Page 52 of Our Little Cliche
“Wait til’ you hear what we say when we announce our impending departure after a barbie, or event out or something.”
We roll the mince and pastry into long rolls, and before I know it they’re taking shape into the sausage rolls they’re going to be. “Okay, I’m too curious now. What’s a barbie? And what do you say to people when you leave?”
“A barbecue…” I clear my throat, getting into mytrue blueAussiecharacter that I bury deep down. “Well, bugger me dead, look at the time. Better call it a night and hit the frog n’ toad.”
“I have no words,” he says, blinking in such a way that gives the impression I’ve caused a circuit in his brain to fuse.
“Is your head combusting?”
“Yes, and if you keep spitting out words like that I’ll be the one curling up by the fireplace demandingyouto readmea book and feedmewine.”
“I could. But you seemed pretty adamant that you’re to read it, and not me.”
“I don’t make the rules, sweet cheeks.”Sorry, sweet cheeks?“I just break them in my books.” I say nothing back, ignoring the temptation to address the pet name as he continues, “You should show your mom that her meals are being carried all the way across the globe, these things smell delicious.”
“I doubt that would go down well.”
“Why is that?”
“She doesn’t even know that I’m here,” I mutter under my breath with every amount of shame.
“Oh. Really?”
He turns to place the sausage rolls into the oven, bending down. “Y?—”
Don’t look at his ass.
Don’t look at his ass.
My words get caught in my mouth, seeing the fabric of his pants stretch from his toned… No. Idefinitelyshould not be looking at his behind while he bends over. But alas, I can’t stop my eyes from fixating on his perfectly curated buns.
Crap.
“I need a drink,” I awkwardly, in a panic, yell the words, seeing that the wine rack on the bench is empty. I sound like Captain Sparrow askingwhere is all the rum gone?
“Grab a bottle from the cellar, I haven’t brought any out to the kitchen sorry.”
Shamefully, I practically bolt from the kitchen into the wine cellar that connects to the pantry.Thank god. I can finally have a second to myself, I think to myself, slapping my forehead on repeat.I’m such an idiot.
“Wow,” I mumble to myself, craning my neck to get a good view of all of the variances of plonk perfectly stacked, cork side out along the ceiling high racks. One for every shade of color and desired flavor. Sauvignons, merlots, chardonnays, pinot noirs, muscats and rosés.
How have I not been in here yet?
“Wow,” I repeat the word as if it puts more emphasis on it.
“You know, for a woman who knows her way around a bottle of wine,” Cyrus drops an octave, “anddrunk movesto other countries,” then returns to normal, “you’re certainly one of very few words.”
He’s leaning against the frame of the wooden, barn-style cellar door with a smirk on his face. “Oh, now who’s the smart ass?” I chuckle and continue flicking between the bottles, unsurewhich of the white wines are best suited to mashed potatoes and sausage rolls other than my usual five dollar specials.
“No. A Cabernet Sauvignon if what’s needed.”
Uh oh.“That’s the red one, isn’t it?” I swither, pulling a face.Not the red wine.One glass of red is triple what a whole bottle of white does to me. And it always makes me… horny.
“Yes it is. It’ll enhance the flavors. I’ll grab it,” he brushes past me to reach for a bottle from one of the top rows. “You won’t reach it unless you climb the ladder… and we all know what you’re like with ladders.”
“Hey, that was one time!” I snap with a laugh under my tongue, mindlessly flicking his lower back with the hand towel I had tucked into my jeans. Dare laces his eyes.
“…You’re going to regret that.” he teases, a smirk pulling the corner of his lip.
