Page 25 of The Wing
I shoot him a smile. “Good.”
After my shower, I pull on my softest pyjamas and find Hemi in the kitchen with damp hair, wearing a green T-shirt that highlights his hazel eyes and black track pants. I must have taken longer in the shower than I realised if Hemi is already in the kitchen, clean from his own shower, and a spread of ingredients lying on the bench.
I round the bench and stand beside him, glancing at the food. “Sorry I took so long. What are we making?”
Hemi slings his arm around my waist. “I thought we could live out your tavern dreams and make stew.”
I gulp. My tavern dreams? Does that involve the other part of the dream, because I was mostly joking about that. I’m not necessarily into being pounded. It has to be with the right person. After a lot of prep and trust.
I meet Hemi’s hazel eyes. But I have a feeling I’d enjoy it with him. Having his body cover mine and fuck me into the mattress. Skin on skin, his breath brushing my lips. I shiver and shake my head when blood rushes downward.
“Okay,” I croak and step away from Hemi before my dick takes more interest. Turns out Hemi is a touchy person after he kisses someone, which I would enjoy except I don’t want to make him uncomfortable when he notices my dick pointing straight at him if that’s not what he wants. Just kissing is fine, but I need to take the edge off. I should have jerked one out in the shower, but after standing in the water contemplating my life choices and attempting to figure out if I had really kissed him, I’d taken too long.
I swear if he keeps touching me, I’ll come in my pants. Which I don’t think a good host would do.
Hemi doesn’t take offence when I step away from him but grins at me, and hands me a carrot. “Chop chop, darling.”
I take the cold, phallic-shaped vegetable from him and flush. Jesus. With the amount of blood flowing from my heart, I’ll cark it right here on the kitchen floor. And it will be the rugby player’s fault.
I take the knife handed to me and chop the carrot in half, the sides rolling to either side of the wooden cutting board in listless despair.
Hemi laughs. “Unless you’re feeling adventurous, I’d cut it smaller than that.”
My mouth drops open and I choke. “Are you trying to kill me?” I mutter and slice the carrot properly.
Hemi doesn’t respond but smirks to himself as he focuses on dicing mushrooms. It’s for the best. If he directed that smirk at me, we wouldn’t get to the stew.
We dice and slice vegetables, herbs, and meat, and dump it all into a pot, covering it in stock.
“We’ll leave it for a few hours and can eat snacks while we wait,” Hemi says, covering the pot with a lid and setting the stove to a low heat.
He opens the pantry and pulls out crackers, apples, and oranges from the fruit bowl. Hemi piles them on the bench and grabs cheese from the fridge, and begins to cut everything, displaying it carefully on a clean cutting board.
“Go sit.”
“You don’t want help?” I ask, reaching for a knife.
He shakes his head. “Sit.” And points his knife at the table, and I sit, my legs twinging at the movement.
I’m going to pay for all this activity tomorrow, but it will have been worth it. Hemi looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, including on TV. His shoulders aren’t by his ears, and his face is smooth of lines, his lips soft and plush instead of pursed. Sore legs are definitely worth it for how calm he looks.
Hemi places the board filled with food on the table and puts a glass of water in front of me, and beside it some juice. I raise an eyebrow in question.
“You need food and sugar for energy,” he explains.
Warmth spreads through my chest, and my fingers tingle as I reach for a cracker and some cheese. He’s looking after me. He didn’t need to do any of this. Could have fucked me and movedon with his life. Instead, he’s spoiling me with thoughtful snacks and making dinner, and we haven’t even had sex.
It’s so considerate of him. Like something Daisy would do for me.
I swallow my mouthful and wash it down with water, and follow it with juice when Hemi points at it insistently. He’s already finished his glass.
We eat quietly, content in each other’s presence, and finish the food and drinks quickly. I sigh and sit back in my chair, rubbing an absent hand over my shoulder, digging a thumb into the muscle, and stare out the window. It’s a good thing we got home when we did, rain taps the window, gentle now, but the dark grey clouds don’t look good.
“What’s wrong?” Hemi asks, jolting me out of my thoughts. I meet his concerned gaze. His eyebrows are pulled tight over his nose.
“What do you mean?”
“Your shoulder.”
