Chapter 14 The Gesture
The Gesture
Claire
Now that our culinary supplies were put away, I slipped back into my room to tackle the work that had come in that morning.
Two proposals in, my focus slipped. Shoes, keys, coat.
I ran down to the corner shop and came back with a small bunch of autumn-hued flowers, wrapped in paper.
In the kitchen, I rinsed a jar, trimmed the stems with his shears, and set them in the center of the table. Paper into the bin. Back to work.
I got through maybe two more proposals before I heard the faint sounds of chopping and a pan clinking against the stove.
I poked my head out. "Just checking if you need me. I know you’ll say no, but I feel like I have to offer."
Liam didn’t look up right away. "Appreciate the gesture," he said, then flicked his gaze toward me with a soft smile. "But no surprise, still no."
I nodded. "Just confirming your kitchen dominance."
"Undisputed," he said without missing a beat.
I tried to keep reading, but the apartment started to smell like butter and something bright. Citrus, maybe saffron.
A little while later, there was a knock on my door.
"Dinner’s ready," Liam called.
I stood, stretched, and made my way out.
When I turned the corner, I stopped. Normally, we ate at the kitchen counter.
Tonight, the dining table was fully set. With real place settings. Cloth napkins. Silverware. Three types of glasses at each setting. One for water, one for white wine, and one for red wine.
The overheads were dim; the lights on the bookshelf were on instead. Two small candles flickered at the center of the table, flanking the flowers I bought. Soft piano music drifted in from the speaker across the room.
And the chairs... not across from each other.
One at the head of the table, and the other tucked just to the side.
Close. Angled.
I drew in a breath, slow and quiet, as my eyes took in the scene, then looked at him.
He suddenly looked sheepish.
"I wasn’t sure what you wanted to drink," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I kind of covered my bases."
I closed my eyes briefly.
Deep breath, Claire.
He stepped to my side and pulled my chair out.
“White or red?” he asked, nodding to the bottles. “I have sauvignon blanc, chardonnay, and a pinot.”
“Sauvignon blanc, please.”
He reached for the corkscrew. I watched his hands. He’d changed: a dark sweater, real pants. I should’ve put on mascara. Or something.
The cork eased out with a soft pop. He tipped the bottle and poured for me first. Then he filled his own glass.
“Still or sparkling?” he asked, touching the two bottles by the water glasses.
“Sparkling.”
He poured, then set the bottle within reach. He took still for himself.
“May I?” he said, and stepped a little closer to slide my chair in. I was still on my feet, apparently forgetting how chairs work. My knees brushed the table leg. His hand was warm on the back of the chair. He let go and stepped back; the heat didn't.
He moved to his seat. We looked at each other. The room went quiet except for the music and the faint hiss of bubbles in my glass.
Then his eyes flicked to the empty plates, the kitchen, back to me. “Right,” he said, a little pink in his cheeks. “I should probably bring the actual dinner.” He stood and brushed my shoulder on his way past.
I let out a breath and lifted my glass. Half the sparkling water was gone before I set it down. My pulse eased. I smoothed the napkin in my lap and watched him at the stove, steady hands, that dark sweater, the soft clink of plates.
Okay. Reset.
It’s dinner to say thanks.
Keep your head.