Page 82 of Man Hands
I let him worship my neck for a little longer, until he shifts his hips suggestively. I lower my mouth to his ear and whisper hotly, “Tell me aboutthering.”
“You’re sneaky,” he chuckles. “But you’ll hear about it when I’m good andready.”
I put my hand under the sheet and give him a stroke. “Did someone sayready?”
He rolls on top of me, and it’s another hour until I finallyleave.
* * *
At the door,he pulls me close to him and gives me one of those kisses that makes my toes curl. Literally. And then they cramp up, because in real life that’s what happens. “I have to go,” I say. “But I’llcomeback.”
Just as I start to walk down the hallway he calls out “Aboutthering?”
Holy shit. I stop. I don’t turn around. Ijustwait.
“It’s the only thing of value in my family. Not monetary value. Sentimental. It came from my great Aunt Maddie who married a ninety-five-year-old millionaire and then ran off with the milkman. It sounds crazy, butit’strue.”
I turn around then, and he takes a few steps closer. Maybe he doesn’t want to shout it. “The milkman gave it to her as a reminder that wherever they were, even if they had nothing else, they had each other…and that was home. And now you have it. Because whereveryouare…”
“You’re home,” Iwhisper.
“Yeah.”
Now I’m ugly-crying and kissing him all over again. I’ll be a few minutes late to work. The other professors will understand. They’re artists and all artists respect a love story. And that’s what me and Tom are becoming. A real lovestory.
46CornDogs
Nine months later
Brynn
“Is this where you want me?”Tom asks,leaningin.
“Yes…” I whisper, distracted by my need to fondle the object of my desire. “It’s so… Long. Andsohard.”
Tom chuckles. “Honey, I’m glad you like the new countertop, but I’m trying to set up ashoothere.”
“It’s just that I’ve never had a stone countertop before.” And that’s not even my favorite feature of our new kitchen in the Lake Michigan cottage. I have to touch it one more time, so I step over to the sliding door behind me and reveal my very own… Pantry. “Unngh. It’ssobig.”
“That’s what all thegirlssay.”
“I’m talking about thepantry.”
“Me too,” heagrees.
I step inside to admire the shelves full of canisters. This is my fantasy right here—five kinds of artisan flour, four types of sugar, each of them waiting in their own canister and properly labeled. There’s also a giant bin filled with all-purpose flour. I could bake for days and days, and I just might. A girl could get short of breath just looking at it. I actually am hyperventilating alittle.
Tom follows me into the pantry to see what’s holding me up. “Honey? Could you take a look at my camera angle? I need your pretty face to get the shotright.”
We are about to shoot the first episode of my new web-based cooking show. With Tom’s help—and his agent, Patricia’s—I got a sweetsponsorshipdeal.
And? There is no network involved. This is Tom’s coup. He says he’s done giving up creative control of anything. So he started his own production company, and I’m the firstproduction.
“Let’s go, gorgeous.” Tom snaps his fingers. “We have twenty-two minutes until we go live. And you’re ogling the flour binsagain.”
“But they are so pretty! Like something Martha would put in one of hermagazines.”
“Yeah? I’ll bet Martha wouldn’t have broken-in her kitchen the way you and I did a couplehoursago.”
