Ann Aguirre - As Long As You Love Me

“Lunch,” I prompted.

“That’s usually a sandwich. I’m showing off because you’re here.”

That made me happy. “And dinner?”

“Stir-fry, various soups, quesadillas, country-fried steak. I can’t make anything that requires more than one burner and a microwave. If I get in the mood for something else, I go to my mom and dad’s.”

Or you take Avery out for dinner. His receipts had told me that much.

“It sounds like you enjoy cooking.”

“In a better kitchen, I do.”

“Yours will be beautiful when it’s finished.”

“I hope so. Once we finish the dining room, it’s next on my to-do list.”

“Most people would’ve done the kitchen first.” I didn’t mean to criticize; it was just an example of how Rob’s thought processes differed from the rest of the world.

His pleasure dimmed. “Yeah. But I’m already taking my food up, and even if I finished the kitchen, there’s no room to eat it in. So I wanted to have somewhere to go first.”

“You mean when you christen your new stove and cook something complicated, there should be more ceremony than just carting it up the stairs.” Put that way, it made sense to finish the dining room first, even if it seemed backward and lengthened inconvenient meal preparation. It also established the fact that such milestones mattered to Rob; he was sentimental.

He seemed relieved, flashing me another bright smile. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You should invite me over. After all this effort, I’d like to be part of the inauguration.” After I said it, I realized my mistake. He’d be cooking for Avery, not me, when the kitchen was pretty and polished, the dining room ready to receive guests. My next breath actually hurt.

“Maybe.” He didn’t mention her, much to my relief. “We should get back to work.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Rob did, in fact, have running water, but he washed up in a basin. I went back to the dining room and got the right grit sandpaper to complete the final pass on the floor. If I’d processed everything he told me correctly, the next step would be staining. After that, we’d wash the walls and paint them, along with the baseboards. It was possible I’d never see the finished product, of course. Once I had a job, there would be no excuse to hang around.

I was on my hands and knees when he came in; I didn’t look up. He stood over me long enough for me to feel weird, so I finally sat back on my heels. “What?”

“Let’s do something else.”

“But we’re almost done with the floor.” The perfectionist in me was going to be annoyed if he decided the built-in hutch was more important.

“Not in here. Out there.” He gestured at the world beyond the windows.

“Like what?”

“I’m wondering if you know how to drive stick.”

Shit. Now that he mentioned it... “The green truck’s a manual, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

Sighing, I shook my head. “My mom never taught me. I don’t think she’s ever owned anything but automatics.”

“You need to learn.” His tone was no-nonsense, as he plucked the keys out of a basket by the door. There were so few on the ring that I knew this was his spare set.

“Right now?”

“I’m feeling cooped up,” he admitted.

“Then by all means, let’s uncoop you, chicken-man.”

Rob laughed and slung an arm around my shoulders. When I leaned against him, my eyes closed. This was the first time he’d hugged me since I was seventeen. Interesting that making him laugh had the same effect as my tears. I didn’t know what I’d do with that information, but it fascinated me. I expected him to shove me away or to hear the impatient jingle of keys, but his other arm came around me, closing the circuit.

Surprised, I tipped my head up, waiting for the punch line. “Are we having a moment?”

His eyes were warm and soft, roiling deep like a thunderhead, and he wore a half smile that melted me down to the bone. “I’m glad you came back.”

Then he ruined it by messing up my hair and shoving me out the door ahead of him. I could absolutely envision him treating Nadia this way, and I ground my teeth against the certainty that he didn’t see a pretty face or nice rack, cute butt, none of my feminine attributes. I could honestly say that Rob loved me like a sister, and that was a deep hole to climb out of. I mean, he’d been looking after me and keeping me out of trouble for, like, fourteen years.

Glumly, I followed him to the garage, shivering while he hauled the doors open. The green truck looked a bit better than I remembered, which meant Rob had been working on restoring it, too. That fit with what I knew of his personality; he didn’t discard things or give up on them. It was in his nature to tinker and repair, even if it took forever and other people would’ve given up long ago. Not for the first time, I thought, Lucky Avery.

“You should be wearing hat, scarf and gloves,” he said as we climbed in.

In the dim garage, I could only make out the strongest angles of his face: slope of nose and curve of jaw. My breath misted before me, and I rubbed my palms together, afraid to touch the steering wheel. “How old are you again? Forty-six? Besides, I thought I’d be working in your nice, warm house all day, no need for winter bundling. So you should really apologize for springing surprise stick lessons on me. I’m coping like a champ, right?”

He grinned and reached over to stick the key in the ignition. Ridiculous as it was, when his arm brushed close to me and the metal clicked in, my stomach fluttered. I was too flustered to listen when he explained how to start the car, so he had to repeat himself, and then I felt like such a dipshit that my cheeks burned like twin emergency flares. So much for learning to relax around him. Somehow I managed to pump the gas while doing whatever with the clutch well enough to start the motor. The truck sounded like it was in good shape.

“Let it run for a few minutes, get the engine good and hot.” Seriously, did he have to say stuff like that? In anyone else, I’d be sure it was a double entendre, but that wasn’t how he operated, and certainly not with me. He proved it by continuing, “It’ll take a while for the heater to kick in, too.”

Nodding, I rubbed my hands together, trying and failing to warm them. Rob took over, pressing my fingers between his palms. My toes curled. “You know, the ancient Norse had a long tradition of warming their hands on each other’s bellies.”

I didn’t expect that to work, but Rob rewarded me with another smile. I’d say all kinds of crazy shit to keep him looking at me like that...while holding my hands. The next moment proved definitively that I didn’t have mind-control powers, though, because the frantic refrain of kiss me kiss me kiss me running through my head didn’t stop him from letting go.

“Good thing I’m not Norse,” he said, checking the vents for hot-air flow.

You’re better, like Thor’s hotter, sweeter cousin. But I didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t enjoy being praised for his looks; in fact, it made him feel bad, probably because nobody but me could find any other good points to mention. I could’ve written a dissertation on The Ways Robert Clayton Conrad Is Completely Awesome, but for some reason, no graduate program was offering credit for this expertise.

“Explain the gears to me one more time?” The imprint of what gears were located where had faded somewhat over the years. Rob doubtless knew it by touch, but I was a manual novice. Any other guy would be making all the penis jokes in the world, but he only repeated the information with imperturbable calm.

“Got it?” he asked.

I huffed out a breath. “I’m freaking out. I’ll ruin your truck. You shouldn’t trust me to do this—there’s snow on the ground.”