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So I let him. Because who doesn’t jump at an offer like that? I sit at the table, drink tea, munch on leftover cassava cake, and watch him scrub my pots and pans.
“Why are you laughing?” he asks, looking over his shoulder. And I realize that a chuckle must’ve slipped out.
“I suppose it’s because I’ve never had a billionaire wash my dishes before, and I expect I never will again. My grandma would’ve loved this.”
His expression doesn’t shift. “What about your parents?”
I shift on my seat and it creaks beneath me.
“Oh, you know. My dad wouldn’t care because it doesn’t involve bullets. My mom, I suppose she’d say you’re displaying the traditional male mating behavior of…”
I stop talking. My eyes open wide and I clear my throat. Hard.
“I didn’t mean…you’re not actually…”
He lifts an eyebrow and I hear the silverware he’s holding plunk back into the sudsy water in the sink.
“She’s an anthropologist,” I say. “She equates everything to mating rituals or rites of passage. I didn’t mean you’re actually—”
“Alright,” he says.
“Okay.”
“It’s fine.”
“Perfect,” I say. Then I stand up and walk over to the phone. “I’ll call a taxi.”
“Thank you,” he says.
After the call, when I sit down, the clanking sounds of Declan washing dishes are loud and uncomfortable in the silence.
When he’s finished he pulls the plug on the sink and the water glugs down the drain.
He wipes his hands on the tea towel hanging from the cupboard and turns around to face me.
“Thank you,” I say. I look down at the table. “And thank you for jumping in and swimming back with me.” I glance up, “Even if it would’ve been better to get help onboard.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, ignoring the last bit.
Then, because I can’t leave this unsaid, I say, “I don’t think you’re awful anymore. You’re only half awful.”
I wait for his response, but he turns his face to the side and looks away from me. In the window’s reflection I see a small smile curve at the edge of his lips.
Then the taxi pulls up the drive, the headlights shine through the window, and his reflection is wiped away.
“Well. That’s the taxi. So. Thanks again.”
He nods. “Anytime.”
He starts to walk out of the kitchen but pauses at the hall and turns. “Isla?”
“Yes?” Annoyingly my heart beats a little faster.
“Thank you for dinner.”
I nod. “You’re welcome.”
He studies me for a moment, then says, “I’m still not interested.”
His words hit my warm, contentment like a glass of ice water. Gah.
“Oh, go away.” I grab a clementine from the fruit bowl and chuck it at him.
He’s too stunned to dodge. It hits him in the center of the chest then thuds to the ground.
He looks down at it then up at me. He scoffs. “Really?”
“Go on,” I say. “You’re back to awful. Full awful.”
I grab for the squishy apricot at the top of the fruit pile and heft it in my hand.
He holds up his hands. “I surrender.”
“I should’ve left you for the sharks,” I say.
I throw the apricot at him, but this time he’s ready. He snatches it from the air and holds it up for me to see.
“Goodnight Isla,” he says.
I scowl at him.
Then he lifts the apricot to his mouth and takes a bite. The juice from the fruit runs over his lips and down his chin.
His tongue sweeps out and catches it up.
His eyes don’t leave mine. Not the whole time he’s licking up the juice of the apricot.
Oh my.
My abdomen clenches in response to the look on his face and my mouth starts to water.
“Goodnight, good riddance,” I say, proud that my voice is steady.
“Goodbye, Isla.”
He salutes me with the apricot and walks out of my cottage.
