“Roarke wants a homemade Thanksgiving dinner.”
“By you?” The tone in Victoria’s voice suggests I should be calling a really fucking good caterer which I thought of, but he’d know.
“By both of us.”
“That’s sweet,” Victoria says, ever the romantic.
“I can’t cook and I’m not even sure he can. He’s never made one damn thing. We go out every night or order in.”
They both stare at me.
I stand because if they can’t even offer fake encouragement and give me the whole ‘you got this’ rendition friends give to friends, I know I’m screwed.
“Oh, and don’t worry, you guys are all invited to witness my epic failure. Vic, you can bring your mom, and Chelsea, I know that you’re celebrating the next day since Skylar’s not back until then. So, no excuses.”
“But I was going to lay on my couch and gorge myself all day,” Chelsea says and yeah, I think she’s serious.
“You can do that at my house,” I offer.
“Not if the food sucks,” Chelsea says. I’m not sure what look I give her, but she picks up the bowl of candy corn, dumping it over her head. “There. I did it myself.”
I chuckle and shake my head at her. “Thank you.”
She plucks a piece of candy corn out of her hair and pops it into her mouth.
I leave the kitchen to hit Google in order to figure out how to make a Thanksgiving dinner without calling the best caterer in Chicago.
Thanksgiving Day
“Help!” I yell through the speaker of the phone.
“This isn’t the Butterball hotline,” Chelsea answers like I assumed she would, her voice muffled with chewing.
“The button hasn’t popped, my potatoes are still hard, and the green bean casserole overflowed in the oven and set off the fire alarm. I cannot do this!” I wipe my hands on my apron which I bought earlier this week because I didn’t even own one.
“Why on Earth did you tell Roarke to go play football with the guys then?” she asks.
“Because he kept looking over my shoulder at everything I was doing, and it was making me crazy. Plus, I just…”
“Wanted to show him you were the boss?”
I laugh for the first time in two hours. “Not the boss, but that I can accomplish this feat without his input or advice.”
Chelsea chews in my ear. “What are you eating?” I ask.
“Chalk.” More chewing sounds.
“Chalk?” I can’t possibly have heard her right.
“Yeah. I Googled it. It’s normal so Dean went to the dollar store and bought me the variety pack. I know it should all taste the same, but I swear the pink one tastes like bubble gum.”
“Chelsea, are you sure that’s okay?” I ask while I turn the oven light on.
Maybe Chelsea won’t even notice the hard potatoes.
“Yeah. The internet says it is.”
“The Internet isn’t your doctor. Chelsea, I know nothing about pregnancy and cravings, but it doesn’t sound right. I don’t want to overstep, but DAMN IT!” I burn my finger on the lid of the pot. I run over to the sink lifting the faucet to cold and sticking my finger under it. The fact I know the drill for burns says a lot about my prowess in the kitchen.
“Relax Han, I was just kidding. Don’t go crazy. I’m eating donuts. I’m going to write a letter to Uber Eats because they are the best thing ever.” More chewing sounds through the phone.
“Great, do they deliver a turkey dinner?”
“I bet they would.”
“Han!” Roarke’s arrival home startles me.
“Shit. It’s Roarke. I gotta go,” I whisper.
“Oh good. I’m calling Dean to pick me up some chocolate milk. See you soon, Chica.”
The line dies and I turn off the faucet, drying my throbbing finger on the dishtowel.
“How’s dinner coming?” Roarke walks in looking devastatingly sexy in his sweatshirt and track pants covered with mud and grass stains. He inspects the pots and peeks in the oven.
“It’s good. Coming along.” I bite the inside of my cheek to distract from the pain in my finger. “How was the game?”
He shrugs. “I should’ve stayed in bed with you.” He corners me against the sink, his hands on either side of my hips.
“I haven’t been in bed.”
“I can see that. Pretty soon I’ll have you pregnant.” He kisses my chin and then my nose and lastly my lips. “I gotta say this domestic look is turning me on. Of course, I’d rather have you naked under that apron.” His hands reach behind me and fiddles with the strings. The fabric falls between us. “Come take a shower with me.”
His lips give a convincing argument, his hands on my breasts, his fingers teasing my nipples since I’m sans bra what with having to get a turkey in the oven at an ungodly time this morning.
“Then you’re on cooking shift after,” I say.
“Sure thing.”
He lifts me into his arms, carrying me out of the kitchen and down the hall. Before the water’s warm, he has me naked and he’s stripping his own clothes off.
“I have about ten minutes before the sweet potato dish is done.”
“With the way you look, I can be done in five.” He rushes us over into the walk-in shower and under the stream of warm water. The spray feels like heaven after being bent over a hot stove all morning.
“Not before I…”
He laughs. “Never. Ladies first…always.” His lips crash to mine, our tongues finding that perfect rhythm that ensures five minutes will be plenty.
One minute later, his hand is between my legs, running through my slickness.
Two minutes later, his cock is in my hands, pumping as his lips travel from ear to mouth and down my neck.
Three minutes later, my back is pressed to the tiled wall with his body between my thighs.
Four minutes later, his dick is sinking into my warmth and he fills me like no other man.
Five minutes later, inaudible words are murmuring from both our mouths. His hands are on my ass, lifting and lowering me over him.
Six minutes later, my fingernails are gripping at his shoulder blades, needing an anchor to hold as my orgasm builds.
Seven minutes later, my orgasm crescendos and my body loses all tension.
Eight minutes later, Roarke pumps into me while his labored breath echoes within the shower walls.
So it took us longer than five minutes, who’s counting?
“That was all the affirmation I needed to know I should’ve stayed home.”
“And that we should’ve ordered our Thanksgiving dinner.”
He kisses my lips. “Probably, but I bet your turkey is going to taste amazing.”
Where is the incessant need to please my man coming from?
“Oh, I’m sure it will.”
Here’s hoping you don’t end up in the hospital with salmonella.
I pump the shampoo, rubbing it through his salt and pepper hair. “You get washed and I’ll get ready.”
The sight of suds dripping down Roarke’s hard body tugs at me to have a round two, but the fire department will end up being our dinner guests if we don’t hurry. I don’t need to be splashed on the front page of the Tribune tomorrow half naked outside my burning skyscraper.