Page 30 of At Last

Duke being Duke, it quickly turns from tender to heated. He lifts me, both hands hold my bottom as he urges me to wrap my legs around his hips, but he doesn’t move to the bed. Only holding me there in that spot, making out in a room I presume we’ll be sharing. Making outhotandheavy.

When the kiss comes to its natural conclusion, still panting like I’d just been making out hot and heavy, I ask the most mundane question in the world. “What do you want for dinner, Chief?”

Two slow blinks and stares at me, then barks out a beautifully boisterous laugh.

“You cooking tonight, honey?”

“Absolutely. You like stuffed peppers? I make an awesome Italian stuffed pepper. Even Jade eats them.”

“Should probably make enough we have drop ins. Men find out a woman’s cooking here, bound to make ’emselves at home. At least the men without women at home to take care ’a ’em.”

“Boss is out on a run. We should invite Elise and baby Gun over, too.”

He starts laughing again, downgraded to a snicker, though it still makes me smile.

“What?” I ask.

“Been here ten minutes and your already planning a fucking dinner party.”

“I don’t… we don’t…” I sputter. He squeezes me again.

“Just giving you a hard time, honey. Be good to fill the house again.”

Oh.

My burly biker wants to fill the house again. Foolish as it may seem, it makes me happy to be the one to give him that. A night hanging out, no pieces, no pressure to be or act a certain way. Just friends eating and maybe enjoying a few beers together.

Then, because he must sense my feelings, Duke hugs me. “Make a list, Doc. Everything you think your gonna need, ’cuz chances are, I won’t have it. Don’t do a lot of shopping. Go up to the clubhouse and eat whatever one ’a the women makes.”

We walk back into the kitchen, and he shows me a drawer where he keeps a scratch pad and pen. I write down, one by one, all of the ingredients I’ll need for the peppers, and the dessert I decide on the spot to make. Then Guinness. Milk. Breakfast and lunch options, and other sundries such as sugar, flour and butter. Sundries most people keep standard in their pantry.

Once I hand him off the list Duke phones Jesse—because Jesse has Caitlin duty and Caitlin duty apparently involves all things Caitlin, which in this case would include grocery shopping—to come grab the list. Which he does right away. And takes the keys to the old pickup.

While my bodyguard shops for us, I unpack Jade. Clothes hung up in the closet and moved to the one dresser in the room. Then take her body wash, shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste to the bathroom across the hall.

I can hear Duke on the phone again, but his words are murmured. So I move to the master to unpack myself. After I’m done, I sit on the bed and stare out the window, watching the leaves of the trees blow in the soft, summer breeze.

Not knowing how long I’ve sat here, I know it has to be a while when Duke calls into the room. “Honey, Jesse’s back.”

When all the groceries have been put away, leaving out what I need to start dinner, I take note that Duke needs canisters. For flour. For sugar. They keep the bugs out. He needs newer pots and pans, too. Copper or cast iron. Like I have at my house.

Come to think of it, Duke needs a lot of new. And that’s when it hits me. His home life stalled when his wife died. He’d thrown himself into the club to compensate for her loss. As such, his home turned time capsule. Not even a shrine to her, but a representation of how his life stopped when hers did.

Which makes the fact that he brought me and my daughter here to stay, even temporarily, mean even more than it otherwise might have. At least for me.

I pull a pot for rice from the pot shelf in the pantry, fill it with the appropriate amount of water per the rice directions, throw in a Jade-size handful of salt, replace the lid securely and set the pot on the back burner to come to boil.

From there it’s a whole lot of chopping, grating, sautéing. Dicing to chiffonade. Not to mention measuring, zesting, mixing and pouring for the gooey Limoncello cake I’m preparing for dessert.

The house smells amazing, if I do say so myself, from the lemon and Italian herbs and sweet sausage.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Duke surprises me by asking.

“When I was a girl, I spent every summer in Ireland with my grandma. She was a wonderful cook. Lived a glamorous life, lived all over. Had lots of affairs before she settled down with my grandfather. Some even with famous men. Actors. Producers. She’d tell me saucy stories about her life while we cooked and canned and baked. Stories my parents would have freaked out if they’d known she shared. As a parent, I’d freak, too.” As I talk about my grandma, a hint of accent comes through, as it always does. Maybe because I hear her stories spoken in her soft Irish lilt, in my head.

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Some of the best times of my life. My grandma was my best friend. When I cook, even things we never made together, I think of her for the simple fact that she’s the one who taught me. Though… you’ll be happy to know…” I huff hair from my eyes, not wanting to touch it which would mean stopping my work to rewash my hands. “The stuffed peppers are mine. But the Limoncello cake is hers. Something she picked up when she lived in Rome for a summer. With a famous Italian producer, I might add.”

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