Page 73 of Must Love Lavender and Little Lies
“It’s very true,” I said, then added, “How do you feel?”
“Like I am ready to pick up where we left off the other night, my wife.”
“That,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “sounds like a reasonable plan.”
At that, Granik and I both laughed, Granik pulling me close.
When we finally arrived at the cottage, we took our basket, which turned out to be loaded with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, and went inside.
My cottage was warm and candlelit. At some point, someone had come to prepare everything for us. I could see Rosalyn’s touches everywhere. The fire was burning low, casting a soft amber glow. The cottage smelled of lavender and beeswax candles, and I had never loved it more than I did in that moment.
Granik looked around the cottage with an expression I could not quite name.
“Tea?” I asked.
He glanced at the basket. “Let’s go with champagne.”
I nodded, then went to the cupboard while Granik opened the bottle. There was an odd energy lingering between us, a vibration full of want and hesitation. I pulled my mother’s old purple stemmed cups from the cupboard, then turned to face Granik, but he was merely standing there and staring at me.
“Granik?”
Wordlessly, he crossed the room, took the glasses from my hands, and set them aside. He then tipped my chin so my eyes met his.
“I love you,” he whispered, and then set his lips on mine. The sweet taste of spring ale and our lemon-raspberry wedding cake danced on his lips. I fell into the kiss. The deeper I kissed him, the deeper my want grew.
I reached up then and began to loosen his bow tie. When it came free, I slipped it from his collar and set it carefully on the table.
“For the record,” he said, “I have been wanting to do that all evening.”
“Kiss me or remove the bow tie?”
“Both, although the bow tie was a menace. The kiss…well, what’s the opposite of menace? Whatever that is, that’s what the kiss was.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for,” I told him, “is perfect.”
“Perfect,” he agreed, and kissed me again.
When we finally pulled apart, I reached up and began working the buttons of his shirt. He let me, watching my face as I did, his hands resting lightly at my waist. There was somethingdifferent about the way he was looking at me tonight, unhurried and entirely certain.
“You’re staring,” I told him.
“I am,” he agreed, without any apology.
I laughed.
When his shirt came free, I pushed it from his shoulders and took a long moment of my own. I had seen Granik shirtless before. When it grew hot in the summer, he was often quick to toss aside his shirt and sweat under the sun. But in the past, I had always found somewhere else to put my eyes. I didn’t bother with that now. He was broad and warm and solid, the candlelight dancing perfectly on his skin. I let myself look.
“Your turn to stare?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” I said, which made him laugh.
He reached for me then, his hands finding the small buttons at the back of my gown. He was patient with them, working each one free with careful fingers.
“You know,” I said, “for someone with hands your size, you’re remarkably good at buttons.”
“Years of practice with snufflecorn harnesses,” he replied. “Very similar mechanism.”
“Romantic.”
