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Fluffer grabs himself more hay.
Get used to you? Let a hungry bear adopt you, then get back to me when you want it to brush your hair.
“What about cuddles?” I eye Fluffer skeptically. “Would he want to be held?”
“Again, after some trust is formed,” Art says.
Fluffer catches my gaze, his expression frightened.
Go cuddle with a hungry bear, and then we’ll talk trust.
Art stands up. “Let’s let him acclimate to his new surroundings.”
“Sure,” I say. “What do you want to do now?”
Please say, “Talk about the sleeping arrangements.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “If you’re done unpacking, how about you put together that list of movies for me?”
I do as he suggests, which obviously ends in me watching some of the movies I put on the list. Being considerate, I close the living room door to avoid spoiling anything for Art.
Just as Hannibal Lecter delivers the line about “having an old friend for dinner,” my nose detects something delicious wafting from the gap under the door.
I let my nose lead me to the epicenter of the tempting scent—the kitchen.
The kitchen table is set with beautiful square plates, candles, and three bowls with incredible-smelling delicacies, with classical music adding to the ambience.
“Rice pilaf,” Art says when he spots where I’m looking. “With raisins and dates.”
Wow. Speaking of dates, I feel like I’ve just stumbled into one.
“Did you cook all this?” I ask, my mouth watering. “Or is it takeout?”
“I like to cook,” he says.
I’m about to say, “Marry me,” but then I remember he already did.
“Please sit,” he says. “I was just about to call you.”
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I plop my butt down and reach for the rice.
Art grabs my wrist gently, which kicks off fireworks up and down my whole body. Fireworks that end with a sparkler in my nether regions.
“I’m going to service you.”
Oh, that again. Just like the last time, the words produce X-rated images in my mind, but now they’re made worse by the fact that I’ve seen what it looks like when he “services me” in the dirty way that also involves eating.
Art ladles the rice onto my plate and then tops it off with something that looks even yummier.
“What’s that?” I ask. “It smells divine.”
As if to confirm my statement, my stomach growls, like Woofer when he’s especially grumpy.
Art smiles. “Duck à l’Orange.” He places something fruity next to the duck. “With poached pears.”
If I like that duck, is he going to use that as proof that I’m French?
I reach for my fork and knife, then stop. “Am I allowed to pick these up, or is handling silverware part of the service?”
