Page 27 of Our Sadie
NINE: A Spring in My Step
SADIE
I’m eating my chicken salad with cucumber and avocado sandwiches—presented with crusts cut off and sliced into cute little halves, apparently thanks to Dom since Max never does this—when I realize that my date hasn’t spoken in a while. Not once since returning to my room with all this edible booty.
We’ve situated ourselves in the seating area between the bed and the wall of windows, and he brought our meal in a woven basket I don’t recognize. The concept of a picnic dinner is novel and thoughtful. Not something most men would utilize as their go-to in the middle of winter.
I like it. Even if his gaze keeps flicking to me and wandering away again while he annihilates his half of the food as if he hasn’t eaten in a year.
Of course, I haven’t been a slouch on the putting away the sandwiches front, either. Normally, I’m not a huge eater, but I’m famished. Vigorous physical activity will do that to a person.
With Dom, our activity was more than vigorous. The man essentially fucked me into next week, and I’m still recovering from the experience.
It’s the best time I’ve had in years. Maybe ever. And not once did he make me feel anything weird about my scars, even if I did dress the second he marched out to retrieve some sustenance.
So, why am I getting the sense that he’s become more anxious around me now?
I wait him out, observing the guy out of my periphery. He unloads this container of sliced fruit and nudges the whole thing over to me. I choose an orange slice and pop it in my mouth, then proceed to dig out each and every piece I can find before pushing it his way.
Dom eats everything else, the berries and banana chunks, pausing to offer me one last slice of orange that’s been hiding on the bottom. I open my mouth to see if he’ll feed it to me.
He does.
“Oranges are your favorite, I take it.”
“How’d you guess?” I deadpan.
He quirks one of his dark thick brows upward, the same side of his mouth mimicking the motion. “I like the fruits of the citrus family, in general. I’ve even been known to down raw lemons on occasion. It helps to complement the sourness of my personality.”
He narrows his gaze at me as if unsure what to say. I let go of a snort. “Point one for the sarcastic bitch.”
“Are you teasing me, right now?”
“About my personality? Maybe a little. About the lemons? No. I really have eaten them like some people eat apples.”
“Seriously? Just straight lemons?” I tilt my head to the front in agreement. “Didn’t it make you pucker up like a cartoon character?”
“I like it,” I insist, even if his example makes reels of those cartoons revolve through my head ad nauseum.