Page 42 of Wishing Hearts

Carl nods, opening the door, and I follow him inside. He stops in the empty hallway, turning to me. “Be careful, Sammy.”

There’s that concern again. That crease in his brow.

“I’ll try,” I tell him. It’s the best I can do.

He sighs but doesn’t say anything more before pushing into our employee break room. As Carl clocks out near the lockers, I head to the shower inside the small, adjoining bathroom to wash up so I don’t have to make a trip home. That lets me get to Harrison’s a whole half hour early, and when I arrive at five-thirty on the dot, I use the big gold knocker at the front of his house to signal my arrival. Not ten seconds later, the door opens, and a pair of light blue eyes stare up at me.

“Sam,” Winnie says seriously, appraising me.

“Hi, Miss Winifred,” I reply, giving her my best smile. “Can I come in?”

“Suppose so,” she mutters before taking a step back.

I hold in my chuckle. “Where’s your daddy?”

Oh, shit. Yeah, no. I don’t think I can call Harrison that.

Winnie points toward the kitchen just as Harrison’s “Sam?” rings out from that very direction. He peeks around the corner not a moment later. “You’re early.”

“Hope that’s all right,” I say, eyes tracking over his form. He has a small towel hanging over his shoulder and some flour dusted on his hands. His shirt is plaid again today—he seems to favor those—and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. God, he looks good.

“Sure, that’s fine,” he replies, a small smile lighting his face.

Nails tap against the floor as Tigger emerges from the kitchen, rounding Harrison. The dog comes right over to me, stubby tail wagging, and then she sits and waits patiently for some lovin’.

“Aren’t you just the best girl,” I say, going down on one knee to give her some rubs. Her tongue lolls out, doggy breath fanning over my face as I scratch over her neck and down her sides. “Such good manners. Your humans taught you well, huh?”

I give her a few more pats, and when I pop back up onto my feet, Harrison is watching me. As is Winnie.

“So, uh,” I say, clapping my hands together. “What’s goin’ on? Anythin’ I can do?”

Winnie turns, heading for the back door. “I’m gonna play outside with Tigger,” she announces before stepping through the door at the end of the hall. The Brittany Spaniel takes off after her, abandoning me for greener pastures.

“All right, then,” I mumble when the door slams shut. I turn my focus back to Harrison. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

He licks his lips slowly. “No, Sam. You didn’t.” Giving me a little curling wave, he beckons me to follow. “Come on, I’m making dinner.”

Harrison heads back into the kitchen, and I trail after him. A pile of dough is resting over a generous sprinkling of flour on the counter, and when Harrison stops in front of it, I can’t resist stepping up right behind him. Hands on the counter to either side of his body, I tuck my face against his neck, and Harrison deflates, his body melting on a sigh as I pepper a kiss against his skin.

“Mm,” I hum. He smells like melon again. Delicious.

“I’m making biscuits,” he says, although he doesn’t move an inch, except to lean his head more to the side.

I take up his unspoken offer, drifting my lips over the column of his neck. I’d slip my hand to his crotch if I thought it would be welcome. But I know Harrison wouldn’t want me to do that. Not right now.

So, instead, I settle for swiping my tongue against his skin. I can’t taste the melon, unfortunately, but Harrison sure is sweet. He shivers a little, a simple “Sam” leaving his lips.

“I like biscuits,” I say, stepping back and putting a little space between us.

Harrison nods, hands held in front of him for a moment. After a beat, he seems to shake himself off, and then he starts to work the dough, flattening it and then folding it over on itself several times. I settle beside him, watching him work and taking in the space a little better than the first time I was here. The walls of the kitchen are a warm, sunny yellow, and the cabinets and countertops are white. A big window looks out over the backyard, where I can see Winnie and Tigger playing, and the evening sun slants in at an angle, giving the room a gentle glow.

I like it in here. It’s bright and worn in a touch, and it feels welcoming. Like a place for family.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Harrison finally says, looking my way.

“Haven’t what?”

“Dated,” he answers. He rubs his nose with the back of his wrist, leaving a small white spot behind. “It’s been years.”

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