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You could be dessert, I tell him silently.
“Let’s say seven o’clock,” I shrug, then walk backward out of his office so I can watch his eyes watch me as I retreat. I like the way he looks at my hips. I like it a lot.
I like to cook, but I find myself nervous trying to prepare a meal for Maxwell. I grew up in a simple Midwestern family, specializing in mac and cheese for my five younger brothers and sisters. Maxwell obviously grew up with better taste than that.
What was I thinking inviting him to dinner?
But really? I just like being around him. Every time we are together, it gets a little easier. I find myself more relaxed, able to laugh and joke without being immediately self-conscious.
Still, there are a lot of ways to mess up dinner. I figure I have about an hour and half, so I should be able to spend twenty minutes shopping, then get home and do the prep work, cleanup, and get it all situated by seven.
Isn’t this supposed to be relaxing?
The line at the grocery store is much longer than I expected. But luckily, this market has a selection of heat-and-eat side dishes. They really save a lot of time, even if they are stupidly expensive. After standing in front of the refrigerated case for a while, I pick out a medley of colorful sliced peppers and a fancy macaroni and cheese with Gruyere and spiral noodles.
I guess we are having mac and cheese after all.
After a quick change into something more comfortable at home, I set about getting everything ready for dinner. The pork chops are breaded and sizzling
in the sauté pan when I hear a knock on the door that makes my heart leap in my chest.
I see him smiling on the front steps as I walk up to the door, and it makes me smile back. Pushing the front gate open, I hold my hand out like a game show hostess. He offers me a cockeyed grin as he steps across the threshold, then slides his palms along my jaw and tips my face up to meet his. This tender kiss fills me with butterflies, their wings beating loudly against the confines of my belly.
“I have been waiting all day to do that,” he murmurs.
“So have I,” I confess.
By the time I get back to the kitchen, the pan is sizzling dangerously.
“Oh no!” I exclaim, rushing forward to grab a spatula and flipping the chops over.
By some miracle, they aren’t completely burnt. Instead, they look tantalizingly browned.
“Delicious,” he observes with a smile. “How did you know pork chops are my favorite?”
“Just lucky I guess,” I smile back.
I feel goofy and giddy all through dinner, on the verge of bursting into childlike laughter. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, if ever. High school? College?
“What are you smiling about?” he asks, taking a bite of macaroni and cheese.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “It’s just… I don’t know.”
“It’s nice,” he says.
I break out into a bigger smile, feeling like he knows exactly how I’m feeling.
“Yes. Nice.”
After dinner, he helps me with the dishes, or rather he curls his body behind mine while I do the dishes. Slippery in the soapy water, his hands brush against my forearms, sending shivers up to my shoulders. Every touch is a marvel, a cascade of sensations I never knew I had. Feelings I never knew I was missing.
I stare at the ridge of his thumb as he slowly drags it along the back of my forearm, nearly trembling under this simple pressure. I feel his breath along the seam of my neck and his weight against my shoulders.
Gently he tests my boundaries, and crosses them one by one. Where last night he was urgent, passionate, and an irresistible storm, today he is thoughtful and gentle, thorough and inquisitive.
It’s like there is a landscape inside me, a deserted plain that I left there like a moat around my secret center. It would take a long time to get to me. Someone would have to be willing to cross all this barren landscape.
And here he is, step by step, getting closer and closer. I don’t want him to stop. In fact, I want him to hurry.
