Page 87 of Average Joe

When I smiled a reassurance, she turned on her heel and retreated without a word.

Round two: Joe.

And though I missed the banter, I’d take that victory, too.

* * *

Ginger pranced at the door before the first soft rap. I hadn’t expected a visit after the day’s earlier events. Heavy knocks beat my rib cage, and I forced my joy down a notch, clearing my throat before opening the door. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Marley’s face was a mess. No makeup. Puffy eyes. Red nose. Chapped lips. But she smiled, and that smile knocked me back a step. Or maybe the garlic aroma wafting from the foil-covered pan was to blame.

Bruce stood at her hip, sniffing the air, clearly hoping for a chomp at the goodies. Ginger caught the aroma as well. The little queen danced on her hind legs, nose in the air, trying to get at the food.

“I made you dinner.” Marley stared at my chest, then met my gaze with a vulnerability that pierced my soul.

She cooked for me. My ticker kicked into high gear, beating something fierce. I could’ve fallen to my knees and wept at her feet.

Instead, I moved aside. Marley made her way to the kitchen, the mutts hot on her heels. I hung back a few paces, taking note of her attire, gray sweats that cinched at the waist and ballooned at her Nike-clad feet. A black T-shirt that hugged her tits and didn’t quite reach her hips.

Every night, I waited, an addict jonesing for his fix, desperate for her company. This house call was different. This visit was Marley shedding a layer and letting me closer, and though my cock was eager to sink into that hot body, my heart floated on a whole different plane. Moon high.

As if the kitchen were hers, she grabbed plates, collected silverware, napkins, two beers from the fridge, and set them on the table before seating herself.

I watched in awe, in silent worship, in gratitude deeper than marrow, while she served me a brick-sized serving of cannelloni stuffed with meat and oozing cheese.

She dug in. I followed suit, and the flavor exploded on my tongue, inciting a moan. Praise the good Lord above, the woman could cook. I’d hit the girlfriend lottery.

“I’ll probably burn in hell for saying so, but this is better than my mom’s.”

“Every boy thinks his mom’s cooking is the best,” she said to her plate, a forkful of noodle and sauce suspended halfway to her mouth. She blinked, glanced at me, faked a smile, then continued to eat.

“Your mom teach you to cook like this?” I asked around a mouthful of food, manners be damned.

Marley nodded, chewing, and cut into her pasta.

“Tell me about her.”

Her shoulders relaxed. Leaning back into her seat, she said, “My mom is great. Lives in Whisper Springs. I get over there every couple of months for a visit.”

“She married?”

“Yeah.” She reached for her beer. “She and her husband, Grant, own a bed and breakfast on Lake Willow. Beautiful piece of property. She’s so happy, and Grant’s the best. I’m heading over there in a couple weeks to spend a few days.”

“Siblings?” I asked, resting my fork on the plate, one hundred percent tuned into the convo.

Marley gulped two deep draws of beer, then dabbed her lips with her napkin. “I have an older brother, Wade. He has a couple of restaurants in eastern Washington and Idaho.”

“You close with him?” My mouth watered, craving more food, but my head and chest were ravenous for more of her personal offerings.

“No.” Sadness stole her smile. “We call each other at Christmastime.”

There was a story there, a tale I wanted to hear, but I settled with, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” She filled her fork with a large bite.

Simple. “If I had a little sister, I’d check in weekly, at least.”

“We’re adults,” she said, shrugging. “Wade is busy with his business. Life is just like that sometimes.”

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