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He nodded and searched through albums that were lined up in a shelf on the wall. He pulled out the album cover, and I saw it was an original from 1965 showing the band sitting together fully dressed in a bathtub.
"Appropriate, given we're in the middle of a storm in New York," Drake said. "John Philips wrote the song in 1962 during a New York snow storm. I love New York, but wait until you see Kenya. It's so beautiful in places and the weather is always warm."
"You sure you still want to go in March?"
He shook his head. "We'll stay here for a few weeks until I can see if the transplant takes. Maureen doesn't want me involved. I'd have nothing to do but sit around moping, waiting for news. If we go to Kenya, I'll be busy teaching and doing surgery. There's nothing I can do here anyway and I could always fly back if anything happened with Liam."
He put the album down and went to the sideboard where he had a couple of shots of Anisovaya waiting.
"Here," he said, handing one to me. "I need this. I think I want to get drunk tonight. What do you say?"
I smiled at him. "Sounds perfect. We can be hung over tomorrow. I have nothing planned besides working on my canvas. I can do that hung over."
"Me neither. Za vas!" he said and held up his shot.
"Za vas," I replied and together we shot back the vodka. Then he pulled me into his arms and kissed me as if he wanted to catch the taste of the liquor on my tongue. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he lifted me up as he kissed me, his kiss warm and deep. He held me up like that for a moment and then let me slide down his body.
"First," he said, brushing hair off my cheek. "I thought we'd make a nice light dinner after that mountainous sandwich at lunch. Then, we can talk about our plans and get sloshed."
"Sloshed?"
He grinned. "My father's term for floor-licking pissed."
"I like it," I said and leaned my head against his chest. "I don't know if I intend to lick any floors though…"
He laughed at that and embraced me more tightly, nestling his face in the crook of my neck.
"Sweet Ms. Bennet. What would I do without you?"
"I don't even want to think about us not being together," I said softly. He started to rock me in his arms. Then another song came on, this one by the Beatles. I didn't know the title, but I grew up listening to my father play his old albums and I knew Paul McCartney's voice.
"What's this?" I asked, slipping out of his embrace and turning to the sound system. I picked up the iPhone and checked the playlist. The Beatles, the album titled Rubber Soul. Dated 1965.
"In My Life," he said, coming up behind me, his arms slipping around my waist. "Another appropriate song, because I do love you more," he said, kissing my neck. I put the iPhone down and laid my arms over his, which circled my waist. "I love you, Kate," he said softly.
"I love you," I said, my throat choking up a bit. We stood like that for a while in each other's embrace, listening to the beautiful song, so lovely, yet sad in a way or maybe it was the sadness I felt for Drake and his son. We stood and listened until the end of the song, our arms around each other and then when it finished, and another song started to play that I didn't recognize, he let go of me.
"Come to the kitchen," he said. "I've got some vegetables for a salad. I thought we'd have some chicken."
I smiled as he led me out of the living room to the kitchen, happy that he seemed to want to be so domestic with me. It was such a change from only a few months before when he promised we would never do romantic couple things – cook meals together, go out for lunch.
The agreement we wrote up and that I was so obsessed with had never really been enforced. In truth, I was glad. It was never necessary. Drake would never push too hard. Not only was he not that kind of Dom, he really didn't want anything but my own pleasure.
While I prepared the produce for a salad, Drake was in charge of the chicken. When I finished arranging the salad, I watched as Drake prepared the chicken breast, dredging it in flour and then sautéing it in a pan on the stove.
I sipped a glass of wine and watched, smiling as he hummed to himself, amazed at how domestic he appeared, a white apron around his waist.
"It won't take long," he said and turned to me. "I have a nice baguette that we could have as the starch."
"When did you get so domestic?"
He laughed and reached into a bag on the counter, removing the long thin loaf.
"I lived by myself for five years after the divorce. It was either learn to cook decent food or live out of restaurants."
Together, we set the table in the dining room, using some old linen Drake found in a box. He put a couple of l
arge pillar candles on a plate and lit them, and we served ourselves and sat down at the table. I was just about to dig in when Drake took my hand.
