Man-Berry Sauce Read online

  Contents

  Man-Berry Sauce

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More Second Helpings!

  About the Author

  © 2018 Tessa Blake

  Happy Ever After, November 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, institutions, families, adorable toddlers, or dumbass ex-boyfriends is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  For my readers,

  who put up with so many weird things from me.

  Let’s see if I can pull this one off, guys.

  Man-Berry Sauce

  She's giving thanks that they're not together anymore ... or is she?

  Caleb Wells and I are history. Ancient history.

  Sure, I've loved him since I was a kid, and we were high-school sweethearts. Whatever. He dumped me with no warning months ago, and I am completely over it—and him.

  But breaking up with Caleb doesn't mean I broke up with his family. I've known them my whole life, and when they invite me for Thanksgiving, I know this is one of the few days of the year I won't be able to avoid Caleb. I should say no, but they're my family, too, damn it.

  I'll eat some turkey and pie, be civil to my ex, and hightail it home for some wine and Netflix—and maybe a good cry in a hot bath.

  I can do this.

  How hard can it possibly be?

  This is a quickie, Thanksgiving-themed short story, part of the Second Helpings series.

  The high-pitched screech would be irritating if it didn’t come from one of my favorite people in the whole world. “Auntie Jenny Auntie Jenny Auntie Jenny!”

  A small body barrels down the long hallway and then leaps, leaving me no choice but to catch it with one arm while balancing a fragile coconut cream pie with the other.

  “Neveah!”

  I pull the sturdy five-year-old up to straddle my hip, clutch the box holding the pie a little closer to my other side, and look up to see Nash appear in the doorway at the end of the hall.

  “Jen,” he says warmly, and comes down the hall to take the pie from me. He knows better than to take Neveah, who has both arms wrapped around my neck in a death grip.

  I smile, knowing the smile is a little watery, but game to give this my best shot. “Long time no see, Nash.”

  “That’s racist,” Neveah pipes up, pulling back a little to frown at me. “Auntie Jenny, you can’t say that because it’s racist.”

  “Says who?” I challenge, though we all know the answer.

  “Bethany,” Neveah and Nash say, in unison.

  I press my lips together, not wanting to upset Neveah by laughing at something she feels so strongly about. “Well, honey, I didn’t know that.” I bend to set her on the floor. “Why don’t you run and ask Bethany what exactly is so racist about it, and come tell me so I can do better?”

  Bethany is Neveah’s older sister—a true social justice warrior, both at the keyboard and at the dinner table. I imagine the reason I’m not supposed to say long time no see will be interesting. But at least she cares, and at least all that tiptoeing around will make Neveah kind, and aware. There are worse types to have in a family.

  She kisses my cheek and lets go of me, then tears off down the hall, past her father, shrieking “Bethany!”

  “Speech therapy seems to be working,” I say.

  Neveah literally didn’t say a single word until she was four, at which point she started busting out with complete sentences on the level of a second-grader. The problem is, for the longest time she got most of the sounds all wrong, and no one could understand her.

  Nash leans over to kiss my cheek on the same spot his daughter did. “Working like gangbusters. She still has some comical mixups, and Dad told her she sounds like Tony Soprano—which meant a discussion with Dad about how I didn’t necessarily want to explain to her who Tony Soprano was, nor have to worry about blocking it on the TV.”

  “She does seem quite a bit louder than the last time I saw her, though.”

  “She’s discovered that her dial goes to 11.”

  “Well, it’s one louder, innit?” I say, quoting one of our favorite movies. Me and this family, we go way back.

  He wraps his free arm around me, and I wrap both of mine around his waist, squeezing hard.

  “You okay?” he asks quietly.

  “As okay as I’m gonna get,” I say softly. “Is Caleb here yet?”

  “He’s on his way.” Pulling back, he levels his gaze on mine. “For real: are you going to be okay?”

  “Of course,” I say, in a voice that’s far more confident than I feel. Caleb and I have only been broken up for a few months, after almost thirteen years together. How do I know if I’m going to be okay?

  Nash turns and heads back down the hall, nimbly sidestepping the giant Maine Coon cat, Buster, as he shoots through the doorway and down the hall, chased by the much smaller Chihuahua, Binkie.

  “Some things don’t change,” I say.

  Nash throws a smile over his shoulder. “Every man in this house knows perfectly well that there’s a woman in charge of him, one way or another,” he says.

  “Now that’s a fact,” a deep voice booms out. Brad, the patriarch of the Wells family, steps forward to hug me as I come through the doorway into the living room.

  I hug him back and gesture at the pie Nash is carrying. “I brought your favorite.”

  “I’d have thrown you out if you didn’t,” he says, and reaches out to ruffle my hair.

