Page 102 of Beautiful Scars

“I’m not going to fuck you,” I tell her, laughing. “We’re going to get something to eat.” I turn to her, pausing in the process of buttoning my dress shirt. “Or do you want to see how badly I can cook spaghetti?”

Meisie lets out a theatrical gag as she pulls the bedsheets around her and goes over to the drawers. “No thanks.” She rummages inside while I’m busy tying my shoes.

And then there’s this moment. Just one fleeting moment. And it feels like I already have everything I ever wanted. I asked her what she wants out of life, and this—us—didn’t come up. And I kinda think I wish it had, because I’d be happy with this. Us.

“I could cook,” she says, as she turns to me and slips a black T-shirt dress over her head.

“Spaghetti?” Because I have a hankering for bolognese right now.

Her eyes dart to the ceiling as she thinks about this for a second. Then she laughs. “Not any better than you can.”

I stand, adjust my suit jacket with a tug and a shrug of my shoulders, and hold out my hand. She studies me for a second without taking it.

“That’s one, Meisie,” I say quietly.

She hurries forward and slaps her palm against mine. “Where the hell do you expect to find a restaurant open at this time of the morning?”

My lips quirk into a smile. “There’s this guy that owes me a favor.”

She lifts her other hand, shaking her head. “Say no more, Don Cillianos.”

I’m chuckling all the way to the car.