Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dexter
I rarely used my kitchen and wasn’t territorial about it at all, but it still felt odd as I sat on the bar stool and watched Hollie buzz about, poking her head in cupboards and pulling out bits of equipment I didn’t even realize I had.
“Considering you don’t cook, you’re set up like a world-famous chef or something,” she said as she pulled out some kind of device that looked like a sieve gone wrong.
“I used to have a housekeeper who liked to cook,” I replied, taking a sip of my wine and pretending to be preoccupied with the emails on my phone.
I needed something to take the edge off.
Everything about tonight was making me itch.
Not because I was uncomfortable, but because the exact opposite was true.
I barely knew Hollie, hadn’t even slept with her, but here we were in my flat as she cooked for me.
No woman had ever made herself at home in my kitchen.
Cooking together was the kind of shit married people did.
And the only woman I’d ever even imagined marrying was Bridget.
“Have you ever lived with anyone?” I asked and immediately wished I hadn’t. It felt too probing, too intimate. And I didn’t want the same question back.
She turned to look at me, her hand hovering over the tap as she filled a saucepan with water. “I live with my sister.” She paused. “And of course, my parents, back in the day.”
“How long have you lived with your sister?”
“Ten years or so,” she replied, shutting off the tap and putting the saucepan on the hob.
My creaky brain whirred and did the maths. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five. But I look twenty-one, right?” She winked at me and turned back to the hob.
I wasn’t sure whether or not there was much difference in what a twenty-one-year-old and a twenty-five-year-old looked like, but if it made her feel better . . . “Not a day older. You moved out at fifteen?” I asked.
She had her back to me and seemed to still at the question.
“Yeah. I mean,” she said, her voice softer. “We were just a few trailers down. My parents were fighting a lot. And . . . it was just easier to move out.”
She kept mentioning trailers. I was pretty sure she meant something other than the thing you towed behind a car to transport camping gear or rubbish. I’d heard of a condo, but I didn’t get US real estate. It was true what they said; we were two nations separated by a common language.
“Do you like marionberries? I’m going to make a pie.”
Marionberries? Christ, I hoped she was a good cook. I wasn’t the best liar—I became an awkward fifteen-year-old and might as well have a neon sign above my head with an arrow pointing down that flashed liar liar, and I really didn’t want to upset her. “I have no idea. What are they?”
“You have no idea?” She skated across to my fridge and threw the door open. I was half expecting her to pull out a selection of sea slugs but instead she held up a bag of blackberries.
“Oh, blackberries,” I said, relieved that it was something I actually liked. “Jesus, I wish you Americans would learn English.”
“You like them?” she asked, her eyes shiny and wide as if she were showing a child the ocean for the first time.
“Sure. Only a monster doesn’t like blackberries.”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “Maybe. My sister and I used to pick them wild when we were kids.”
“Me too,” I said. Bridget and I used to go down to a wild patch outside her parents’ village. “Funny,” I said. Those long lazy summers together had felt impossibly long and impossibly hot. I thought they would last our entire lives.
“Funny?” she asked.
“Not ha ha funny,” I replied. “Just . . . you know, we live on different sides of the planet and have that in common.”
“I bet you didn’t grow up in a trailer though,” she said. “I’m not sure we have so much in common.”
“I have to confess, I don’t know what you mean by ‘trailer.’ Do I need to consult my Anglo-American dictionary?”
“You’re too funny.” She pulled out her phone from a pocket in jeans that hugged her rather perfect bottom. “There,” she said, showing me a picture of her and a girl, their arms around each other.
“You look lovely. Is that your sister?”
“Yes, Autumn. But behind us. That’s a trailer.” She pointed at the static caravan behind her and her sister.
“Oh, I see. Like a holiday park or something?”
“I guess,” she said. “Except we’re not on vacation.
It’s a cheap way to live. Maybe you don’t have them in England.
My parents have never been able to keep a job longer than three weeks at a time, so cheap was what we needed if I was going to pay rent on two places.
” Her tone was very matter-of-fact. She clearly wasn’t looking for sympathy but she’d obviously not grown up with much.
