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I fetched the menus from a drawer, grabbed my phone, poured the whiskey, and headed back, glad when his gaze followed me every step of the way back to the bed, as he lifted the blankets for me to slide under, as he pulled me back into his side, settled me on his chest as he looked through the menus, hemming and hawing the options.
The whiskey sat untouched until we settled on comfort dishes from a local take-out-only place. Fried chicken with mac & cheese for Nixon. Minestrone soup for me.
"All these options, and you pick vegetable soup?" he asked, face screwing up like I made no sense.
"We were raised to eat healthy. I don't have any attachment to macaroni & cheese like most people do."
"Have you actually had any?"
"I had it in college. It's good. It's no minestrone soup, but it's good."
"You're a fucking freak, babe," he declared, shaking his head as he accepted the glass of amber liquid I handed to him. He took a sip, then held the glass against his belly as he stared off at the wall.
"What?" I asked when I sensed there was something he wanted to say.
"Getting close to the weekend," he declared.
"I, ah, yeah," I agreed, confused.
"Just thinking..."
"About?" I prompted when he didn't continue, finding myself all the more intrigued since he was not someone who hedged things, who hesitated saying something he was thinking.
"Bringing you to Sunday dinner. For real this time," he added, gaze slipping to mine, showing me a hint of that vulnerability again.
I was thinking I was getting to know him enough to know how rare that vulnerability was, and also how uncomfortable it made him, how out of depth he was in it.
And because I wanted more of it, because I wanted him to feel he could share it with me, I figured it was best to make light of it.
"So that's what this was all about," I said, small-eyeing him. "You came over here, charmed me, and bedded me because you wanted to be served Sunday dinner at Helen's."
His eyes brightened at that, chasing away any insecurity, his smile curving up as his hand smacked my ass under the cover. "You caught me," he admitted. "It was all an elaborate ruse, so I can get some bomb-ass mashed potatoes in a couple days."
"You evil man you. No wonder goat-devil wants your soul."
The look on his face was freaking priceless as his gaze went to the closet, then back to me, eyes shining, smile warm, so warm it seemed to chase out any cold inside.
It took a long time for me to recognize the sensation at first, wanting to simply call it 'contentment' because it was easier to admit, a truth more palatable to someone who had been living with a bone-deep belief that they could never know this feeling again, not truly, not fully.
But no matter how much I tried to call it by another name, there was no denying what it was.
Happiness.TWELVENixon"Quit fucking with the air," I demanded, swatting her hand away from the controls.
She'd been having temperature ADD for the past hour and a half, leaving me sweating through my shirt or covered in goosebumps.
I guess it was nervous energy on her part or something.
It was the first night we were in her black SUV rental, hiding out in the backseat like she had apparently done when she had managed to fool me while still stalking Michael. The tint was dark, dark enough to get tickets if we happened by any moody cops.
We'd managed four nights in a row of not staking him out, either lost in each other, or busy with the Mallicks, and her work. But she got antsier by the day, her nervous energy sparking off her skin, making her short-tempered and jumpy.
I had been the one to suggest we do it in the end, thinking she wanted to but didn't feel comfortable saying it. Why, I had no idea, since I was definitely not going to judge her now that I knew the whole story.
If she spent the rest of her life keeping tabs on the man, I would understand.
I couldn't imagine losing Scotti to a situation like she'd lost Sammy. I didn't even want to try to put myself in those shoes. But those were shoes Reagan had to slip into every day, despite the pinching discomfort, the ache left in their wake.
"Sorry. I think I'm, I don't know, anxious," she admitted, grabbing the front of her shirt, fanning air up under it to chill her overheated skin.
"Because I'm here?" I clarified.
"No," she rushed to object. "Or maybe yes. Honestly, I don't know," she told me, shrugging her delicate shoulders.
"Why do you do this?" I asked, making her brows pinch together.
"You know why I do this," she objected, body stiffening.
