Page 52 of Toy Boy
She takes a sip of beer and throws me a half-smile, and a full-on eye roll. “No. Take a compliment, I meant it.”
“Well, it’s small enough to be able to keep it tidy. Ish. You haven’t seen the bedroom yet.”
Jesus… what? Did I just say that? But when I cast a somewhat embarrassed glance in her direction she’s smiling, and it suddenly hits me how nervous I actually am. I thought this was going to be easy, but I am so, so wrong. I could even be heading towards ‘out of my depth’ territory if I’m not careful, but I have to remember that, when all of this is over, everything I did, it will all have been worth it.
“I’ll take the tour, if you’re offering.”
I hold her gaze, and the message is clear. Surprisingly so, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite that crystal so soon. Maybe something’s happened to push her to this point a little quicker than anticipated, I don’t know.
“Should take all of two minutes.” I jerk my head in the direction of a narrow hallway running off from the kitchen. “Bathroom and bedroom are down there, you’ve already walked through the living room, although, it’s so small you might have missed it, and the back yard is out here.” I walk over to the window above the sink, and she sidles up next to me, looking outside. “It’s nothing much, just a few barely alive pots brightening up a square of concrete.”
It looks a little nicer than I’ve described, to be honest. The pots are all actually very much alive, bright, and colourful, surrounding a tiny, paved terrace where the smallest of tables and a couple of foldaway wooden chairs sit.
“Are we eating outside?” she asks, turning to look at me, and I feel my stomach do the kind of dipping and diving it hasn’t done in a hell of a long time. In fact, I’m struggling to remember the last time I felt anything even close to this. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“I – the table isn’t really big enough…”
“I think we should sit out on the front porch. Nicer views, don’t you think?”
She’s not wrong, actually. The front porch overlooks the sea and the beach, the back has a view of grass covered sand dunes, which isn’t exactly unpleasant, just not as picturesque. More private, though.
“We don’t need a table if we sit out front. We can just sit on the steps, and eat off our laps.” She leans back against the counter and crosses her arms, cocking her head slightly, her eyes still fixed on mine. “What’s on the menu?”
“Fajitas.”
She raise her eyes to the ceiling, and bites down on her lip, and I can’t believe how fucking sexy that is.
“Not the easiest of meals to eat off your knee…” She lowers her head, and her eyes once more meet mine. “But I’m all for trying.”
“Okay, well, let’s do that.”
Her face breaks into a wide smile, and my heart suddenly picks up speed, slamming itself against my ribs.
“Shall we get started?” She pulls herself away from the counter and goes over to the fridge, she’s making herself at home already and I’m so okay with that. “Have you prepped your ingredients yet?”
“The chicken’s in the fridge, and I was just about to chop the peppers and onions. They’re over on that bench.”
She grabs the already sliced and marinated chicken from the fridge, and puts it down next to the stove, sliding the chopping board towards her and reaching for a knife from the block.
“Megan, come on, I invited you over so let me do the cooking.”
“We’ll do it together.” She looks at me, and she’s still smiling, which means my heart is still racing, but that’s fine. I’m getting used to the feeling. “You can heat up the tortillas and get some serving dishes and plates out.”
She’s a little too good at taking charge, but I kind of like that. She’s strong, she knows what she wants, and I wonder if she’s like this in spite of what happened between her and Scott, or because of it. Because ofhim. He didn’t deserve her, but I guess she realised that for herself.
We work together in perfect harmony, even in the enclosed space that is my tiny kitchen. We don’t get in each other’s way, quite the opposite, but when we do accidently touch; when her hand brushes mine as she reaches for the wooden spoon, or my thigh nudges hers as I sidle up alongside her to grab the ladle, it’s an almost natural action that neither of us gives a second thought to. We’re that comfortable with each other now. And as we sit out on the porch steps, plates of chicken and pepper fajitas balanced on our knees as we stare out at the now almost deserted beach, I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt this relaxed; a time when I wanted to be with a person so badly.
“I had a strange feeling you wouldn’t come tonight.”
She turns her head to look at me, her brow furrowing slightly. “Why not?”
I shrug and down a mouthful of beer. “I don’t know.”
“I was always going to come.”
Her tone is verging on defiant, like she’s trying to convince herself, rather than me, and then she drops her head, her eyes down as she twirls the beer bottle round and round, slowly, clutching its neck with her fingertips.
“I saw Scott today.”