But Christopher is in some unnerving no-man’s-land. He isn’t a stranger. He isn’t family, no matter how much my family says otherwise. He isn’t a friend, either.
And even though, as I scroll quickly through the lengthy catalog of his offenses over my lifetime and come up short of any memories of Christopher shaming me for how much I talk sometimes, I’m nervous, not knowing how he’ll respond.
I shut off the water and hide the heat staining my cheeks by turning my back to him, drying my hands.
“Kate.”
Slowly, I turn, forcing myself to face him. He steps back, leaving space between him and the counter, and tips his head. “C’mon.”
I step in front of him against the counter and feel him settle right behind me.
His voice is quiet and warm, so deliciously close. “I want you to know that I think what you do, how you live, is beautiful and brave. I know I haven’t shown it. But I respect it. Deeply.”
I blink, stunned. “You do?”
Silence hangs in the air before he says, carefully, “I do. But it was hard to focus on that admiration when I was scared, Kate. And I was scared a lot. I worried about you, and I didn’t want to.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. What’s he saying? . . . What does it mean?
“I didn’t disapprove of what you did because I thought it was inadequate or wrong,” he goes on. “I thought it was incredible. But I hated that to do your work, you took risks and put yourself in danger. So I focused on what I hated because it made it easier for me to put distance between us, to tell myself I didn’t care what happened to you. But I did care. I buried it while you were gone, then made us both miserable when you were home and I couldn’t escape it.”
I’m speechless as I glance back over my shoulder and find his eyes. God, his eyes. They’re a fire’s flames, rich whiskey warming me from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.
“You cared?” I ask hoarsely.
Staring down at me, he searches my eyes. “Yes, Kate. I cared. I care. I’ve been shit at showing it, but I have always cared about you.” He swallows roughly. “And admired you.”
My heart skips. “Well . . . if it makes you feel any better, I’ve cared, too.” Oh God, now my heart feels like an elevator plummeting to its doom. Admitting this shit is hard. “And . . . admired you. For a capitalist, at least.”
Christopher’s smile turns so bright, its wattage could power a city block. I turn back toward the counter, smiling, too.
“For a capitalist, huh?” The pleasure in his voice, an edge of almost laughter, makes goose bumps dance across my skin.
I shrug, biting back my smile as it grows.
“Is that a smile I just earned?” Christopher dips his head, nuzzling my shoulder with his chin. It makes a very juvenile noise squeak out of me.
“Christopher.” I nudge him halfheartedly in the stomach with my elbow.
“Katerina,” he says, so close his mouth nearly brushes my neck. A shiver dances down my spine.
“Stop tickling me,” I tell him, forcing my posture to straighten, my voice to steady.
“Fine.” He sighs, tapping the counter. “Now, come on. Everything that’s been upsetting you today, work it out on the pasta dough.”
I hesitate for a moment, then step closer. Slowly, I push up my sleeves higher, before sinking my hands into the eggs. I squeeze as hard as I can, squealing in pleasure at the slimy, runny whites, the satisfying, tactile resistance of the remaining yolks slipping out of my grip.
“Feel good?” he asks.
“Uh, it’s just a sensory delight.” I lift my hands and show him the way I’m savoring the sticky texture of the flour and egg between my fingers. “This is incredible.”
He steps closer behind me and sinks his hands into the flour and eggs again, too.
It feels so good, his body behind mine, his hands and my hands, messy together.
Our hands touch, our bodies brush. I feel his breath, warm and soft on my neck, his eyes on me, watching me as I lose myself in our task, and soon we have a ball of dough. Christopher shows me how to knead it, his hands on mine, folding the dough over itself, pressing it into the counter.
“Still doing okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, knowing my voice is uneven but helpless to do a damn thing about it. “Very okay.”
Maybe he hears how affected I am. Maybe he’s affected, too. Because he falters with the dough, fumbling it for a moment before smoothly folding it over. Somehow, he suddenly feels closer, but I know he hasn’t moved. I think maybe I have. I think maybe I’ve leaned back into him like I’d sink into a hot, long-awaited bath.