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“I wake up for important things.” He sounds mildly offended before lifting his mug. “I called a lawyer for you.”
“Why?” I round my eyes. “Are you suing me?”
“No,” he says with exaggerated patience. “A lawyer to help you set up an LLC for your new business. If you’re still interested. Kathleen is knowledgeable. You’ll like her.”
He stands from the couch and stretches again, his shirt parting at the bottom to reveal a slice of tanned, toned belly. Drool.
“Are you leaving?”
“No.” He watches me from his height as if debating. “You want me to?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
His lips twitch. “Probably not.”
Archer stayedthe rest of that day at my place. He insisted on showering with me so I wouldn’t be tempted to use my sprained wrist to wash. He spent a lot of time washing my breasts and ass, but I didn’t complain. After, he lowered to his knees and put his mouth between my legs. I forgot I had a wrist at all.
The following day, he drove me to his lawyer’s office. He was right about Kathleen. She was very cool. She had a pencil stuck in her wild blond hair and talked ninety miles a minute. She helped narrow down the ideas I had for the name of my business. We settled on Talia’s Design, LLC. (Evidently, “incorporated” is something else entirely.)
My wrist healed fairly quickly. There was no need to wrap it for the remainder of the week, which was nice. By the following week, I was typing on a keyboard without issues…as long as I didn’t overwork it, my wrist didn’t hurt. Archer worked from home—my home—bringing his laptop and phone with him and setting up at the coffee table.
I didn’t argue. I liked hearing his low voice murmur from the other room. He is becoming a staple while I’m here, but in my defense, I don’t have much of a life outside of this townhouse.
The next Monday, the weather has turned from ice and snow to sunshine (albeit really cold sunshine), and Archer broke the news that he had to drive to Owen HQ in Columbus. He promised to be home by dinnertime and kissed me goodbye.
By four o’clock I’m elbow-deep in lasagna—not literally, but it’s a messy process. The recipe is Lis’s, and she gave me way too many instructions. I went to town—driving is much easier without the sky falling, by the way—in search of fresh pasta. I had to go to three markets, but I finally found what I was looking for.
My front door opens as I push a dollop of ricotta cheese off the spoon and onto the final layer of lasagna.
“Present for you.” Archer swaggers into the kitchen, manila envelope in hand. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s watching me so intently, I have the irrational worry that I’ve chosen the wrong recipe for dinner.
“Do you not like lasagna?”
“I like lasagna.” He rounds the island and palms my hip. Then he kisses me softly while I hold my ricotta-covered fingers out of the way and kiss him back. His moss-green eyes lock on mine before he offers the envelope. “Here you go.”
I run to the sink and clean my hands, and then tear open the envelope with all the self-restraint of a kid on Christmas morning.
My LLC is official.
“Oh my God!” I leap into his arms, and he catches me with a laugh. He sets me on my feet, and I hold the paperwork in both hands, staring in awe and not knowing what to do with my excitement.
“I thought we’d go out and celebrate.”
“Oh.” I look down at my partially completed dinner. “I can finish layering and pop this into the fridge. It’ll keep for a few days.” I think. I’ll have to double-check with Lis.
“No.” He sends me a warm look that is less predatory and more familiar. “This is better. I’ll be back with wine. And then I have something to ask you. Red or white?”
My mind is hooked on the what-he-wants-to-ask-me part, so it takes me a beat to confirm, “Um, red.”
He leaves. I finish up the pan of lasagna and slide it into the preheated oven. By the time he returns and pours us two glasses, I suspect I know what feelings he was maneuvering around when he first walked in.
From the how was your day to the cozy home-cooked meal to the moment we’re bellied up at the island sipping a delicious red zin, we’ve turned incredibly domestic.
Archer
“The last time I had homemade lasagna at home was…” I was about to say when I was a kid, but now that I think about it, that was catered for an event. “Have I ever?”
Talia gasps in shock. She’s slouched over the island, her elbow on the surface. “That’s so sad. Child abuse, really.”
