Page 31 of Sparks Still Fly

“I got those for you. I know what snacks you like, fengári mou.” He leans closer to me so we’re face-to-face. “You forget I spent years talking to you, seeing you through a computer screen.” When my eyes don’t meet his, he lowers himself further, which also brings his face closer. “I know what you like, Maeve.” His green eyes drill into mine, and just when it feels like he’s sucked all the air out of my lungs, he straightens and turns to his stool, sitting as he lets out a loud breath.

“Plus, I remember the obscene noises you made every time you ate one of those disgusting Marmite chips on set last year.” It’s barely audible, but I hear every word he says.

I turn to catch him shaking his head, like the memory needs to be jostled out of his mind. “They are not disgusting. You’ve just never given them a chance. That and your American palette is stunted, obviously.”

He chuckles, and something warms inside my chest. I hate it.

“Obviously,” he mumbles as he reaches for the muffins, placing them between our plates. Unceremoniously, as if we’ve done this every morning, he pours tea into my cup first, then his. He continues the ritual, adding two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk to mine, mixing it then sliding it toward me. He doesn’t add anything to his own cup.

He knows how I take my tea, too?

I bring the cup to my mouth, inhaling deeply before taking a drink. That first sip of English Breakfast tea in the morning is sacred, and this one also happens to be perfect. A satisfied hum escapes my lips, and Owen shifts uneasily in his stool, filling the silence with a throaty cough.

I take in the absolute feast before me and wonder if he does this for himself every morning. Something tells me the answer is no, but I don’t allow myself the indulgence of dwelling on that thought.

“Dig in before it gets cold, blondie.” He smirks as I roll my eyes at the nickname.

“What is it with you and nicknames? It’s Maeve. Just Maeve.”

Says the woman who hardly calls anyone by their first name…

“Mmhmm,” is all the response I get as he begins eating his bacon, forgoing his fork. I certainly do not watch as he brings the slice to his lips, or as he licks his fingers, or the way his throat moves when he swallows, or how his fingers wrap around his mug in lieu of using the handle. I don’t notice any of those details about him.

18/

here we fucking go.

owen

Once we’ve finished eating, which happens mostly in silence, I don’t immediately get up to clear the dishes, and I wonder if I should.

Maybe I should talk to her later.

No, it needs to be now.

“I hope this was okay,” I say.

“Thanks for this,” Maeve says at the same time, a clear a sign as any that we’re both struggling to act normally around one another. As if knowing I won’t be the first to speak, she goes on. “This was lovely. Thank you.”

Her cheeks instantly flush, and it’s not a sight I’m used to seeing. Not anymore. The version of Maeve I’ve come to know is the proper Hollywood celebrity who always knows just what to say. She doesn’t blush; she doesn’t get flustered like this. The reaction goes straight to my cock, and the realization jolts me, so much so that I nearly jump off my stool. Now we’re both blushing with embarrassment.

“I uh… I need to ask you something.” My palms feel clammy, like I’m some teenage kid about to ask a girl to the dance. Nope. Just a thirty-two-year-old man trying to ask my temporary wife to pretend to like me.

“All right. Ask away,” she says.

“Since you’re my… wife now, the social workers need to meet you. They have to do these checks to make sure everything is all right at home and all that. They’ll have to run a background check on you.” I rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger as I exhale a heavy breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you have to do this.”

“Right. That’s completely fine. I assumed we’d have to do this, and I actually wanted to talk to you about something as well.” She pours herself another cup of tea from the pot. I follow the action like I’m hypnotized, and maybe I am. Even her hands are perfect, her movements so fluid, likely from years of practice, expertly digging up the exact amount of sugar and pouring the exact amount of milk into her cups of tea.

I nod as I pour some tea into my cup, forgoing milk and sugar to drink it like I drink my coffee: black.

She purses her lips, as if she just can’t help it. The sight of my tea, no milk or sugar in it, likely annoys the shit out of her.

“We’re being quite awkward around one another.” I raise an eyebrow at her, and she responds with an eye-roll. That eye-roll stirs up those bits of hope that linger in my heart. Because an eye-roll is a sign of my old Maeve. The one who’s comfortable enough to be herself around me.

“You know I’m right,” she continues before bringing her cup to her lips again.

I look away and nod my agreement. She’s right. Our interactions often swing between moments of complete awkwardness and comfortable ease, but that’s usually when we’re not talking. The silence between us is shockingly not awkward. No, it’s... comforting. Familiar.

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