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“Not the first,” he says. “But hopefully the last.”
I feel a twinge of something in my chest.
“Moving on,” I say. “Shall we have a drink? If we stop drinking now, we’ll get hungover.”
“Excellent point,” Alistair says. “What would you like?”
My mouth is dry after all the mulled wine, and the sugar in the doughnut. “Something refreshing. Gin and tonic?”
“Coming right up.”
“Not a small, sophisticated one, please. I like mine giant, with loads of ice.”
“The woman knows what she wants,” he says, and goes through to the kitchen.
I use the time he’s away to run to the loo and ready myself for this “game.”
I can just stop everything if I’m not enjoying it, I tell myself. It would go against the spirit of the agreement, but I could. In the meantime, I’ll put on my big-girl panties and do this thing.
Why is talking about sex so nerve-wracking, I wonder. It’s not like it was taboo in my house growing up. We talk openly about our other drives—food and sleep—what makes sex so damned difficult? Or is it just me? I’m sure Alistair’s ex was totally comfortable talking in detail about every position they tried. Harlot.
“What are you giggling about?” he asks, handing me a huge glass tinkling with ice.
“Just unfairly insulting your ex in my head. As one does.”
“She’s such a great girl,” he says.
“You’ve already said that. You can stop saying it now.”
“You’d really like her,” he says.
“I doubt it,” I reply.
We both chuckle. He swirls his whisky, and we chink glasses.
“So,” he says. “Back to business. We’re supposed to fill in the list on our own, then discuss it afterwards.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“But I’m thinking we can just go through it together. If you’re comfortable with that.”
“There is no part of this that is comfortable for me,” I say.
“That’s also good, though. Getting out of our comfort zones.”
I snort. “Says you!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Have you seen your life? You’re cocooned in your comfort zone. You’re practically a bubble boy. You wouldn’t even have to tie your own shoelaces if you didn’t want to.”
I’m kind of joking around, probably because I’m nervous, but he doesn’t smile. At first I think I’ve offended him, but then he says, “You.”
“Me?”
He nods.
I look for anger in his eyes, but find only affection.
