in the mood to have another go later in the night, so I return to my own room smiling and ready to sleep.
It’s really nice, a great two weeks. And it feels simple because other than our time together under the covers, we still live our own lives.
On a Tuesday evening, just over two weeks since we first had sex, I give up working at six thirty. I’ve been at it for more than twelve hours now. It’s not unusual for me—I do it all the time. But I still haven’t found something to grab me, so I’ve been bouncing from one thing to another. I’m bored and restless and not getting much done.
Only a few hours before I can make my way to Damian’s room.
He’s not even home yet. He’s been working all day too.
I stretch out on the couch with a glass of wine and start to think about dinner, sorting through what I have available in the kitchen as well as options for delivery. I haven’t gotten very far in this process when I hear the door to the condo open.
Damian’s home. It’s just six forty-five. My heart gives a little jump at seeing him so early.
“Hey, Clarke,” he says as he saunters into the living area. He’s dressed in jeans and a brick-red henley. He’s carrying a plastic bag of what looks like take-out containers.
“Hey. You didn’t work late today?”
“No. I was bored and tired, so I gave up. Have you eaten?”
I sit up on the couch and pick up my empty wineglass. “No. Not yet.”
“I’ve got Italian if you want some.”
I’m surprised by this. He’s never brought dinner home before. But the food smells good, and it saves me from the endless task of deciding what to eat. I hurry over to peer into the containers. “Do you have enough for me?”
“I have enough for an army. I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got a variety. See anything good?”
Everything I see looks delicious. As I fill up a plate, I catch myself beaming.
I’m not a beamer. I seriously never beam. I really don’t know what’s gotten into me.
When I notice Damian slanting me little looks, I try to control my expression. “I opened some prosecco earlier,” I tell him, nodding toward the refrigerator. “Or there’s some cab on the counter you can open if you want something more manly.”
He chuckles as he reaches to grab the prosecco. “This is good. I’m not such a macho jerk that I can’t stand a few bubbles.”
“You’re not a macho jerk at all. At all.” I glance at him over my shoulder as I slice the round loaf of olive bread that came with the meals. “Believe me. I’ve met macho jerks. You’re not one of them.”
“Good.” He appears to be suppressing a smile as he holds his wineglass. “You want to eat out on the terrace? It’s a nice night.”
“Okay. Sure.” I never eat out on the terrace. Not because I don’t like it but more that it feels like it takes too much energy. But I have no objections if that’s what he wants. “That sounds good.”
Damian carries both our plates and his wine out to the terrace in an impressive balancing act. I remind myself he used to be a server at a restaurant. I’m only a few minutes behind him with the sliced bread and more prosecco, but when I come out, he’s lit the candles in the three hurricane candleholders on the large table.
He’s facing the view, and he’s set my plate right next to him, so that’s where I sit. Since it’s late in the year, the sun is already starting to go down. The air is cool and brisk but not unpleasantly so. The setting is so surprisingly lovely that I find myself beaming again.
“This is really nice,” he says, taking a slice of the bread I’ve set down. “We should use the terrace more often.”
“Yeah. I never think about it, I guess. It was a good idea. And thanks for the food. If you want, I can p—”
“Don’t you dare,” he grits out.
I back off on my offer to pay him back for the meal immediately. It kind of feels like I should pay for the meals we share since I’m the client and he’s providing the service, but his expression makes it clear he’d be offended if I push, and that’s the last thing I want to do.