but it's better than watching an infomercial, and we're going to annoy you for as
long
as we can because we think you're in danger even though we know you're safely in front of your television watching this bit of fluff that justifies our ridiculous jobs.”