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A few hours later, I’m ordering dinner for the girl of my dreams and me, counting the seconds until I can take her home.
Counting the minutes until I can unwrap her, claim her properly.
Chapter Thirteen
Ashlee
Well, if the sight of me half-naked, followed by seeing where I live won’t scare Brandon off I guess nothing will.
I still have no idea what he sees in me, but he’s genuine. I can tell that much.
I’ve been wound up, tricked, and set up so many times by boys and classmates to know just when someone’s for real and when they’re playing me.
Brandon is different, and the only times he seems to get frustrated or look angry is when I tell him I’m not just gonna drop everything and run away with him.
I have responsibilities too, and even though I can’t come up with a measly twenty bucks right now, I’ve got a job to do and people are counting on me for the biggest day of their lives.
Strange to think how just earlier today I was grizzling to myself about always being an onlooker and never a bride.
Well. Brandon’s not proposing, but he’s the closest thing I’ll ever get to being happy and knowing what it’s like to have a man want me, so I tell myself to enjoy the ride while it lasts.
Always ready for the bottom to fall out of things, I just can’t help it.
I’ve been hurt so many times I’ve lost count.
Tonight’s Italian night, and at his own insistence, Brandon is paying.
I’m starving, and silently grateful when I hear him ordering a decent amount of food. It’ll help me work better if I eat properly and I’ll need plenty of rest too if I’m gonna cope without Cynthia and Mark.
“Can we do any of this downstairs?” Brandon finally asks after bumping his head on a low beam again. Hanging up his phone, and letting me know dinner will be served in twenty minutes.
I can work downstairs. Mark’s workspace is three times this size and has better gear. I usually only work up here because it feels so different from being at work in the shop all day.
He helps me carry my sewing machine downstairs while I have a bundle of fabrics, lace, and the wedding dress that needs repairing.
By the time the food arrives, I’ve set up an area to work from and Brandon’s laid out enough food for six people on a counter I cleared for him. Well, away from any work I’m doing.
We don’t want any more little accidents.
The thought makes me smile, but sad too that I have to give this dress back. A part of me wants to keep it forever.
To clean it up but wear it for him over and over again so he can do more of the same of what we’ve done tonight.
“Come and get it, while it’s hot,” Brandon calls over to me, breaking my reverie. My mouth is still watering from the delicious smells since the food arrived as well as thinking about him.
“There’s enough here to last a week,” I observe, noticing how Brandon looks a little shortchanged in the serving size department as he eyes the takeout containers.
Big man. Bigger appetite, that’s the only thing I can think of.
He insists I help myself first, and after finding some plates and cutlery in the little kitchen area Mark has in his workshop, I settle down with Brandon and we eat.
There’s a no food or drink rule in the store, but I make sure we’re nowhere near any garments and promise silently to myself to open all the windows once the storm has well and truly shifted.
Plus, there’s no way all this food and Brandon would even fit in my tiny loft apartment upstairs.
It’s like every time I look at the man he seems bigger, almost like he’s growing by the hour, making me feel tiny.
Which secretly? I love most of all. Next to him, I’m so small. The smallest I’ve ever felt.
I thought I knew the menu too, Italian food is my favorite and I usually get something from them a couple of times a week when I can afford it.
But Brandon’s ordered everything I never could.
Steak, meatballs, lasagna, and a whole bunch of other stuff I don’t even know how to pronounce.
I usually just get spaghetti with marinara sauce because it’s cheap and filling.
Usually, I’m self-conscious about eating in front of other people too, but Brandon soon puts me at ease. Urging me to eat as he asks me what feels like a round of twenty questions.
His own way of getting to know me better, not just physically but as a person.
He asks about my family, growing up.
That’s easy.
“I never had a family.” I casually remark. “Grew up in foster care and once it was clear I was no ballerina or beauty pageant kid, I was shipped off to the next place,” I add, already eyeing a cardboard box I just know is packed full of cannoli.
