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Yet, he sat opposite me at a table in this large but cozy restaurant. And I didn’t know what to make of it.
It sometimes felt like things had once more shifted between us. But although we’d introduced sex into the mix since returning from New York two weeks ago, we’d never once fucked or slept in his bed. That could be his way of making it clear that it was just sex; that he hadn’t officially moved me into his life.
He hadn’t done or said anything to imply that we were an actual couple, and he was still religious about using condoms. It seemed unnecessary when not only had he had the snip, but I was on the pill and we were both clean. As such, I wondered if the condoms were, for him, also a barrier against emotional intimacy or something. Probably.
Things had changed, though. He spent more time with me at home. We almost always ate our meals together now. We often even cooked them together. There’d been the odd occasion when he joined me in the media room, or when we both sat in his magical garden—which I’d begun to think of as my alfresco reading nook—and just talked or simply basked in the peaceful atmosphere.
He also slept in my bed every night. I suspected he had nightmares or was easily yanked out of sleep, because there had been times when I’d woken to find him working on his laptop in my chair. I never commented on it for fear that he’d start going somewhere else to work. Besides, he sometimes came back to bed or woke me in style shortly before the alarm went off.
Although we did spend time together, we still spent the majority of our free time apart even while under the same roof. So, things were different yet not. And now he was, what, taking me on a date? Was that what this was? Did he want something?
Well, whatever his motivation, I was grateful, because this pizza was the shit. He seemed to be enjoying his own meal—some kind of pasta dish that I didn’t have a prayer of pronouncing. He’d forked a piece of it earlier and offered it to me, so I could attest that it did taste good.
The whole thing reminded me of when we’d gone for a cake-tasting session that Chris and Miley organized. Dane had fed me several small pieces of various party cakes. If I liked it, he’d tried it. If I didn’t like it, he’d vetoed it on that basis. We’d eventually settled on one particular cake. It was freaking amazing.
I glanced around the Italian restaurant. It smelled exactly as such a place should: of garlic, grilled meat, tomato sauce, creamy mozzarella, and hot bread. It was a big place yet had a cozy feel. It also possessed a distinct charm with its earthy colors, muted lighting, dark wood flooring, photography prints of Italian villages, and ornamental tables and chairs.
Having finished my meal, I used a wet wipe to clean the grease and crumbs from my fingers. “I can’t quite believe the reception is in a month’s time. Have you sorted out a tuxedo for it yet?”
“Yes,” he replied, lifting his glass of wine. “When will you pick up your dress?”
“It will be ready for collection on the Saturday before the reception. Chris is going to pick it up for me.” I’d bought my footwear while I was at the boutique last time, so that was done. I hadn’t yet shown Dane the ivory lace knee-high boots. There had been occasions when, at home alone, I’d worn them to go on a wander through the house; breaking them in and getting a feel for what they were like depending on the type of flooring.
I used the soft napkin to dry my clean hands. “Onto a whole other topic, are you sure you’re okay with spending Thanksgiving with my family?”
His brow creased. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because Melinda’s still a little off with you. I wouldn’t like to eat my Thanksgiving dinner at a table where there’s tension.” The meal was in a few weeks’ time, but Melinda had already called the people she wished to invite, including my father.
“You want to go, so we’ll go. Just be aware that if Heather cancels the plans she’s made with her friends and does attend the dinner, I won’t be anything close to friendly with her. I can’t prove she sent that flash drive, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t.”
“I highly doubt she’ll cancel her plans. She’s always left Junior at her parents’ home on Thanksgiving so she can go spend the day drinking with her friends. To each their own, I guess. You sure the tension won’t put you off your meal?”
“Unlike you, I’m not interested in the holidays. It will be just another day to me.”