  Brad is the only man who would ever be allowed to do such a thing, especially considering how much time I spent this morning fussing over my hair, then fussing more to make it look like I hadn’t tried at all. But then, he’s been ruffling my hair since I was 10 years old, since the first time I came through this door with my best friend, Nash’s sister Leah.

  I didn’t have a family of my own—I didn’t count my foster family, and still don’t—and Brad was the closest thing I had to a father.

  “We’ve missed you, dear.” I look up, and Renee, Leah’s mom, is standing in the doorway to the dining room.

  “I’ve missed you too,” I say, blinking back the tears that spring to my eyes. Renee is like a mother to me. I’ve missed her desperately, but I also feel terribly out of place.

  This is why I’ve mostly stayed away, frankly—because as much as I love this family, as much as this family has been my family, too, for so many years, the weight of all I lost when Caleb and I broke up is sometimes almost too heavy to bear.

  Then, as if the very thought of Caleb has summoned him, the front door creaks open, and I turn to look back down the length of the hall.

  He’s as handsome as ever. Tall—every man in this family is a giant, it seems—and built like a boxer, with wide shoulders and arm muscles that make him look better in a button-down shirt than most men look oiled up at the gym. His dark hair is a little longer than it was, just long enough to curl against his collar, and his warm brown eyes are still bracketed by laugh lines.

&nbs
p; He half-smiles at me—those full lips quirking up on one side, dimples in full force—and I feel my heart sink in my chest.

  Oh God, this was a mistake.

  I knew it would be awkward; I knew we’d have to find our footing now that things had changed so much.

  But there’s one thing I didn’t count on, one thing that hasn’t changed:

  I’m still crazy, head-over-heels in love with this man.

  The napkin in my lap is plain brown, not the sort of thing to really hold your interest, but I’ve been staring at it through most of dinner, biting my lip to keep all of my emotions inside.

  Caleb hasn’t said anything to me other than his initial hello, but every time I’ve looked his way I’ve caught him staring at me, so I stopped looking. It hurts too much. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming here like I was over him. Did I honestly believe that?

  And the worst part is, the hungry way he’s looking at me, it’s hard to believe he’s over me either. This is miserable, and I don’t know how to get out from under it.

  But while I’m wishing hard for something to lighten the mood, I do not expect what comes next.

  “Auntie Jenny, do you want some more manberry sauce?”

  I blink at Neveah, biting the inside of my cheek as the rest of the adults at the table hide smiles behind napkins and wine glasses. “You mean this?” I ask, pointing at the dish of cranberry sauce and keeping my tone carefully even. If she realizes we all think that’s funny, she’ll just say it a million more times.

  “Yeah!” she says enthusiastically. “Manberries are my favorite.”

  Caleb turns a bark of laughter into a cough.

  “Thanks, but I’m all set,” I say. “And it’s cranberries.”

  Nash sets his glass on the table and smirks at me. “What have you got against manberries, Jen?”

  “Nash.” Renee, keeps her tone carefully even, but it’s also very, very clear: Stop it.

  “I love the”—Neveah hesitates, works through it—“cranberry sauce. Gran puts those orange skins in.”

  Renee, sitting beside her, pats her hand. “It’s called ‘zest’ when you just shave a little, dear.”

  Neveah tries out zest, gets it right after a couple of tries.

  Leah kicks me under the table and, when I look up, she flicks a glance sideways at Caleb. Asking me a question. I’m not even sure what question—the silent language of lifelong best friends is largely innate, but still, one can only do so much with half an inch of eyeball movement—but it honestly doesn’t matter, because if it’s about Caleb I won’t have an answer.

  Caleb, for me, is just a big unanswered question.

  And that question is Why?

  Why did he leave me? Why didn’t he give me a real explanation? Why has he avoided me so completely since it happened?

  I sneak a peek at him through my lashes. And why is he staring at me right now like he’s starving?

  I feel like I’ve seen that look a hundred times, and it used to send a thrill through me. Hell, if I’m honest, it still does.

  But that doesn’t matter now.

  I just have to get through dessert. Then I’ll make polite goodbyes, go home, and have a bath. Maybe watch The Good Place. Have a glass of wine.

  Have a bottle of wine.

  “I think we need a break before pie.” Renee stands and begins gathering plates. “Jen, I put your pie and two more in the back bedroom. Will you get them?”

  The back bedroom is upstairs and all the way at the back of the house, above the attached barn. It’s always cold, and when the fridge is too full on holidays, that’s where the overflow ends up.

  “Of course.” I put my napkin on the table and stand.

  “She’s only got two hands,” Leah says.

  “Well, then,” Renee says, “isn’t she fortunate that you’ve two more, and can help her?”

  But before Leah can stand, Caleb pipes up from the other end of the table. “I’ll help.” He looks at me, and I can’t quite read his face.

  But a shiver runs down my spine.

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound like it’s nothing, nothing at all, like my heart isn’t starting to beat triple-time in my chest. I don’t want to be alone with Caleb.

