Page 55 of Atlas
I scoop some and place it in my mouth. The mixture of beef and vegetables warms me instantly and I groan in delight. I don’t remember the last home cooked meal we had. “It’s delicious.”
She smiles wide under the praise and tucks in. “Didn’t the posh bird cook?”
I swallow a mouthful and meet her eyes. “Can we just call her Anita?”
Rue gives a small shrug. “Sure.”
“And no, she didn’t.”
She tilts her head. “What about others?”
“Others?”
“Women. Old ladies?”
I grin. “There weren’t any… old ladies, I mean. When I take one, I want her to be forever.”
Her smile falters just slightly, like she’s not sure how to take that. Then she murmurs, “Anita said you asked her.”
I set my spoon down with a little more force than I mean to. “Do you really want to talk about Anita?”
Rue blinks, caught between curiosity and regret. After a second, she gives a slight shake of the head.
“Good,” I say, softer this time, “cos neither do I.”
We finish the rest of the meal in relaxed silence.
Afterwards, I help her clear up, even though she insists she can manage. The kitchen’s so small that every time we turn, we brush against one another. First our arms, then the small of herback against my front. She laughs the first time, but it’s breathy, a little too light. The next time, she doesn’t laugh at all, feeling the sexual tension buzzing around us.
Her body’s warm, and she smells like whatever lotion she wore last—vanilla maybe, or almond—and something sweet from her shampoo.
I hand her a plate, our fingers grazing. She doesn’t pull away.
“You do this for everyone?” I murmur.
She glances up, cheeks pink. “What, cook them dinner?”
“No,” I say, “let them in here.” I nod at the cramped space between us. “This close.”
Her eyes drop to my chest, then flick back up. “Not really.”
“That a no, then?”
Rue smiles again, slow, shy, almost dangerous. “Guess you’re special.”
I step in closer. Not touching, not quite, but her breath hitches anyway.
She leans against the counter, palms behind her, grounding herself. It forces her chest forward slightly, and I notice, of course I do, but I keep my eyes on hers.
“Careful,” I say low. “Might start thinking you like me.”
Her lips part like she’s going to say something smart, to tease me back, but no sound comes.
God, she’s cute like this. Slightly overwhelmed, trying to play it cool, knowing damn well she’s not.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says finally.
“And what did you expect?”
