Daddy Crush - Adriana Anders Page 0,50
deep in his chest, with a pleased tilt to his lips.
“Karl.”
“Come here.” He pulls me to him, envelopes me—blanket and bouquet and all—and the world falls away. No more honking traffic, no more curious dog, no more worries that I’m doing things wrong or pushing too hard or wanting too much. Just pure, solid affection.
He smells like fabric softener and woodsmoke and dinner. When I bury my nose deeper into his chest, I smell the man beneath. After a last, big inhale, I pull back and present my gifts with a smile. “Is this okay? Flowers?” I shrug. “I picked things I thought you’d like.”
He accepts the bouquet and looks at it closely. It’s a bunch of green and brown objects—not just flowers, but seed pods and grasses and things that I’ve managed to grow or scavenge. After a second, his eyes meet mine. He’s not smiling any more. At all. “I love it.”
“Yeah? I also made this for you.”
“When? In the past hour?”
I shrug again, unwilling to tell him that I made it a while ago, but never felt the confidence to give it to him.
The blanket’s pretty simple—for me. It’s a blend of browns and grey, wound together to make a forest of tree trunks. I pictured him throwing it over the porch swing. It would blend with the maple branches and the chain and the woodwork of the seat. Now, in his hands, I recognize that I’d pictured myself sitting under it. Maybe beside him.
Talk about projecting.
“If you don’t like it, I can—”
“I do.” He grips it tighter. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stare at each other. I can’t begin to guess what he thinks when he looks at me, but I see something so pure and real that it’s almost religious. Gosh, that’s silly.
No. No, maybe it’s not. Maybe I need to stop thinking of religion as the thing my parents live and consider that it could be something rooted in the earth. In reality. Rooted in our bodies instead of lost in the ether.
“What’s going on in your head?” he asks, making me wonder how long I’ve been watching him.
“I’m trying to figure out why I like you so much.” Love you.
He barks out a laugh. “That’s flattering.”
“I don’t mean there’s nothing to like. There’s a lot.”
His smile seeps away, replaced with a fierce concentration. He opens his mouth and shuts it, takes a deep breath. “Come on through to the kitchen. I cooked.”
I follow him down the hall, past his dark living room and what I thought would be a dining room, but actually looks like a workshop of some sort. I pause in the doorway.
“What’s this?”
“My shop.”
“I thought you were a restauranteur.”
“That’s my retirement.” He eyes the crowded workspace. “This is… I don’t know, my, ah, hobby? Meditation?”
“You work with wood?”
“And metal.” He points toward the back of the house. “Metal shop’s in the yard.”
“Oh, right. I knew you did something noisy back there. Always wondered what you were up to.”
“Mostly making chef’s knives, but I’m branching out.”
“Scissors?” I can’t keep the excitement from my voice.
“Sounds like a challenge.” He smiles, raises the blanket. “We can do a trade.”
“The blanket’s a gift. Let me pay you—”
“No.” He steps close and bends down, putting his forehead to mine in that move that makes everything so tight and intimate. He’s smiling. “Let me make you something.”
Those words speak to my soul so deeply I almost can’t believe I’m not the one who said them. Making things for people, with my hands, is my love language. The intertwined vines and branches and trunks on his blanket aren’t just about the tree out front, they’re about him. Deep roots, strong moral fiber.
“I’d like that.”
“Me, too.” He gives me a brief kiss—though my poor heart thrums wildly, expecting more—and ambles back to the kitchen.
I walk in and spin. “This is amazing!”
“You like?”
“I mean, it’s like professional, right? Are you a chef?”
He shakes his head. “No. Worked in restaurants since I was fifteen. Dishwashing, prep, line cook…” He sets the bouquet down and stretches out a hand. Under the light, his scars shine like they’ve been plasticized. I want to kiss them, taste them. “I like working the front of the house. The bar. Talking to customers.”
I like you, I want him to say, but this has all moved fast. Maybe he’s not there yet. I swallow, hard.
It’s fine. This is a lot. I’m a lot.
“Mind putting those in this?” He sets a vase on the granite counter. It’s obviously hand-made,