  Or do I?

  The quickest way is through the kitchen, so I head that way, skirting Renee and her armload of dishes, acutely aware of Caleb.

  Neveah trails behind us with a handful of silverware. “Can I help?”

  “We’ve got this, sweetie,” Caleb says.

  We step into the back stairway, and he shuts the door in her face.

  I go up the stairs ahead of him, careful not to pick up any splinters. The Wells house is a barefoot house, always has been, but these stairs aren’t in the greatest shape.

  At the top of the stairs, I turn right and push open the door to the room over the barn. Sports pennants and posters from Caleb’s high school years still decorate the hideous paneled walls, and a bed frame with a bare mattress is shoved into the corner and half-covered in garment bags—Renee’s off-season clothes. No one has lived in here since Caleb moved out to go to college, and it’s not really the sort of room you offer to guests.

  There’s a long table just inside the door, and three pies sit there, covered with waxed paper, as well as a stainless-steel bowl of homemade whipped cream and a plate of dessert bars. “Do you think she wants these, too?” I ask, turning.

  Caleb’s right behind me, much closer than he has any reason to be. I can almost feel the heat radiating off him; I can smell his shampoo. My knees go a little weak.

  “What are you—”

  He stops me with a shake of his head, then reaches out and runs his fingertips down the side of my face. “It’s been too long since I saw you,” he says. “I forgot that you’re so beautiful it hurts.”

  My heart lurches, and I draw in an unsteady breath. “Caleb, don’t.”

  His hand cups my cheek, and he bends to kiss me, softly. I don’t pull away. I don’t kiss him back. I just stand there. Eventually he pulls away.

  I look into his eyes, searching for … I don’t know what. Something. There’s lust there; I can see that. If I can be sure of nothing else, I know that he wants me.

  Do I see something else in there? Do I see the love that I used to see, or is that just a shadow, or a memory?

  Or a reflection?

  I don’t care.

  The realization swamps me. I don’t care. I want what’s about to happen here, even if all I’m seeing in his eyes is my own desperate, still-alive love mirrored back at me.

  I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck. His lips find mine again, and this time I do kiss him back. I remember his kisses—the taste and feel of them. I remember so much.

  He backs me up so that I’m against the far wall, his fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, and I give myself over to what comes next.

  Caleb unbuttons my blouse, quickly but carefully, laving each bit of exposed skin with his tongue as it comes into view. The cool air of the room touches the moisture his mouth leaves behind, and goosebumps rise up on my flesh.

  Then he peels my pants and panties off, kissing all the way down. His lips touch my hipbone, my thighs, my knees. When he finally pushes my knees apart and moves his head between them, I have my eyes closed in silent prayer.

  One thing I remember—one thing I could never, ever forget—is how good he is at this.

  One, then two fingers inside, curling up to stroke me where I’m most sensitive, and his nimble tongue flicking, flicking, until I think my brain is going to leak out my ears. In a matter of seconds, I’m trembling. A few seconds more, and I hear a soft keening, and realize it’s coming from me. Pressure builds—fast, it’s always so fast, so easy with him.

  It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, and I’m dizzy, my senses failing me, all sensation narrowed to what he’s doing between my legs. I gasp in a strangled breath, and I come, biting the side of my hand to ke
ep quiet, right there with my back against the wall and his fingers and tongue moving in tandem with the throbbing.

  My legs shake until I think I might fall, but I don’t. I put my palms against the wall behind me and will myself to stay standing, praying that he won’t stop, that I know what’s next.

  Caleb rises to his feet and pulls his shirt off, then unbuckles his belt and pushes down his pants and boxers. His cock stands proud and tall between us, and I wrap my hand around it and watch him blow out a shaky breath.

  Then there’s no more time for touches, no more time for kissing. We’re frantic; we’re starving for each other, drowning in desire.

  It’s been too long.

  He moves in close, pinning me against the wall, then hoists me up with two strong hands under my ass and buries his cock inside me.

  I feel a scream rising up, and I guess our time apart hasn’t made him any less attuned to me, because when I bite my lip to hold it in, Caleb takes my mouth in a deep kiss, leaving me breathless and barely able to moan.

  Which is what I do, pressing my face against the side of his neck and moaning softly as he surrounds me, as he fills me up over and over.

  It’s good—so, so good—and I feel like I can remember every single time we’ve done this before. I feel all of those moments leading to now, to his skin under my palms, my fingernails sinking into his back. To my legs wrapped around his waist as I open for him.

  I know his pace, the sound of his breath ragged in my ear, the way his shoulder muscles bunch as he holds me up and drives himself into me a final time

  We stand—well, he stands—like that, without saying anything, for a few moments. I wonder why his shoulder is wet, and I realize I’m crying. Then he moves back, and my feet are on the floor, and it’s over.