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I expected more questions, more seriousness, more sad looks.
But I guess when it came to Mark Mallick, you couldn't really predict what you were going to get.
Because the next thing out of his mouth was, "So are you cooking those damn things, or am I eating them raw? Not that I won't, mind you, but think they'd be a lot better cooked."
Then, like nothing at all happened, like my insides didn't fall out raw and wet all over the floor, we both started cooking. And it wasn't weird or awkward. The silence didn't feel uncomfortable. It just felt like a normal couple doing something they did every night.
Except we weren't normal.
We weren't a couple.
And we would likely never do it again.
That last one, yeah, it brought with it a sadness that was way too intense.
"Alright," he said abruptly, making me start. My eyes drifted up to find him standing there with a plate of uncooked steak in one hand and metal tongs in the other. "I have to go do the manly grilling thing. Feel free to ogle me through the back window."
I laughed at that, finding it came easily with him. "Or I could set the table."
"Well, that's not nearly as fun," he said, shrugging, then disappearing out the back door.
I did set the table.
But I totally ogled him as well.
He even caught me doing it, sending me a saucy smile in return.
"Why are we eating so early?" I asked as I caught the time above the oven as I slipped the desserts in.
"You want the PC answer, or the honest one?"
My head swiveled over my shoulder, smile pulling at my lips. "The honest one."
"I want you good and fed so I can fuck you for the next six hours."
Well then.
That answered that, didn't it.
"With a short break for apple flowers," he amended, reaching for my fingers and giving them a little squeeze. "Come on, let's eat."
Then we ate.
And I pretended I wasn't pressing my thighs together to calm the desire pulsating there as we talked about little things- the places I had been, what movies we liked, music, his jobs, his nieces who sounded like adorable hellions, his brother's new puppy, his history as a... cheerleader?
"Whoa whoa whoa," I said, practically trying to choke down a half-chewed piece of meat I was in such a rush to speak. "No way. You can't just say you were a cheerleader and try to breeze right by it. Explain yourself."
He smiled, reaching for a beer he had been nursing since we sat down. "My Ma forced us all into after school activities. All our lives. Trying, I think, to keep us out of trouble. Fat lot of good that did us. But anyway, in high school, all I gave a fuck about was what girl I could chase next. Having to spend countless hours a week on the football or baseball field would seriously cramp my style."
"So what better to do than marry obligation and your one true passion?"
"Exactly," he agreed, grinning, making his eyes crinkle up charmingly. "Got to spend all practice picking up, throwing around, catching, and carrying the most gorgeous women in school. It was a good workout."
"And it got you a lot of tail."
"That it did," he agreed, leaning back in his chair, watching me.
"What did you want to be when you were in high school, baby?"
"Mostly... out of high school. Other than that, I didn't ever really have that thing some people have, you know? That dream or passion. I figured I would graduate, find some certificate-type program, and just get some normal job. Now, fuck if I know what I'm qualified for."
"Private security work," he offered immediately, like he maybe had even given it some thought. "You and your brothers. You'd know exactly what weak spots criminals would look for."
"Because we are criminals," I supplied, not angry or offended, but also mildly uncomfortable with him seeing me that way. Why? I wasn't sure, because that was exactly what I was.
"Because it's in your wheelhouse. It's your skill set. It's what you know."
Mood a little bit less enthusiastic than a moment before, I got to my feet, reaching for both our plates. "Well, I'll have to see if China or Russia has any job opportunities in that field," I said as I moved toward the sink, running the water and reaching for the soap.
I had barely gotten the sponge sudsed up when I saw his hands plant wide to the sides of the sink and felt his front press into my back, his head resting on my shoulder.
"What button did I press?"
"What?" I asked, feigning innocence when we both knew I damn sure knew what he was talking about.
"Pressed a button. Don't know which one it is, and I want to, so I don't go pressing it again."
