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“Like you feel bad for me or something.” I wince and turn back to the steak, covering every simmering pot as she hoists herself back onto the counter.
“Okay. Then I won’t ever look at you again.” She looks down at her feet, finishing off her wine in record time. I take another sip of mine to catch up.
“Why not?”
“Why not, what?”
Her voice is irritating. I tell myself that as I turn towards her, even though I’ve been the one keeping her talking all this time, refilling her wine glass, making this seem like a date. Getting her closer to me.
“Are you drunk already?”
“No.” She shakes her head and I raise my brows until she giggles. “A little tipsy.” She pinches her fingers and I shake my head.
“Figures you’re a lightweight.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.” I turn back towards the food, and she pokes my shoulder with her toe. I shrug away from her with a growl, so she knows to stop.
“I’m not.” She repeats, adamant now.
“I said okay.” I raise my voice a bit, exasperated. I definitely thought I’d enjoy this seducing her thing a bit more.
“I’m just joking.” She says under her breath.
“So, you are drunk?” I flatly ask.
“No, I’m saying I’m joking about being worse than I am.”
I breathe out my nose at this, and she sets her glass down. It’s apparent to me that she rarely drinks, and I know she won’t feel good tomorrow if she keeps it up on an empty stomach. I don't understand why I care, probably because it will be a total inconvenience to me if she’s even bigger of a pain in the morning.
“You’re gonna need some bread and water.” I pull a fresh baked loaf out of the oven that I had one of our chefs make this afternoon and slice her a couple of pieces. After grabbing the table water and a cup, I bring it over to her. She smiles gently and takes them, watching me work as the jazz music quietly plays in the background. I cook for a while, and we’re quietly content.
“Thank you.” She breaks our silence and I turn with curious eyes to meet hers. Then I remember part of the reason, I am determined to seduce her. Her warm skin looks smooth and supple, the candlelight catching the curvature of her cheekbones and the freckles across her cute nose. Her eyes are easily the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen countless eyes on numerous faces--but hers take the cake, win the prize--you get the picture. They’re like portals into a prism of tall, endless trees.
“I wasn’t kidding this morning when I said you were beautiful— are, beautiful.”
She rolls her eyes with a grin and takes a piece of bread, dipping it in olive oil and spices from a bowl I don’t remember getting her.
“What is that?” I ask, taking a step towards her and instead of answering, she grabs me a piece, dips it in and hands it to me.
“Try it.”
I take it from her and take a bite. It’s actually nice. Oregano, garlic, rosemary, salt, pepper, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. All Italian shit–or at least that’s what I’d say, if I weren’t so overcome by how good it all tastes like this.
“How did you put this together?”
“You were preoccupied.” She looks over at the food almost ready, cooking its last few minutes on the stove. I cross my arms over my chest as she nods, “Hm.”
“You cook?”
“No.” She laughs. “But, I have a garden. It was my mother's, and before she passed, she gave it to me.”
“I’m sorry.” I tense my brows, for some reason, forgetting she too has lost her mother.
“Was your mother much of a gardener?” She asks, and I can’t answer because talking about her sucks the life out of me. It brings up memories and stories that only piss me off because they all remind me of my murderous, psychopathic father. She can sense I’ve grown quiet, and I think explaining that will be even worse than just quickly answering her, so I nod.
“Yeah. She liked to garden.” I turn towards the food and glance over my shoulder. “Dinner’s ready.” She grins at me, a look on her face that I can’t fully understand, before she hops off the counter and walks over to the table.
