Wildest Dreams
Page 24

So I used it.
I roasted a piece of beef, somehow pulled off potatoes dauphenois and boiled green beans which I was serving with fresh bread from the bakery and, after, my homemade pecan pie with cream for dessert. I called out to Frey at his stump (by this time, the sun was long gone so he was chopping in the totally frigid, totally dark evening and doing it by torchlight) twenty minutes before I reckoned it would be done, he quit ten minutes later and came to the table washed.
That was good.
He sat at the table and scooped out food on his plate without really noticing (and definitely not commenting on) the obvious effort I’d made.
That was bad.
When he was about to commence eating, I asked quietly, “Can you open the wine?”
That was when he looked at me, he looked at the table, half of his mouth hitched up for a millisecond then he got up and opened the wine we bought in town. Then he poured it. Then he sat down and commenced eating.
I started eating too and was pretty pleased with the results. The potatoes were burnt a little on the top but the roast was done to perfection, nice and brown on the outside, nice and pink on the inside.
Frey made light work of it and, even after tasting it, didn’t say a word.
This was bad too.
Or, perhaps, chopping wood gave you an appetite.
I decided to think of it that way.
He had refilled his glass of wine (and topped up mine) and was reaching for seconds when I decided conversation was in order.
And I also decided what we were talking about.
And I’d also spent a great deal of time while baking and cooking deciding how I was going to talk about it.
“Uh… Frey?” I called.
He showed me he’d heard and was listening by looking at me.
“Can we talk about something important?” I asked.
He stopped cutting into a slice of meat and gave me his full attention. “And what’s important to you, wife?”
“Um…” I started and stopped.
Frey put his silverware on his plate and aimed a minor scowl at me. It wasn’t terrifying but it wasn’t his best look either.
“I have manhandled you,” he made this surprising and maybe a little weird admission then went on to explain why he did it, “but I have never hurt you. This…” he paused, “hesitancy in speaking to me has not been earned.”
Well, it was interesting he thought that, but…
“And,” he continued, “it’s beginning to be trying.”
“I –” I started but he kept talking.
“Indeed, what you said this morning, I will agree with for it is visibly obvious. I am a big man and you are not a big woman. But I have never given you cause to think I’d do you harm.”
That was interesting he thought that too. And not entirely true.
“So,” he concluded, “it would please me greatly if you would stop with your ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ and just say what’s on your mind.”
“Okay,” I returned swiftly, mainly because, after having spent hours cooking, making dessert and setting it all out nicely, as well as deliberating on how I was going to say what I needed to say, only for him to hijack the conversation and be a dick about it, I was suddenly wicked ticked off. “What was on my mind was that I was going to tell you I liked you.”
Frey did a slow blink, showing surprise, but I didn’t care. That was just how wicked ticked off I was.
“Now,” I carried on, “I’m thinking… not so much.”
“Finnie –” he started but this time, I cut him off.
And I did it by throwing out my hand holding my fork then going right back to cutting my beef (though I did it this time more like hacking) all the while talking.
“You have my leave to call me Sjofn. I’m thinking, now, I prefer that from you, a man who tosses me around and leaves me in a filthy house after driving ever onward through the freezing cold countryside,” I speared my meat with my fork at the same time I speared him with a look, “for hours. Then taking off without even helping me with my four,” I jabbed my fork with meat in his direction, “very tired horses. A man who made it clear he didn’t like me much, considering our wedding night I spent alone and he was off at sea, missing, I might add, some really freaking fantastic underwear.” He did another slow blink but I kept right on going. “So if I’m a little hesitant with that man, I beg your pardon. I’ll endeavor not to be so in future.”
Then I chomped down on the meat on my fork, yanked it off and started chewing.
Frey didn’t reply and I looked anywhere but him as I continued to saw into my meat, fork into my potatoes with far more vigor than needed and suck down healthy gulps of wine.
The instant I’d cleaned my plate (which was about three minutes later considering I wolfed down the remainder of my food), I jumped up, snatching it as I went while asking, “Are you done? Do you want pie?”
Then I didn’t wait for his answer as I dumped my (probably priceless or at least, by the looks of it, exorbitantly expensive) china in the wood sink and then going back to grab the serving bowls.
“Finnie,” he said softly, I turned my eyes to him and held up the bowl of green beans.
“Would you like to finish these off or do you want to move onto pie?”
“Put down the bowl,” he ordered.
I did as he ordered but did it after walking back to the sink. I had cleared the meat and potatoes and was going back for his plate when suddenly two big hands closed around my h*ps and I was sitting in his lap.
I put my hands on his chest and tried to push up at the same time crying out, “Hey!” but I got nowhere because his arms had locked around me.
I stopped struggling as it was undignified and my Mom taught me no matter what pickle you were in, never lose your dignity and instead I raised my eyes to glare at him and demand, “Let me up.”
“No, my new wife, take a moment, take a breath, calm yourself and let us go back to what you wished to discuss ten minutes ago.”
“I don’t want to go back there,” I returned.
“Take a moment, take a breath, calm yourself and maybe you will,” he suggested.
I shook my head. “Nope, I know myself pretty well and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go back there.”
He grinned, it was a good one, I had rarely seen him do that, in fact, I wasn’t certain I had ever seen him out and out grin, it wasn’t lost on me that it looked good on him but I was still too pissed to care before he said, “It would seem, Finnie, you have no problems with ‘ums’ and ‘uhs’ when you’re vexed.”