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“Maybe Allie can keep it to remember me by?” Jonas says. “When she gets home, and the walls are thicker, and Oliver isn’t pressing his ear to listen to her every move.”
Oliver rolls his eyes, raising his chin. “If you think I’m the kind of man who needs to listen at doors to get off, I’ve given the wrong first impression.”
“I think we can all see what a gentleman you are,” Allie says, as the timer rings from the kitchen, prompting me to jump up and check on the progress of dinner. Gabe and Theron follow, and begin to gather plates, silverware, and glasses, slowly carrying everything over to the long dining table.
I take a spoonful of fragrant sauce, letting it sit in my mouth, waiting for my tongue to detect all the flavors. It needs a little more salt, which I sprinkle into the steam and stir. Is it good enough? I think so.
The rice is fluffy and perfect, too, and as I take the two huge pans over to the table, I let out a sigh of relief.
“Food’s ready.”
Clay claps his hands in anticipation. “I hope you’ve made enough for twenty. I’m hungry like the wolf.”
“Hey, I love that song,” Russell says.
“Me too.” Allie takes a seat next to him, casting a broad encouraging smile in his direction. “DuranDuranrock.”
“Isn’t that old people’s music?” Stefan asks, reaching out for the spoon in the curry. “I thought you youngsters would be more into Justin Bieber.”
“Hey…no disparaging remarks about Justin.” Allie scowls as she gazes at the food in front of her. “Bieber Fever Forever!”
“Oh that’s cute! She’s fangirling.” Oliver takes a mouthful of curry and makes an appreciative moaning sound in the back of his throat. “Seriously, Carson, I’m fangirling all over your curry. That is delicious. Did you really make it from scratch?”
“I did.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Clay says. “It’s the only recipe he knows. He wheels his mom’s specialty out whenever he needs to impress someone.”
“Well, I’m touched,” Oliver says, pressing his cheeks like he’s stifling a blush.
“I was talking about Allie,” Clay laughs. “Are you impressed?” He nods pointedly at the only woman at the table as she tries my food. Her eye-closing appreciation has the whole table whooping.
“One point for Carson,” Tom laughs, pointing finger guns in my direction. I feign getting hit in the chest and take a seat at the head of the table, watching as everyone clears their plates in record time.
After dinner, when the cleaning up is done, and everyone is indulging in alcohol, I flop next to Allie on the couch. Her legs are curled up, feet tucked neatly beneath her. With her hair pinned up in a messy style, she has the air of a sexy librarian who’s just desperate to drop the socializing and curl up with a good book. The men in the group have gotten tangled up in a discussion about cars, and Oliver is currently showing Theron and Gabe his sports car in the driveway.
But all I want to do is find out more about Allie.
“I’m still blown away by dinner,” she says, reaching out to touch my arm. I like her tactile nature. Human beings need human touch, and not enough people reach out that way anymore. When I was a kid, my mom was the same, except when my dad was around. He used to yell at her that she’d make me soft if she hugged me too much. I think that’s why she stopped.
“Thanks. It was nothing, though. I’m sure whoever volunteers tomorrow will produce something good.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” Her eyes scan over my left arm, taking in the tattoos there.
“This one is beautiful.” She points to an intricate image of Poseidon’s face, with a trident and huge waves that start at my hand and wrap around the almost photographic image. I get a lot of positive comments about this one, but when I look at it, all I see is a slight distortion where I didn’t quite get the angle of the face right, and the way the trident stands out too much against the more important God image.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to criticize the image but at the last minute, I bite my tongue. “Thanks. I try to do my own tattoos where I can.”
“You did this?” she asks, running her finger over the wave, eyes wide with fascination.
“I did.”
“Wow. I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but this kind of thing would tempt me.”
“There are better artists out there,” I say, already praying she doesn’t ask me to ink her pristine skin. I’d never trust myself to do her justice.
Clay flops onto the sofa next to me. “Shut up with the modesty,” he says. “This guy has a waitlist for his work.”
“It was that viral TikTok,” I remind him. “One post and people go crazy.”
