Page 117 of Every Broken Piece
It’s too late at night to be thinking such heavy thoughts so I turn toward the kitchen in search of a turkey sandwich, then I’ll crawl back in bed with Gabe and think of only sleeping in his arms.
I start pulling the ingredients from the fridge and find the unsliced loaf of bread on the counter. I don’t know if I’ve ever had non-sliced sandwich bread. My mouth’s watering and my stomach grumbles louder as I set everything out on the counter.
I find a bread knife in the fancy knife block and face the loaf. I can do this. I can cut a slice of bread.
I hold the loaf steady before I start sawing. The first piece is lopsided, way too thick on one end and too thin on the other. I try for the second slice with similar but somewhat better results. It looks like a child hacked away at it, but I smile because I’ve cut my own bread for the first time.
“Tess?”
Startled, I jump. The knife clatters to the floor and with a yelp I hop out of the way before it cuts off my toes.
“Jesus, woman.” Gabe’s beside me, gently pushing me away as he picks up the knife. “Did you cut yourself?”
“No.” A nervous laugh escapes. “You surprised me.” My voice trails off because Gabe in gray plaid sleep pants that hang low on his hips, steals all my words. His feet are bare and why is that sexy?
But worse. Or maybe best. He’s not wearing a shirt. How did I not notice he wasn’t wearing a shirt when I was plastered against him in bed? I know he just celebrated his forty-third birthday but with six-pack abs, a chiseled chest, and wide, rounded shoulders, he looks like he’s twenty-four.
Aren’t men his age supposed to have dad bods?
This...is not a dad bod.
“You sure you’re okay?”
My eyes snap to his. They’re checking me over in concern.
“I’m fine.” I wave my hand at the food. “I was hungry.”
“Yeah, we kinda skipped dinner. Sit down and I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“No. I want to make us sandwiches.” I’ve never made a man a sandwich. I want to do that. I want to feed him. Is that love? Wanting to feed someone?
He looks like he wants to argue but instead nods curtly and slides onto a stool on the other side of the breakfast bar.
Feeling very culinary and a lot clumsy, but determined, I say, “What do you like on your sandwich?”
“Surprise me.”
I raise my brows. “Are you sure? 'Cause I’ll make it the way I like it.”
“I’ll love whatever you make me.” He rests his chin in the palm of his hand and watches while I attempt to cut two more slices of bread. His hair is sticking up. The gray mixed in with the black is almost as sexy as his bare chest. I don’t know if I’ve ever lusted after a man before. Men have caught my eye, but my thoughts never really went beyond that. This is unfamiliar territory, and I don’t know what to do with my eyes, so I concentrate on the food before me.
Is this love? Wanting to jump his bones? No. That’s lust.
“I’ve never sliced bread before, So it won’t be pretty.”
“Need help?”
I shake my head, and he falls silent while he watches. But he’s not watching to criticize. He’s watching as if he doesn’t want to be anywhere else and the silence between us is comfortable, like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
This. This is love. The comfort of not having to speak. The ease of being together in the middle of the night.
The only light comes from the oven hood, casting a golden glow that bathes just the two of us, making it feel like we’re in this little bubble of intimacy. We’ve kissed less than a handful of times. We’ve slept together three times but never had sex. Never even groped each other and yet I feel closer to him than if we’d done all those things.
Is that love? I think it might be.
I lay out the bread and layer turkey, thick slices of tomatoes, cheese, and sprinkle shredded carrots on top before lathering the special, homemade sauce his housekeeper made. I plate the sandwiches and slide his toward him.
He pats the stool next to him. “Sit here and eat with me.”
