Chapter 3 #2
“Should we eat?” I ask when his scrutiny becomes too much. I can’t have him looking at me like that, as though he can read me like a book. I’m not a book, and if I am, I’m in a fucking language no one has heard of.
Darius is quiet as he walks around the counter, taking up position at my side. So close that I can smell coffee on his skin. He lifts the lid of the pizza box, frown lines stretching across his forehead.
“There’s fruit on this,” he deadpans, his finger poking at a slice of pineapple.
I shrug. “It’s my favourite. I didn’t know yours.” I haven’t eaten more than a couple of slices of pizza in a very long time, but when I do, it’s always this one.
Darius studies me again, this time with his eyes narrowed, his brows pulled, but before I can say anything he nods, spins on his heels and makes his way to the lounge.
I follow behind, pizza box in hand, and take the same spot on the sofa that I had last night. Darius tucks his legs beneath him and turns on the television.
“Have you seen this one?” he asks, hovering over yet another true crime documentary.
Reaching forward, where I’ve left the pizza on the table in front of me, I pick up a slice, then lean back.
My stomach cramps as I bring it to my lips and I breathe through it and take a bite.
It goes down like sandpaper, but I take another two bites, chewing tightly before putting the rest back in the box.
“No,” I reply, wiping grease on my black gym shorts. I don’t tell him I don’t own a television or that I can’t recall when, before last night, I actually watched something other than sport on the large screen in the bar I work at part-time.
He turns to face me, his back to the armrest and his sock covered toes pressed to the side of my leg. “It’s a good one.”
I run a hand through my still damp hair.
“If you know what’s going to happen, why do you want to watch it again?” Darius’s toes flex, digging into my leg, and I absentmindedly wrap my hand around them and squeeze. His eyes dart down, then back up to meet my gaze. I don’t let go of his foot.
“No idea. Why do we do anything more than once? Because we like it? Because it feels good? I eat the same food multiple times a week. I re-read the same books a few times a year. It makes sense to me to watch the same thing more than once. And if you haven’t seen this, then I get to experience it with you for the first time. ”
He adds that last bit all nonchalant. Like he hasn’t just made my heart trip over itself with the knowledge that he wants to sit here with me.
I keep my eyes on Darius when he turns back to the screen.
He leans over the table, picks all the pineapple off a slice of pizza, and then brings it to his mouth.
And I watch him the entire time. As he chews, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows, grunts of satisfaction rumbling from his chest on each bite.
As he uses the back of his hand to clean his mouth and as he smirks, his nose wrinkling with the action.
“You’re watching me eat again,” he remarks, his lips shining with grease.
Why do we do anything more than once?
“Maybe because I like it?” I say, then clear my throat. My heart thumps hard against my ribcage. “Watching you eat, that is.”
Fucking hell, did I actually say that out loud?
No wonder he thinks I’m a fucking stalker.
It’s true though. I may have issues with my relationship to food, but I really do like watching him.
He’s cute. Endearing. And there’s something about watching his enjoyment that calms me.
Or maybe it’s his presence in general that does that?
Darius laughs, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous, Oliver, whatever-your-surname is.”
“Cross. It’s Oliver Cross.”
“Good to know.” He takes another bite of pizza, hits play on the show and we fall into that comfortable silence again.
I try to pay attention to what’s happening, but my body is too aware of the guy next to me.
My mind too focused on the way he keeps shuffling on the sofa, his foot occasionally jabbing my thigh.
An electric current sparks in the place we touch.
“We need drinks,” Darius suddenly announces, taking me by surprise.
He pauses the show and shoots off the sofa.
“I bought some on my way home.” He skips toward the kitchen.
Actually fucking bounces on his toes as he disappears around the corner, returning moments later with two bottles of a pale yellow craft beer, one in each hand.
“Could you have bought a more pretentious looking bottle of beer?” I say, playfully inspecting the label.
He scowls, pretending to be insulted, but the sparkle in his blue eyes betrays him.
“You like fruit on your pizza. You don’t get to judge my choice of beer.”
I lift my hands in surrender, trying not to smile but failing miserably. Why is it so easy to be around him? I can’t recall the last time I sat with someone this long without one or both of us being naked.
Even my relationship with Caiden was largely built around sex and the need to escape our pasts. He knew as much about me as I would ever allow, and that suited us. We brandished sex like a bandaid or, in my case, like armour. A weapon. A sense of control. Something I once lost but never will again.
