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Bones and I reminded me of them, of a man and a woman living their lives together. He shopped for groceries, built me a fire when I was cold, and he made dinner in the kitchen since cooking wasn’t my forte.
What the hell was this?
I dropped my brush into the water glass and sat there, looking at my painting without really caring about it. I felt the flames keeping me warm on my left and listened to Bones move around in the kitchen. He had a gorgeous apartment ten minutes away that was ten times bigger than this, and he had a beautiful mansion in the snow, but he chose to be here with me—even when we weren’t screwing.
This was so fucked up.
Bones brought everything to the coffee table, the only surface I had for eating. My place was too small for a kitchen table, not if I wanted to have two couches. I never sat at the dinner table when I ate alone anyway, so it seemed like a waste.
He must have picked up on my mood because he asked, “What is it, baby?”
Baby. He called me that every chance he got, and now I didn’t remember how my real name sounded on this tongue. “Nothing…” I turned away from my easel and rose from the stool.
He gave me a stern look, telling me he didn’t believe that answer at all.
“This looks good…” I sat on the floor in front of my plate, keeping my eyes away from his so he couldn’t look into my soul.
Thankfully, he dropped it and walked back into the kitchen. He returned with everything else then sat across from me.
We ate in silence—just like my parents.
Why was this happening? How did this happen? How the hell did we get here?
He drank scotch with his dinner, while I had a glass of wine with mine. He used both utensils to cut into his food, and he ate his meal like a refined man with manners. It was in direct contrast to how barbaric he normally was. But when it came to food, he was the most civilized.
“This is really good.” I was surprised he cooked so well. It was nothing compared to the meals Lars made for me, but it was far superior to anything I could make. “Thanks for making dinner.” I tried to fill the silence with conversation, tried to break the comfortable atmosphere. I didn’t want it to feel so right, to feel so easy.
He turned his blue gaze on me and watched me, subtly hostile. He chewed slowly, his expansive shoulders broad and powerful. He sat perfectly upright, so my eyes still had to shift up in order to look at him. He didn’t say anything, forcing the silence to continue.
Goddammit. I grabbed my wine and took a deep drink.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“What?” I asked, playing dumb.
“You’re too smart to act stupid. Don’t pull that shit with me.” He stared me down before he took another bite of his food.
I didn’t want to tell him the truth, not before I showed him that painting. So I shared something else with him. “My mom told me the owner of that restaurant we went to is good friends with my father…and he told my parents that he saw me on a date with a really handsome man.”
He didn’t give me an arrogant smile at my comment. He stayed hostile, his light-colored eyes aggressive.
“She asked me who the man was…I didn’t tell her.”
“And that was the end of it?”
“She said a few other things, asked me to talk about it. I’ve always been pretty open with her about my personal life. I told her about my first crush, my first kiss…stuff like that. My father has always been overbearing, but my mother has never been that way.”
“But you couldn’t talk about me to her.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say…and I hate lying to her.”
“Then don’t lie,” he said simply.
“You know I can’t do that…”
He took a long drink of his scotch, keeping his eyes on me.
“I hate being so secretive, but I have no choice. When she reminded me that she and my father would like to meet someone I’m seeing, I told her that wasn’t necessary. My father implied he would only want to meet the man I’ll probably marry…and I told her you weren’t that man. Hopefully, that put it to rest.” I drank my wine again, hoping my story was enough to persuade him that he meant nothing to me. I had to poison the well while I had a chance. When he saw that painting, I didn’t know what would happen.
His expression didn’t change at all. That information didn’t mean anything to him. He drank his scotch again. “You don’t have to lie to her if you don’t want to. You could always ask me to leave and never come back. Then there would be nothing to lie about.” He must have known I wouldn’t do that. If that were a possibility, he wouldn’t still be in my apartment, cooking dinner and pretending everything was perfectly normal.
