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She’s in one of my shirts and a pair of little black panties. That’s it. Her hair is wet, so droplets make my gray shirt darker, and her pointed nipples stand erect and noticeable through the fabric.
A siren’s call for me any other day of the week.
But the fact she’s missing her sling grabs my attention most of all. Setting the spatula down, I wipe my hands on a towel and stride past her into the hall. “You’re gonna kill me with stress, Mayet.”
I don’t stop to sniff the air, despite the decadent aroma she’s left behind in the steamy bathroom. I don’t pin her in the hall the way we both like, and demand she pay attention to me the way we both love. Instead, I continue into our bedroom and snatch up the foam sling she hates. But turning to leave, I spin back at the sight of an old, tattered book on the foot of our bed.
I don’t touch it, but I move a little closer, and twist my neck so I can see the inscription on the front.
“The words of a poet…”
“It’s my mom’s diary.”
I startle in the half-dark bedroom and turn to find Minka in the doorway, her arm cradled to her chest, and a sweet smile playing on her lips.
Fresh-faced and dewy-eyed is how I like her best. When it’s just us in our skin, and nothing standing between us.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, sauntering in so her hips sway and my hands itch to touch. “I was going through my things from the move earlier and found this diary in the bottom of my suitcase.” She comes to a stop beside me so my hands automatically drop to her belly. Her ribs. “She wasn’t a poet. But I guess saying so on the front makes the book more elegant.” She picks up the diary and flips it open.
“I haven’t seen you read this before.” I scan the words over her shoulder, but she moves from page to page too quickly, leaving me with nothing but the knowledge that Irena Mayet wrote in cursive, and always began her entries with a date.
“I haven’t pulled it out of my suitcase since I was living in New York.” Closing the book again, she lowers her hand and looks up at me. “It can be depressing reading sometimes.” Setting the book back on the foot of our bed, she presents herself for me.
For a moment, I merely look down at her saccharine smile. The trouble in her eyes. The peaked nipples just below her shirt. But when my fists tighten in response, and I feel the foam sling in one, I choke out a laugh. “Oh yeah, that’s why I came in here…”
“You almost forgot,” she teases, reaching up with her good hand and dragging long, damp hair off her shoulder to make room for me to slide the sling’s strap around the back of her neck. “A woman walks out in a pair of panties and a wet t-shirt, and you completely forget your priorities.”
“So fuckin’ sue me.” I fasten the knot and lean in to press my lips to the warm skin on the side of her neck. “I’m never gonna be sorry for wanting my wife, Minka.” I nip at her flesh and breathe in her sharp exhalation of surprise. “You taste too good for me to stay focused all the time.”
“Obviously.” She adjusts her arm, now that it’s bound and secure, and pulls back just far enough for me to see her perfect, chocolate eyes. “Which would explain why our dinner is burning right now.”
“Fuck!” I go to grab her hand as I spin on my heels, but even amid playful laughter, she twists and snatches up the diary before allowing me to pull her along the hall.
Passing a watchful Chloe, I dart through the doorway at the end, then releasing Minka, I make a beeline for the stove, save our eggs from the heat, and stir the slightly browned scramble before setting the pan down on an unused burner.
“It’s not fair of you to come out all nipply and pantless,” I scold her while tossing bread into the toaster, “and expect me to not screw up our dinner.”
“Are you fifteen?” She strolls to the other side of the L-shaped counter and sets her book down. Then sitting on a stool, she picks up the half-glass of wine I already poured.
She shouldn’t be drinking, when she’ll be going to sleep with the help of opioid painkillers, but it’s half a glass. Less than half. As her quasi doctor, I’m saying it’s alright.
“Most thirty-year-old men know how to control their urges, Detective. Are you telling me you can’t?”
“It’s not so muchcan’t.” I move to the fridge and take out the tub of butter, then swinging around, I grab plates and silverware. “It’s that I don’t want to. See, I married this chick. Her body is my perfect nirvana. Her tits,” I peek at her over my shoulder. “My favorite flavor of popsicle.”
“Oh geez.” She sets her glass down and snorts. “Laying it on thick tonight. You need a little attention, Malone?”
“From you?” I catch the toast as it pops, set the steaming slices on one plate, then I drop two more in the toaster and restart the process. Finally, I turn on my heels and rest my elbows on the counter so she and I are on the same level. So our eyes meet and her breath tickles my lips. “I always want your attention. It’s like oxygen for me.” I peek down at the diary she still clings to. “Read me a page?”
She scoffs. “It’s depressing as hell. You don’t wanna hear it.”
“I wanna hear it if you wanna read it to me.” I lean in fast and press a kiss to her lips before pulling away to butter the cooling toast. “I only know the version of you that got off a plane in Copeland City. The lost woman, all alone, whose bag was stolen, and her eyes were glassy with fear.”
“‘Glassy with fear,’” she drawls. But she opens the diary in my peripheral and scans a page. “I don’t get scared, Detective. Especially not walking through an airport in a snowstorm. Plus, I had more than one bag with me, and the one that was stolen had hardly anything worthwhile in it.”
“Youclungto me.”
“I was attacked by you!” But she sniggers and takes a sip of her fruity white wine. “You surprised the hell out of me,” she says a little more seriously. “Big, tall, muscular, and arrogant. Crashed right into me and made me forget my name for a minute.”