But sitting here with Darius? Fucking him is not the first thing on my mind.
I mean, it is on my mind. He is unbelievably sexy and I am very attracted to him, but I’m not itching to fuck and flee.
I’d rather sit here and watch him pick pieces of pineapple off his pizza, his nose twitching in disgust.
That realisation shocks me enough that I don’t hear his question until he’s kicking me with a socked foot.
“Where’d you go?” he asks, tucking his foot back beneath him.
What is he doing to me?
“I’m here,” I reply. “What did you ask?”
“I asked what you do when you’re not stalking me?”
I take a sip of beer – it’s really fucking good – then answer him.
“I’m a carpenter. Mostly kitchens. Some furniture.” I smirk, pausing with the bottle at my lips.“Good with my hands.”
Darius rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you are.”
“I could show you,” I joke, doing what I usually do. Deflecting any truth about who I am with sex.
“Pass,” he replies, then takes a sip of his beer. He’s smiling as he swallows, licking a drop of liquid from his bottom lip. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
My charm does not work on him. I don’t know whether I like that or hate it. I move the conversation off of me by asking him, “What about you? What does Darius Thorne-Sutton do with his time?”
I adjust my position on the sofa, kicking my legs up onto the coffee table in front of me. The action disturbs the cat who was sleeping beneath it, and he slinks out and hops up, plonking himself on Darius’s lap.
“This and that.” Darius shrugs.
“That’s ominous.” I lean towards him, dropping my voice. “Are you a hitman? Mafia? Secret service?”
He barks out a laugh and fucking hell; the sound is gorgeous. “It’s not ominous and I’m not a hitman or anything like that.” He’s smiling so brightly, the blues of his irises sparkle like ice. “I do a few different things.”
“Like?”
“Mostly, I work in a coffee shop, but I also volunteer at a local dog shelter.”
“Huh.”
“What?” Darius scratches behind the cat’s ear and it starts purring, loudly.
“Nothing. It’s just you’re wearing a nine hundred pound pair of Tom Ford jeans, and I’m pretty sure those shoes of yours at the front door cost more than my rent.”
“So, you’re a fashion expert now?”
I shake my head, using the hand not holding a bottle of beer to swipe my fringe from my forehead.
“I know things. Not just a pretty face.”
Darius narrows his eyes. “Judgy and conceited. Noted.”
That gets a laugh from me.
“I’m not judging. I just don’t understand how you afford all that on a barista’s salary.” I lean back on the sofa, taking another sip of my beer. “Unless you’re a sugar baby.”
Darius chokes on his drink, coughing before wiping the drips on his chin with the collar of his t-shirt.
“I’m nobody’s fucking sugar baby,” he laughs.
“Nepo baby, then?”
“Fuck you.”
I can’t help the smile that takes over my face, matching the one on his.
“I’ve got your number, Thorne-Sutton,” I say, tapping the side of my nose.
“No, you don’t.” Darius throws the lid of his beer bottle at me and it hits me in the chest before falling to my lap. “Shut up and watch the television.”
Leaning back with a sigh, I let my body sink into the sofa. Next to me, Darius does the same. The silence is thick between us, but it’s not awkward. It’s cosy and I find my eyes drifting shut, heavy after a strenuous day at work
“I’m sorry about your dad,” Darius says, pulling me from my doze, my eyes snapping open. His tone is solemn, the playfulness from earlier gone.
Turning my head on the back of the sofa, I find that he’s done the same, and the move brings our noses almost tip to tip, a slither of space between us.
“Thank you.” My throat tightens, and I swallow to ease the pressure.
“Do you want to talk about him?” Darius asks. “I’m a good listener.”
I roll my head on the sofa. “Not really. Can we sit here a little while longer and then I’ll go?”
It’s been an eternity since I felt this content to just exist and as good as his company feels, I’m not willing to open up more than I already have.
“Sure.” Darius uses the remote to click from one streaming service to another. “This is one I haven’t seen.” He presses play and we fall into that quiet comfort I am coming to like a little too much.
Stupid bloody heart.
Darius stretches his legs out, his foot kicking the pizza box in front of him.
“Barbeque chicken and jalapenos,” he says. “That’s my favourite. For next time.”
For next time.
I take those words and tuck them away.
Next time.