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Opening her mouth, it’s clear she wants to argue. She seems to think better of it and simply nods.
“And what would you know of my normal women?” Then I remember. “All that online research, and you never saw the women I fucked who were just as curvy as you?”
Her eyes go wide.
I nod. “Now I’m reminded one of those women cried over how we weren’t photographed as often as the other women I was with.”
“Really?”
It's my turn to shrug. “In the past I’ve only been concerned the woman I was with understood I wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship. A few days or weeks tops. The women accepting of it were usually the models who loved the camera and sometimes even tipped off photographers. Almost all of the women came from the club. I work too much to meet women any other way. For the record, I never say anything I don’t mean. I’m not nice enough for anything else,” I warn her.
“Why are you being nice to me then?”
“I’m not being nice. I’m being honest. Have no doubt if you didn’t make my cock hard, no matter how much my family owed you, I would never attempt to make a marriage with you.”
“Who would you have married?” The question is a whisper.
I consider the question. “There was no one woman. The woman would have been someone who would bring her own connections to power. A woman who understood our marriage would be one of a partnership, not a love match. While I would have lovers outside of our marriage, she would not be allowed the same freedom as I do not share. We would have at least two children. She would be open to sex at least twice a week and we would both be bored to tears within the first three years.”
Tugging her hair, I bring her back to look at me. “I picked you. The why doesn’t matter, you and me—this connection, this desire isn’t something that happens often. This can be whatever we make of it.”
Blue eyes are filled with longing. “You say it like it’s easy.”
“It’s as easy or difficult as you make it. You’re a fighter, I understand that. Embrace this chance for a new change. You invented yourself once before all the way to your name. How did you choose the name Phoenix?” I’m curious, it’s one of the few things I couldn’t find in her file.
She shrugs. “Beth, the lady who fostered me when Ray disappeared. She was an interesting lady who never had kids of her own. Beth wasn’t interested in being a mother figure. It was all about having someone to run her errands. At first, I hated even the idea of a foster home. But the freedom she gave me wasn’t something I was going to get in another foster home. I even got the money the state gave her every month for my care. She considered it fair since she didn’t have to pay someone else to do it. And she liked having someone in the house. When I was due to age out she asked me if I wanted to change my name. If I did I’d need to do it before I aged out so the state would pay for the paperwork.”
“Beth sounds nice enough,” I say more to keep her talking than anything.
“Hm, she was. I was a mess and she let me be one without making me feel ashamed or guilty for it. Everything I thought I knew, all the plans went up in flames when Ray died. I’d already been taking college courses online because I got my diploma early at sixteen. Beth let me be listless for a few months but told me I’d have to make myself useful and not be lazy. If I kept taking classes she would let me stay in the house without paying rent, as long as I continued running her errands and cleaning. So I stayed and I picked Phoenix because I wanted to burn down everything I was before then.”
But she kept Raymond alive in her, using his first name as her last name. The bastard didn’t deserve it. I’m glad I changed her last name to Levin. She is far more fitting as a Levin than any other name.
All I want to do is hold her again. I decide to give us both breathing room. “I think I’ll make a coffee now for after dinner,” I mutter, not in the least caring about coffee yet aware if I don’t do something with my hands, they’ll be all over her.
As I move through the condo, I feel her behind me. I grab the moka pot on the stove and open it to confirm it’s clean.
“What’s that?” Phoenix is leaning against the center island, keeping it between us.
“It’s a moka pot, the best way to make espresso. Since it isn’t my morning espresso, I’m going to make a latte.”
Blue eyes are wide. “A latte? Can you make a macchiato like the coffee place? Can you show me how to make one?”
“I can. To both. Come here.”
She rounds the island. Curious, she looks at the base in my hand. “See this right here? We need to fill the water to just under it, don’t cover this.” I point out the valve in the base of the pot.
“Then you put espresso in here. Be careful not to overfill it and wipe away the edges, so none of the espresso gets caught when you tighten the pot that holds the espresso when it bubbles up, once the heat pushes the water out of the reservoir.” I set the pot back on a burner, turning it up high.
“That’s so neat.” She stares at the moka pot intently.
I pour enough half and half for the both of us and turn the steamer on. Phoenix watches me as I split the now steamed half and half between two cups. Moving around her, I open the top of the pot lid. Phoenix is right beside me. “See how light and frothy that looks? It’s the crema. Normally, what you want to do is pull it off for the first little bit and mix it with your sugar before pouring the rest in. I have no idea what the difference is in doing it and not doing it that way—I just know it tastes three times better when you’re throwing back your espresso.”
“I like it, but I could never just swallow a shot of espresso down the way I’ve heard it’s supposed to be drunk.” She shakes her head.
“The sugar helps. And if you’re used to shooting liquor it’s not nearly as bad as some things I’ve drunk.” I pour the espresso into each cup. “I’ll let you choose how much sugar you want. I’d start with two spoonfuls if you like sugar.”
Carefully, she adds three then sips it. “Oh, that’s yummy. I don’t even miss the caramel.”
