Page 43 of One Hotlanta Night
“Whoareyou?” I tease. “This isn’t a guy’s fridge. This has, like, full nutritional value in here… wait, is that Fresca I see?” I gasp. That’s an unexpected surprise.
Michael wraps an arm around my waist and nuzzles my neck. “Mm-hmm. Didn’t you say that’s what you like?”
“I mean, yeah, but I didn’t think you’d remember something like that.” In one of our phone conversations, I’d told him how my mom always drank Fresca, and I was the weird one in my friend group who didn’t like sugary drinks.
“Mi amor, I’m working on learning every single thing I can about you.” He drops a small kiss on my neck and reaches past me to grab both a soda can as well as a full water carafe, with sliced lemons floating on top. Might be needing that water sooner than later, because I’m beginning to swelter from all the affection and lust swirling through me.
Girl, get yourself together.“What can I do to help?”
“There are wine glasses in the cupboard right there.” He points to the one on the right. “Thank you for bringing that, by the way. I can’t wait to try it.”
I bring the glasses to the small round table in the dining nook and set them down. “Wine opener?” I call out.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” He laughs. “I haven’t needed to open anything with a cork since I moved in. Seriously, I’m not sure where anything is, but go for it.” Opening drawers, I find a select few cooking utensils and the regular cutlery. It looks like he got the same kitchen starter pack I did when I moved out of my mom’s house. Endearing, although with his level of culinary skill he probably could use more items than that. The third drawer must be the junk drawer; it’s jam-packed with randomthings: rolls of tape, screwdrivers, a million tiny receipts, coins, a gym lock… and, oh, look, a wine opener. A go-to place to shove anything and everything.
“Sorry about the mess.” He grins sheepishly, peeking over my shoulder. “Organizing isn’t exactly my strong suit.” I turn to him and smile, glad to see he’s nottechnicallyperfect. Although he feels all too perfect for me.
Michael leads me to the table and pulls my chair out. “My lady,” he says with a smile as he pushes me in and my heart flip flops again. He takes the wine opener and expertly pops the cork off.
“Twist-top tequila bottles are definitely easier,” I admit.
“We can make margaritas next time,” he says as he pours me a glass. Filling his own, Michael clinks his glass to mine. “Salud, mi amor,” he says, eyes warm and welcoming.
“Um,salud.” I return his smile, not knowing what that means. But the way he says amor—it sounds like he means it. Tonight, for whatever reason, his words, his terms of endearment, they’re starting to sink in that this might be real.
I’m not sure why I’m not freaking out more. I should be. But with him, everything feels just right.
We both take a sip and pause. The vinegary taste stings my mouth. I’m not a big wine girlie, but I don’t think it’s supposed to tastethatbad. Michael’s face scrunches up, and he swallows very slowly. Holding the glass away from him, he says, “Well. Thatisan interesting blend.”
My cheeks flush and I divert my attention to the hot plate of steak and rice he dished up for me. I know it shouldn’t bother me so much, but he’s taken the time to make something delicious for me and I brought the equivalent of toilet water.Seriously?I really like this guy, way more than I expected to, and I just wanted to do something nice for him because he makes me feel… alive. Safe. Floating freely and anchored securely all at the sametime. He’s like fireworks on solid ground, igniting everything inside my head as well as my body.
He makes me feel seen. Safe. Cared for.
Loved?
Not possible.I dismiss the thought.Wishful thinking.That’d be insane.
But he seems to really care about me, all of me, not just my body or what I can do for him. No one has ever cooked for me before, or taken the time to know what I like to drink, and I can’t recall from our phone conversations whatheliked to drink, and…
Soft chuckling pulls me out of my thoughts, and I glance up to see Michael’s eyes dancing as he holds back his laughter. “I’m sorry.” I grimace. “I’m not much of a wine drinker, and to be honest, I kinda wanted to impress you.”
His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “It’s okay, mi amor. Makes the night more interesting. I’m always up for trying new things. And tonight we learned that clearly Coppola should stick to making movies, not wine.” He reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze.
Even through my embarrassment, the way his thumb strokes the top of my hand sends tingles and reassurance through my veins.
“I didn’t invite you here for your sommelier talents. I’m just glad you’re here.” Michael brushes his lips across my knuckles. “With me.” Turning my hand, he plants a light kiss on the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. I swallow and glance up where his eyes are looking straight into mine with sincerity and warmth. “You’ve no need to impress me. You’re perfect, mi amor. Now how about I get some of that Fresca you love?”
"Thank you for cooking," I tell Michael, safely ensconced in his arms as we relax on the couch.
Thank you for making time for me.
Thank you for making me feel cherished.
Thank you for stealing my breath every time I look at you.
Thank you for making me feel good. Secure. Accepted.
Desired.
