Page 45 of Winter Break

I wasn’t looking at him when I said it, but his, “Oh, Turner,” had my head snapping up. Our eye locked briefly as his filled with tears, and he buried his head in my shoulder.

“I can’t be sorry I pushed you away that night, Dalt,” I said, wrapping him up tight. “You were so young. I couldn’t see how it would work. I couldn’t see how we could …”

He didn’t let me finish; he kissed me then, tear soaked and gasping for breath until I pulled us apart and pulled up my T-shirt to wipe his cheeks. That had him laughing.

Reluctantly, I pulled us apart, handing him a roll of paper towels.

“Sit and I’ll make us some pasta. Nothing fancy, but I have a few jars.” I opened a cabinet.

Instead of doing as I’d asked, Dalton crowded me in again and wrapped his hands around me. “Let me help.” His voice, his breath was right there at my ear. I should never have invited him up. I should never have done anything other than paint trim with him and ask him about college and Alaska. And I sure as shit should never have confessed about the Santa hat.

My body tried to tense up as my mind ran, but he kissed me behind the ear again, and I melted into him as he reached up and picked out one of the jars of sauce, placing it on the counter without stopping, pulling me in tighter with the arm he had wrapped around my waist. My head tilted back, and I closed my eyes.

“I can hear the ocean from up here,” he said, his lips caressing my neck. “I always loved that part too.” His hot breath hit my skin, and I arched back, chasing the sensation, shocked to find my cock tingling again. I thought about taking the hand he had resting on the jar and redirecting it, but my stomach took that moment to remind me how long it had been since I’d eaten.

“You sure you’re not just hearing my stomach growl?” I asked, and we both laughed. He turned me in his arms and kissed me, hard and firm, engulfing me with his huge body, enrapturing me with his warmth.

“Let’s get you fed,” he repeated.

“That should be my line,” I said. He pecked one more kiss.

“I actually ate at the restaurant,” he quipped, and I nodded in understanding.

He pulled away and started opening cabinets, finding the pots on the second try (it was a small kitchen) and filling one with water while handing the other to me.

We chatted about innocuous things, establishing his work schedule while he was home and talking about the classes he planned to take the next semester. He spoke excitedly about going to South America the next summer and told me all about his time in Alaska.

“So, were there really lots of hot fisherman?”

Dalton’s rolled his eyes at me.

“I mean, some. Maybe. I don’t know.”

I shared more about my trip to England and some of the people I’d met.

“You have to tell me, that British author you met, how cute was he?” He made the word British sound like a curse.

“Um. Not gonna lie, he was pretty cute.”

I shared my ideas for the bookstore and the newly christened Cuppa Café.

“I want it to be a real social-and-arts hub. Martin and I have been talking about holding off-season events up and down the boardwalk, like book clubs at the store and open mic nights at the restaurant, game nights for kids, teens, and adults. You know, activities that can keep the local population engaged during the off-season. Give them a reason to come to the boardwalk.”

Dalton was smiling at me, stirring the pasta.

“I know it’s silly, compared to tackling climate change and researching whales in the Arctic, but …”

“It’s not. It’s incredible. You’re finding ways to make our home a community. Something other than a summer vacation spot. I think that’s amazing. I think you’re amazing,” he said, but the water boiled over a second later, and we got distracted, cleaning up and finishing our very basic cooking.

We sat at the two stools that faced the kitchen, at the little counter that acted as a wall between the kitchen and the living room, and continued our conversation. When my bowl was empty, Dalton picked it up immediately.

“More?”

“No thank you, you don’t have to …” Dalton ignored me, taking the two plates and rinsing them off, stacking everything in the dishwasher while I watched him from my stool.

After he’d wiped the counter and washed up, he turned to me, twisting the dish towel in his hands.

“I should …” he began, but I didn’t let him finish, my eyes snapping up from the towel to look him in the eye.