Coming to London must have taken a lot—not just money, but vision. Drive.
“You still live there?” I asked. Living so far away, in a different country, and in many ways, a different world, it was difficult to picture her in her natural environment. And I found myself wanting to know who she was—before London, back in America—who she was right at the core of herself.
Her mouth twitched a little, almost as if she was considering what answer to give. She shrugged. “Doesn’t make me a bad person.” Her voice faded as she turned away and headed back to the fridge.
I hadn’t meant for her to feel judged. I pushed my stool back and followed her. Why would she think that’s what I meant? I stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist. “I think something got lost in translation. I wasn’t suggesting it was a bad thing.”
She froze. “I’m not after your money, if that’s what you think.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “What are you talking about? I have about fifty quid in my wallet and you’re welcome to it.
But it hadn’t crossed my mind that you were after it.
” It was as if we were having two entirely separate conversations.
She was clearly worked up about something.
“Did I say something wrong? I’ve offended you but I don’t know how. ”
She relaxed into my arms and tipped her head back onto my chest. “I don’t know what’s got me so worked up—defensive and acting crazy.
I’ve never dated a guy with money—no, that’s not it .
. . I’ve just never met someone like you.
I like you and I’m not used to feeling this way.
It’s making me edgy.” She twisted out of my arms and began scraping the potatoes she’d just taken from the fridge.
I wanted to make her feel better. “You’re edgy because you like me?”
“Okay, Mr. Gigantic Ego—”
“Hey,” I said, leaning against the counter as she focused on the vegetables.
“We broke through the surface, remember. I’m asking so I understand, not so I can poke fun at you.
” I paused. I hadn’t had a conversation like this with a woman for a long time—about feelings and emotions.
And it wasn’t because the women in my life hadn’t tried.
One by one they had come at my ice with a pickaxe and one by one, I’d managed to hold my defenses in place.
Eventually they’d given up or I’d shifted away from them in every sense.
But here I was with Hollie, handing her the axe and hoping we might melt in each other’s sunshine.
“Everything is different here in London. Probably because I’m so far away from home in so many ways.
This isn’t a normal situation. You’re not normally the kind of guy I date .
. . I don’t know how to explain it. I’m used to dating men who I’m not that into.
” She abandoned the potato on the work surface and came over to the island.
“So why do you date them? Are you bored?”
She tossed the blackberries into a normal looking sieve and held them under the tap before transferring them to a bowl.
“On paper we look like we should fit, you know? Similar backgrounds and families. But it’s like where I am physically and where I am in my head are two different places.
So, we match in terms of geography but mentally .
. .” She shook her head. “I’m not making any sense.
But you and me, we’re the opposite. You’re this super successful guy, you live in London, you certainly didn’t grow up in a trailer park.
But in here—” She knocked the potato on her head.
“In here, it’s like, not that we’re in the same place but . . . you’re where I want to get to.”
She pulled out a rolling pin from a drawer as I tried to digest what she was saying. What she was talking about was connection. Fit.
And I understood because I felt the same.
“I’m not confessing my undying love, don’t worry,” she said, maybe to fill the silence I’d left.
“I didn’t think you were. I have a suggestion.” I wanted to make her feel more comfortable—less edgy. “I think we should just spend some time deliberately trying not to analyze what’s going on. Just enjoy it.”
She nodded her head. “You’re right. I need to relax.”
I wasn’t sure what I was saying but it seemed right.
I didn’t want to worry about what she was feeling for me or what I was feeling for her.
I liked her—that was enough. I wanted to hang out with her.
I wanted to taste her cooking. And at some point—like every minute I was with her—I wanted to get her naked.
“You know what’s good to empty your mind?” I asked.
She gave me a sideways glance. “Kissing?”
I slid my arms around her waist and buried myself into her neck. “Yup. Very relaxing.”
She let go of the rolling pin and swiveled to face me. “Show me.”
“Wait,” I said, as she grabbed my arse. “Did you just surreptitiously dry your hands on my bottom and pretend you were feeling me up?”
She tried to bite back a smile. “You know all my secrets.”