Page 72 of A Dark Fall
“Always. And always fucking failing at it.”
I lean up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “You’re doing fine,” I whisper.
His smile grows against my mouth as our lips meet, my tongue teasing his gently. With an arm around my waist, he pulls me into him, and I hear him moan. God, I love when he makes that sound. When I pull back, his eyes are heavy-lidded.
“Actually, I’d like to redact that. You’ve failed at impressing me with your cooking. I’m about to pass out from starvation.”
He grins before leaning forward to stroke his nose softly against mine. It’s that same sweet gesture he did in the restaurant that night, and I find I still love it. It’s soft and intimate and totally unexpected.
“Well, I can fix that,” he says as he pulls back. He looks almost excited. “Prepare to be fucking impressed.” He moves away from me and steps into his jeans, buttoning them quickly before lifting his T-shirt. I watch his lean, muscular, tattooed body flex with the movement as he does. I’m bloody starving.
He seems pleased by my appraisal, that sexually arrogant look on his face again as he rights his T-shirt and drags a hand through his hair.
“Will you tell me about your tattoos one day?” I ask as I walk toward him, turning so he can zip up my dress from behind.
“What do you want to know?”
I shrug. “What they mean, which one came first, if you’re getting more.”
He makes a soft noise as he finishes zipping the dress. I turn to face him. His eyes are intense again. Dark with want.
“They remind me of where I’ve been, what I’ve done, where I’m going. The angel on my right bicep was first, and yes ...”—he steps forward into my body again, pressing himself against me—“I plan on getting a few more.”
I wasn’t expecting a detailed explanation, and so I don’t have a follow-up question ready, but I like that he answered. So now I ask questions, and he answers them. It’s progress.
“Would you cook for me naked if I asked you to?” I say.
He pulls back and fixes me with one of those heavy, sexy stares. “Course I would. Would you be naked too? You know, so I’m not at a disadvantage.”
I bite back a smile, giving him a confused look instead. “I don’t see how you being naked is disadvantageous for anyone.”
“Okay, maybe not for you, but it might be for the guy handling hot food.” He points at himself. “So how about you get naked for me while I cook, and I’ll get naked for you after?”
“I’ve just got dressed.” I tut.
He makes a small disappointed noise and smiles, nodding. “Okay, let’s both wait until we’ve eaten then, yeah?” He brings a hand up to my chin and pinches it tenderly between his thumb and forefinger. Another cute gesture that only makes me fall a little more. Leaning in, he pecks me on the lips, then he takes my hand and leads me downstairs. “Come on, Doctor. Time to be impressed.”
“Wine?” he asks over his shoulder as I take a seat on one of the barstools.
“Mmm, yes, please.” I nod.
I could check my emails while he cooks, I suppose. Being out of the surgery all afternoon always makes me anxious about what I might walk into in the morning. I slip back off the stool to go get my laptop from my work bag and take out my MacBook. He sets a large glass of red down in front of me as I sit back down.
“Thank you.” I take a long, welcome sip. It’s good. Rich and dark and maybe even French. He must have gone to some effort to pick it for me since he doesn’t drink wine. An image of him asking the woman in Waitrose which wine he should get for me is adorable.
He lifts a remote and presses a button before something folksy floats through the sound system into the kitchen. It’s a far cry from the angry rock playing in his car the night of our date.
“You have work to do?” he asks, nodding toward the computer.
I shake my head. “Not really. I just need to check my emails quickly.”
“Well, this won’t take too long. About forty minutes, maybe. Did most of the prep earlier,” he tells me.
I relax on the stool and watch as he goes about the kitchen removing things from various places: green vegetables and an oven dish from the fridge, a large silver pot from a cupboard beneath the sink, utensils from their hanging places above the cooker. I’ve opened my laptop and switched it on, but I haven’t even looked at the screen, too absorbed in watching him being domesticated. It’s curious. Again, unexpected. He has a gracefulness of movement I’ve never noticed before. His body is strong and powerful, but it’s never clumsy or heavy-handed. Everything he does, he does with assuredness and confidence—even rinsing potatoes and chopping asparagus.
I sigh girlishly and log into my personal email first. There’s one from Tash that I open immediately. My sister, house hunting again in Malibu. Apparently, Brad got the big promotion at work they were hoping for. She wants to Skype on Sunday night for a catch-up. I type out a quick reply congratulating Brad and arranging a time for Sunday.
Now Rob knows, and we’re an “us,” and I’m spending the night at his flat, I think it’s time to mention Jake to Tash. I’ll tell her, and she’ll squeal and want to know everything, of course. She won’t say anything to Mum or Dad if I ask her not to—which I will. They’re a step too far for right now. Mum will want to grill him over roast lamb and potatoes and find out through a variety of far too personal questions whether he’s good enough for me.