“I brought you a home-cooked dinner,” she says, holding up a wicker basket. The moment she’s inside and the door closes, I grab her and kiss her hard. Still holding the basket in one hand, she curls her other around me, fingers going to my hair.
“It smells amazing,” I tell her, lips brushing against hers. “You made it?”
“I wish. My parents’ personal chef did. I stopped by on my way out and was able to get us something to eat. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” I put my mouth on Sierra’s neck, teeth grazing her flesh. She groans and tips her head back, wanting more. I move away, take her hand, and lead her to the table. I’ve come to realize that getting Sierra hot and bothered and then not immediately having sex leads to her desperately fucking me as hard as she can. Walking away from her is a challenge for me, that’s for sure, but the way she’ll be looking at me in an hour will make this worth it.
“I was super paranoid about this. One of the side dishes had shellfish in it. So I used a new spoon for everything in case it got cross-contaminated and got food from the opposite side of the dishes. I don’t want to kill you. Not yet at least.”
I smile at Sierra. “That probably won’t affect me. I have to actually eat it to have a bad reaction.”
She slowly shakes her head, eyes trained on me. “I’m not willing to risk it. I like you, Chase Henson. I want to keep you around a bit longer.”
It dawns on me as she begins to unpack dinner that she’s probably hypersensitive to losing anyone she cares about. I take her hand before she grabs a biscuit.
“Thanks, though. For making sure.”
“Of course, Chase.”
Our eyes meet and my heart does that stupid skip-a-beat thing again. So much emotion is conveyed in under a second it throws me for a loop. She wants her happy ending as much as I want to give it to her.
Not the mystery woman.
Her.
And I want to be a part of it.
Leave it to Sierra to make me have a moment right here and right now, in the most mundane setting.
I get us plates and silverware and go back to the table.
“I grew up thinking these were a family recipe,” she tells me, breaking apart a biscuit and putting it on her plate. “And then when I was like sixteen I found out it was from the can. Talk about an existential crisis.”
“Your whole life was a lie,” I laugh.
“Yes! I mean, I knew my mom didn’t cook worth a shit, but I honestly thought my grandma made the best biscuits in the history of biscuits every holiday. Then I found out the truth.” She breaks off a small piece and eats it while getting more food out. “And to this day, I can’t open a can of biscuits without wincing and feeling shame.”
“I’ve made canned biscuits maybe three times in my life and all three times I had to close my eyes and look away,” I admit.
“It’s awful! Couldn’t they come up with a better way to do that by now?”
“You’d think so.”
Sierra shakes her head, smiling, and serves dinner for us both.
“What was it like growing up with a personal chef?” I ask, picking up my fork.
She shrugs. “It all seemed normal to me for years, until I started going to friends’ houses and hearing how they’d help their moms cook dinner or make cookies together. It made me kind of sad to realize that I was missing out on so much with my own mother. Which I know…poor pitiful me and my personal chef.”
“No, no, I get you. My own mother wasn’t involved in the least, so I understand that feeling of letdown when you see other people. Like how the fuck did they get things so…so…right?”
It’s not the first time words escaped me, the truth seeping out, desperate to finally be set free. It won’t be the last time. And for the life of me, I cannot figure out why the fuck Sierra makes me so unhinged.
“I don’t want to sound pretentious by saying that upholding the perfect family image was damaging or anything, but sometimes I’d see my friends and wish I had what they had. Because all the glitz and glamour comes with a cost. I still rarely see my father.”
“So I take it you don’t want to go into the family business, right?” I ask slowly, recalling her voicemail about getting into grad school. I don’t know what her focus was, but I doubt it was agriculture.
“Not in the same way my dad runs things. The plan was for the three of us—my brother, sister, and I—to take equal parts. Scott wants nothing to do with farming, obviously, and Sam can’t wait to take over.” Sierra lets out a breath and spreads butter on her biscuit. “But the Belmonts have been farmers for years, and I like that family history. I’m a part owner of the farm whether I like it or not, and there’s no way I’d sell my share. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a farmer, like my dad. My sister wanted to be a farmer’s wife. That’s the Belmont way, after all.”
“That doesn’t suit you. At all. You’re not the kind of woman who can sit idly by and be a trophy wife.”
Sierra raises her head, looking into my eyes. “What kind of woman am I?”
“That’s a loaded question,” I say with a chuckle. “You are smart and kind. You won’t sit around taking orders from someone, and you won’t let anyone use your gender as a handicap and play that role of ‘farmer’s wife.’ You want to make the world a better place, even though the last year or so hasn’t been kind to you. You believe people are inherently good, and for some unknown reason, you make people like me see it too.”
Sierra’s eyes gloss over, and for a beat, she stares at me. Then she blinks and looks away. “Sounds about right.”
“I wanted to be an Avenger when I was a kid,” I tell her, digging into my food. “At least you had more ambition than me.”
“Aspiring to be a superhero is pretty ambitious.”
“Ambitious but not realistic.”
Sierra’s fork goes limp in her hand, resting against her plate. “What did you do? Before you came here, I mean.”
I lean back in my chair. “A lot of things. I never found anything that stuck.” It’s a half-truth, but I still feel like shit for saying it. Though I did do a lot of things, like I said, none are things I’m proud of. All are far from anything I’d share with Sierra. I don’t want her to look at me differently than she is now.
“I bartended a bit before I came here,” I say, which is true. To an extent again. Fuck. I mentally sigh. “At a bar on the shore in New Jersey.”
She scoops up rice with her fork and snickers. “You lived on the Jersey Shore?”
“It’s not as bad as the show makes it.”
“So you’re not D.T.F. tonight?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I should be glad I have no idea what you’re talking about, right?”
Sierra laughs. “Yes, and I am too. Is that where you’re from originally? You don’t have a Jersey accent, but you do sound northern.”
“And you sound southern. Though not as much as other people in this town.”
She nods. “It’s because my mom doesn’t have an accent.”
“Oh, right. You said she’s from the east coast.”