Page 87 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"Fine." Except that I can see she's not fine. There are dark shadows under her eyes. And her face's pale. She has this luminescent white skin, but even so, she looks pale to me.
"You sure?"
She bites her bottom lip, and glances down. "It was tough going home for Christmas."
Oh, God, she's hurting. And she needs me. That's why she called. Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around the nape of her neck, not in a sensual way, but to show my support. Whatever she needs, I'm there for her. "You want to talk about it, sweetheart?"
With a soft sigh, she gazes up at me. "Yeah. I guess I do."
I've missed this vulnerability of hers. This need for a shoulder to lean on while she's going through a tough time. God knows I have two strong shoulders. She can have either one. Besides, I know next to nothing about her. So this will give me a chance to get to know her better.
"Come in, please." She offers opening the door wider.
"Okay," I say, stepping through. "I brought wine."
"The stew's almost done. I made fresh bread too." Her smile's not the smile of old, but a new sad one. What on earth happened to her back home?
Right here and now, I make it my goal to make her feel good. Whatever it takes. "Smells great. And here I thought I was the cook."
She takes my coat and hangs it in the foyer closet before leading the way to the kitchen. Rosco and I follow along. Truth is, I'd follow her anywhere.
"Why don't you decant the wine while I ladle the stew?"
"Great idea."
Once she's done plating the bowls, she walks into the dining room. "Bit too much, isn't it?"
The space reminds me of one I saw in Texas when I worked as a caddy at an exclusive golf club. Embroidered chairs and an extension table, crafted in a rich, red oak, blood red paint on the walls, and a black-iron chandelier to shine over it all. Everything in the room matches the opulent decor, from the embroidered place mats, to the exotic china and crystal and the ornate silver flatware.
"Not my style, but I appreciate its beauty," I say, setting down the other plate. "I'll grab the wine."
"And I'll get the water."
As before, we seem to have a perfect rhythm during a meal. And that's not the only place where we pair up well.
She returns to the table with a pitcher of ice water and the fragrant bread and butter, and I pour the wine. Soon, we're sitting down in the gorgeous dining room to enjoy our meal. "It adds a certain cache, though, don't you think?" she asks, looking around.
"I do." Don't have any idea what cache means, but if she thinks so, I'll agree with her.
As if she's reading my mind, she says, "Elegance. The room adds elegance to my simple meal.”
"Nothing simple about it." I slather the bread with butter and bite into it. "Ummm."
"You like it?"
"Like it? I fucking love it." I tear off another piece, slather more butter on it, and pop it into my mouth.
She props her elbow on the table and her head on her hand. "I love watching you eat. You do it with so much gusto."
"I enjoy food, that's for sure."
"Well, you are a big guy."
"Well, the big part is true, as well you know." I wink at her.
Predictably, she blushes. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did." I point at her plate. "Eat."
