Chapter 38
Chris
I slide the casserole dish into the oven and sit down on the counter, helping the wait along with half a glass of wine.
I don’t like cooking, especially when I’m by myself – I do it every day at the café.
But tonight, after I got home from the game and Evan decided to go out with some of his friends, I felt a bit lost in the deafening silence of my house.
So I decided to pass some time by cooking one of the only meals I make when I’m hungry and I want to slob out in front of the TV, with no one watching me.
I hop down from the counter and head into the living room, looking for a film to watch, but as soon as I’ve found the remote, there’s a knock at the front door.
With no idea who it could be, I go to open it, convinced it’ll be one of Martin’s usual appearances, cursing the fact I’ll have to share my dinner with him.
But when I open it, I almost choke on my heart, which has leapt into my throat.
“Hi.”
‘Hi’? Just ‘hi’?
He scratches his head nervously and looks at his feet.
“I just popped by… because…”
My God. He might be all marble and testosterone, but boy does he mumble.
“If I’m intruding, I can leave…”
As if.
“It’s just me,” I interrupt him. “Evan’s gone out and I was just cooking.”
“You cook?” he asks, his eyes wide.
“I own a café, remember…?”
“Sure.”
“Come in,” I say, moving aside to let him past.
I lead him into the kitchen, and check that nothing’s exploded in the oven. Then I turn to look at him, feeling a little awkward.
“It’s a pasta bake. If that’s okay with you…?” I ask, as if I couldn’t care less.
“Why not,” he shrugs. “I haven’t had dinner yet.”
I grab everything we need for a dinner for two from the cabinet, and go through to the living room to set it all out on the coffee table.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” I tell him, hearing him open the door and take one. “The bottle opener’s in the top drawer.”
A few seconds later, Ryan appears in the living room.
“Can I help with anything?” he asks awkwardly.
“You can choose a film,” I say, passing him the remote.
“You’re giving me the honour?”
“Well, last time you chose something I liked,” I say, explaining myself.
Last time. It sounds strange enough to my own ears, let alone to his.
Ryan’s only been here a few times, and I’m treating him as if it’s his house. But I’d make him leg it down the road before eating all of my pasta bake.
“I’ll go and check on the food,” I say, gesturing towards the kitchen and turning away, before saying anything embarrassing.
I pretend to check on the pasta bake, as I spy on him out of the corner of my eye. I watch his movements, finding my hand flying over my heart, trying to muffle its noisy beating.
Ryan O’Connor is in my house. I watched him play, got all excited in the crowd like a crazed teenage girl, counted all the drips of sweat that trailed his forehead. I held my breath for a full ninety minutes, spellbound by his strength and his pride. And now he’s in my house.
And I’m ready to share my pasta bake with him.
“Everything okay?” he calls, bringing me back down to Earth.
“It’s not burnt, if that’s what you were worried about.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Have you found something to watch?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m getting defensive for no reason, but it’s the only way to preserve myself from him.
I pour another glass of wine and turn to look at him.
“Maybe…”
“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
Why is it so difficult to hold a conversation with this guy?
“I liked… the match.”
He smiles lopsidedly at me.
“It was… er …exciting.”
Great word choice, Chris.
“Exciting?”
“Well, yeah. All those… muscles.”
Oh my God, I’m making it worse.
“You like muscles?”
Bastard.
Of course I fucking like them – mainly his.
“Who doesn’t?” I say, playing it down, while I grab the oven gloves and take the casserole dish out. I put it down on the counter and take another sip of my wine to keep down all the words trying to crawl up my throat.
“Where do you keep the plates?”
“Plates… right…”
“Don’t you have any?”
“Not really, no,” I say, embarrassed, turning to him. “I normally eat a pasta bake straight from the casserole dish I cooked it in.”
“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I always make it when I just want a night on the sofa, in front of the TV.”
“Do you eat it with your hands as well?” he says, teasing me.
“I imagine, Mr. Perfect, that you’re not used to eating out of a Tupperware tub or a casserole dish.”
He comes closer and grabs it.
“Oh, come on. I always adapt, you know.” He turns his back to me and heads into the living room.
I follow him and we sit on the sofa, on opposite ends. I cross my legs, as he stretches his out. His muscles almost burst out of the fabric of his jeans, and I can’t stop thinking about a few hours ago, watching him sweaty and tired, those legs protruding from the shorts of his rugby kit.
“Something wrong?”
“Huh?”
“Were you staring at my thighs?”
“Me?” I cry, my voice high pitched. “No I wasn’t!”
He bursts out laughing, throwing his head back, and my heart explodes in my chest like a firework.
Shit.
I like Ryan O’Connor. I hate him, but I like him. Maybe I like him more than I hate him, or maybe I just hate him enough to like him. My mind still hasn’t worked it out yet, but the problem remains: I seriously like Ryan. So much that it hurts – and I don’t know how to stop liking him.
I lean over to the coffee table and pass him a fork.
“After you,” I tell him.
“Am I the guinea pig?”
“Look, I can cook, okay!”
He takes the fork and plunges it into the cheese. He takes a huge forkful and shoves it into his mouth, and I think I must be dribbling as I watch him lick his lips.
“Mmm…” he says, diving in once again with his fork. “You’re right, you have to eat this right from the dish.”
I smile, and he smiles back.
“What film are we watching, then?” I ask him, my mouth full.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather watch something else.”
“What?” I swallow, trying not to choke on my pasta.
“What’s sitting next to me.”
And he says it all in one breath.
“Oh,” I say, my mouth hanging open dumbly.
“Well, you watched me today for ninety minutes. Now it’s my turn.”
“It’s not really the same thing.”
“You’re right,” he says, lifting his gaze to meet mine, and something inside me sets alight. “This is much better.”
His leg brushes against mine, and I jump as if he’s burned me.
His eyes scrutinise me, serious and penetrating, and his thigh stays glued to mine, sending everything around us up in flames – myself included.
I hold my breath, trying to suppress my instinct to just jump on him, sit on his muscular legs and run my hands through his hair, pulling him towards me.
To taste those seductive lips, to touch him and slide my hands down the body I’ve had the pleasure of admiring, but never really touched.
I want to trace his abs with my finger, following their shadows down to his waistband and…
“Christine…” his voice is low, seductive.
Our breathing deepens, each melding in time to the rhythm of the other’s, as everything around us disappears. The pasta, the sofa, the room, the house.
Ryan O’Connor swallows up everything.
He swallows me down, whole.