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“Yeah, I thought you might be hungry, too.”
Rory nods. “I could eat a scabby horse.”
I laugh. “My granny used to say that.”
“Was she a red-headed beauty like yourself?”
Flirtatious Rory has come to dinner, it seems. His eyes sparkle with mischief, and I wonder if we’re going to be able to put what happened earlier behind us.
“Yeah, she was Scottish and very proud of her ginger hair.”
“I wouldn’t call yours ginger.”
Rory stares at me and my cheeks heat under his scrutiny. That is a definite curse of my flame red hair and porcelain skin. I can’t hide my blushes.
There’s a moment of tension between us. It’s not like it was in his study earlier. This time, the silence is laden with nervous anticipation. Rory clears his throat.
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“Maybe set the table and open a bottle of wine.”
I saw an impressive wine fridge in the pantry, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous and help myself. Rory immediately goes and fetches a bottle.
“Pinot Grigio alright with you?” he asks, as he sets it down on the island while he retrieves a corkscrew from a drawer next to the sink.
“Yes, lovely.”
He opens the wine, finds a couple of glasses, and takes them to the wooden table at the far side of the room. After opening the wine, he gets out some silverware and napkins and sets the table. He takes plates from a cabinet next to the dishwasher and places them on the table.
The curry looks good, and the rice is nice and fluffy, so I spoon it into a couple of serving dishes and take it to the table. Rory gestures for me to help myself first. I take a large spoonful of the curry and a smaller helping of the rice. Then Rory plates up his meal and pours two glasses of wine.
It’s all so achingly civilized. I have noticed before he has impeccable manners, when he’s not being an asshole. We start to eat and Rory murmurs appreciatively. The curry is pretty good.
“What happened earlier should not have happened.”
His words catch me so off guard, I just nod in response. I didn’t expect him to address that. I imagined he’d be the type to just sweep issues under the rug and forget about them.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. You’re my wife now and I scared you. That’s unacceptable.”
“It’s been a shitty day.”
“Aye,” Rory agrees, “but this curry makes up for it. Where did you learn to cook?”
“From my mom. She was a cook at the school I went to.” I take a sip of my wine and set the glass back down. “Do you cook at all?”
“Not really. I can fry an egg, make a decent spaghetti bolognese, but that’s about it. We have a housekeeper who does all our cooking.”
“Oh, right, Marian.” I met her at Libby’s wedding. “What about when you’re out here? Who cooks for you?”
“We have a woman who takes care of the house and buys our groceries, but if you’re wondering who made your breakfast this morning, that was Manus.”
“Manus?” I run through the names of all the people I’ve met since I first started working for Andrew Donovan. “Which one is he?”
“Big brute who trails about after Jacob like a puppy.”
Oh, yes. I’d have to be blind not to have noticed him. Manus is built like the proverbial brick shithouse. He’s heavily tattooed and an air of menace wafts around him. I’m pretty sure he was at the club when that shit went down.
