It had actually taken consultation with four different cookbooks before Marie had found a recipe for rabbit she thought she could approximate with what she had on hand. Thankfully she had finally been rescued by Volume 2 of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. She’d had to skimp on the ‘marinate-for-24-hours-beforehand’ part, and she was damned if she’d risk poisoning them both by trying to go out and find juniper berries, but otherwise things were coming together.
She had taken a tour through the cabin’s liquor stash and found both red wine and cognac that were probably way too expensive to be meant for cooking, but had shrugged and opened them anyway. The rabbit meat had browned nicely and was now bubbling away in a casserole dish with the marinade, wine, and beef stock. It smelled amazing.
She had realized pretty early on in the process that “tonight” wasn’t exactly the most specific time for planning purposes, and she had no idea when to expect him. She had been distracted enough while she was cooking, but now that everything was close to ready she felt butterflies stirring in her stomach again.
All day she had been trying not to think too much about what he had said to her -- what he had offered her. The opportunity to touch him. Not just to be kind, not out of pity, but because he actually wanted her to. And she wanted to, she admitted to herself. She wanted to a lot.
But he wasn’t talking about the type of touching she and Bobby had done -- carefully shielded with clothes and gloves and scarves. He had asked her to really touch him -- skin to skin -- and the thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
She had experienced just a taste of what it would be like -- his warmth and nearness, the brush of his skin against hers. It was intoxicating, and yet she couldn’t ignore the risks. Even if he was okay with being hurt, she was not okay with hurting him -- especially knowing how much pain he had endured already.
Maybe that’s how you do it. See how long it takes, and try to make it take longer.
Could he be right about that? If she knew for certain that one or three or even five seconds of contact wouldn’t hurt him, then could she let the fear go for even that amount of time? And if that was possible -- touch without fear, however briefly -- could that amount of time be stretched?
Just touch me. Whenever you want.
She thought about having that kind of freedom -- the freedom to touch him, whenever she wished. He was so wary, so guarded -- did he even understand what he was offering her? Was that kind of trust something he was capable of giving?
She poured some of the fancy wine into a glass, and took it out on the porch for a breath of fresh air, hoping it would calm her jittery nerves. The temperature had dropped sharply. She could see her breath in the air, and ominous clouds were gathering in the west. She hoped that Logan wouldn’t get caught in the storm.
As soon as she had the thought he was there, emerging from the woods. She watched him approach, his long lean frame silhouetted against the stormy twilight. As he got closer she felt her heart thud faster, the porch light revealing his golden eyes intensely focused on her. The butterflies in her stomach were in full flight now. She took a big gulp of her wine. She should have started drinking earlier.
__________________
Marie swirled the last bite of rabbit in the cognac sauce and popped it in her mouth, leaning back with a sigh of satisfaction.
She hadn’t bothered moving her exercise mat and heavy bag, figuring they’d be more comfortable sitting on the couch in front of the coffee table than eating at the dining table anyway. She thought now that it had been an inspired decision. Logan had further demonstrated his Grizzly Adams skills by building an excellent fire in the fireplace, and the softly flickering firelight and the combined effects of the cognac sauce and the wine she had been drinking had her feeling very pleasantly buzzed.
“So you really ate that mountain lion? I always wondered.”
He nodded. “Some. Meat doesn’t keep too good in summer.”
She leaned forward to empty the rest of the wine bottle into his glass. He seemed more at ease than he had ever been, but she noticed that he still shied away from providing details about how he lived. She instinctively knew not to pry but even so, she was starting to put some things together. Like that wherever he lived, he didn’t seem to have electricity.
“How’d you cook it?”
“Smoked some. Roasted some.”
The storm had arrived, but the patter of sleet against the windows and the rattle of the wind through the trees just made Marie feel even safer and cosier in the cabin, her belly warm with the excellent meal, her mind pleasantly hazy. She wondered what she had been so nervous about.
“Is that one of the things you knew from before? Like, not just the huntin’ part, but what’s good to eat, and how to skin it an’ cook it an’ all that?”
He nodded, his hair falling in front of his eyes again, and he pushed it back with an automatic gesture.
“Does that bother you?” She gestured with her wineglass. “Your hair I mean? I could cut it for ya.”
He grew suddenly still, and she felt her cheeks flush, the hazy pleasant feeling disappearing instantly. “I mean, I used to do it for my cousins and stuff...you know, before my mutation. I didn’t mean...I would wear gloves...” Christ, she was babbling. She took another sip of her wine nervously.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Really?” She smiled.
He rumbled his assent, and she leaned forward to put her wineglass down.
“No gloves.”
She froze. “What...what d’ya mean, ‘no gloves’? What if...”
She stopped, mesmerized, as he reached to where her other hand was braced against the sofa cushion. His warm, slightly roughened fingertips brushed the back of her hand -- once, twice, a third time.
He drew his hand back and she was able to breathe again, her other hand shaking as she set her wineglass on the coffee table with a slight clatter.
She bit her lip. “Why did you do that?”
He watched her for a long moment.
“Do you want this?” he asked abruptly.
“Want...what?”
“Touch.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “Yeah.” She was admitting it to herself as much as to him. “I really do.”
His warm golden eyes glowed in the firelight, his deep low voice sending a shiver up her spine. “Then no gloves.”
She twisted her bare hands nervously in her lap for a moment before nodding her agreement. “No gloves.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
So here's the deal. I was writing this chapter, and not only was it putting up a fight and taking much longer than I hoped, but it also started to get longer, and longer, and longer...and, I finally realized, it wasn't actually a chapter, it was TWO chapters. So, this one is a little short, but it was the most logical place to cut things off, and take heart that on the bright side that means the next chapter is mostly written and will probably be up this weekend. :-D I know things are going a little slowly, but stick with me, they'll start to heat up soon. ;-)
Chapter End Notes:
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