8. Nate
Nate
“Goddamn it, Spam!” I groan as I jerk my pants up and fasten them.
I saw him a split second after Rory did, and now my post-orgasm contentment has been shattered by the little thief.
Spam ducks his head, like he can hide his meatball-stealing ways, even though sauce still coats his nose.
“Get back here, you criminal.” I follow him into the living room, where he’s attempting to wiggle into his spot behind the couch, the one he thinks we don’t know about. “Oh no you don’t. If I find spaghetti sauce on the walls…”
“I think the meatball is gone,” Rory says, a touch of humor in her voice.
My brain isn’t exactly functioning on all cylinders yet, given recent events, but still, that’s not the point.
It’s a battle of wills, and I’m going to win. This dog is about as big as a meatball.
I’m his master. It’s time he recognizes it once and for all.
Has he failed out of obedience class? Yes. But is he a lost cause? Not yet.
I wrap my hands around the little burglar and wrangle him out of his hiding spot.
I should really do something to keep him from accessing this spot.
It’s been on my to-do list for a couple of weeks, ever since I started suspecting that he has one of my socks back there in his pile of stolen goods. God only knows what else he’s taken hostage in addition to the meatball.
“Crime does not pay, Spam,” I say sternly.
He licks his nose, enjoying the remnants of the sauce and ignoring me completely.
Ollie, on the other hand, is watching the entire scenario play out from his bed in the corner.
I give him a look, attempting to convey something between how did Spam get a meatball? and thanks for being a good dog.
He just tilts his head, as if to say I’m innocent here, or perhaps why did you let this tiny bandit into our house?
Because he and Rory were a package deal, Ollie.
And I’m never letting her go, which means Spam is part of our family now, meatball-stealing ways or not.
I blow out a breath and push a hand through my hair as I survey the living room.
Ollie remains on his bed, the picture of obedience. His ears are perked up, pointing forward, waiting for me to issue a command.
Spam, not at all ready for instructions, emerges from behind the couch and hops on his back legs like some circus sideshow act.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, reminding myself that Rory and Spam are a package deal. Also, that I missed the little guy when Rory went to live with her parents for a while.
Spam yips again.
You missed this, I repeat to myself silently. You missed Spam. Remember?
Still repeating that mantra, I tuck Spam into his crate so he can’t steal any more food, at least before Rory and I get to eat, and head back into the kitchen.
The smell from the slow cooker is incredible.
I lean down and breathe deeply again, the smell of garlic and basil and tomatoes filling my senses.
“This smells incredible, Rory.” I can’t resist the urge to dip a finger into the sauce for a try.
Holy freaking cow. The bright flavors explode across my tongue in a symphony of tomato and what has to be a touch of magic. Honestly, this deserves a holy fuck, but I don’t want to overdo it on the F word, so holy cow it is. Seriously, I could eat an entire bowl with a spoon, pasta or not.
This is far too good to share with dogs, but Ollie deserves a reward for his good behavior and for resisting any urge to follow Spam’s lead in that meatball-stealing kitchen caper. I fish out two meatballs from the sauce and toss them into Ollie’s bowl.
“Think I should dump this and start over?” Rory asks.
She holds a strainer full of slightly overcooked noodles above the sink.
Her jeans are back in place. I’d rather she’d stayed naked after our moment of connection, wearing nothing but an apron as she leans over the stove.
Is it sanitary to cook naked? Or safe, for that matter? Probably not, but there are more important things in life. Like a view of Rory’s lush backside.
Despite coming inside her barely ten minutes ago, my dick swells in my pants at the thought of Rory’s body.
I wasn’t kidding when I said she had nothing to worry about. I only have eyes for her.
“What do you think?” she asks.
About you? That I’m the luckiest fucking guy on the planet. That I’d love nothing more than spending every day for the rest of my life showing you just how much I want you.
About the spaghetti? If I’m being honest, it looks like every bit of pasta I’ve cooked for the last ten or fifteen years, but Rory was the one who informed me that I’d been overcooking it.
Since I’ve experienced the way Rory cooks it to a perfect, not-too-mushy texture she calls al dente, I’m a convert.
But I just fucked the hottest girl in town. The one that’s all mine. Overcooked noodles won’t dampen that high.
“I think it’s okay. Once you add that sauce, it’ll be amazing.” I kiss Rory’s neck.
She doesn’t seem convinced. “It won’t take that long to make it again.”
I pull two shallow bowls from the cabinet and set them on the counter. “I know, and I love that your standards for food are so high, but I’m a simple man. Plus, the sauce is the main character here. The pasta is just a delivery vehicle. It’s barely necessary.”
Rory grins as she begins to portion out the noodles into the two bowls. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. I’d be happy with just meatballs and that sauce. Add in a few slices of bread?” I press my fingers to my lips, then to the air in a chef’s kiss. “That’s all I need in life.”
Rory swats me, but she’s laughing. “Go set the table, Mister Italiano.”
I do, laying out cutlery and even folding the paper napkins before I set them out. A quick glance at the time tells me it’s just past seven, which means I’m officially off duty, so I also grab a couple of wineglasses and a bottle of merlot from our little stash.
Rory sets the food on the table while I pour the wine, and then we both slide into our usual seats.
Really, does it get any better than this?
I wait for Rory to sample the wine, then reach for a slice of bread.
“So. How was your day?” I ask, dipping the whole piece into the bowl in front of me.
The bread is warm from the oven, the crust perfectly crisped. And I know I’ve said that Rory’s marinara sauce is amazing, but I’m going to say it again. This is possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I can barely hold back my moan as I chew the first bite.
Holy cow. How did I live without this woman?
Rory takes a bite of pasta and chews as she considers my question. “It was…good.”
I assume she’s referring to the part of her day before the sex we had in the kitchen. That part was mind-blowing, at least for me.
In talking with some of my friends who have been married for a while, it seems like the physical part sometimes fades, but I can’t picture that ever happening with me and Rory.
Or maybe it’s not that their sex life gets to be any less, but more that they no longer feel the need to discuss it with their buddies. That I can definitely understand.
Rory and I are great together, in bed and out. More than that, even. Amazing. But it’s not the kind of great that needs outside approval. I don’t need to share our sex life with my buddies for validation. Just being with Rory is all the validation I’ll ever need.
Fuck, I need to marry this woman. Soon.
She’s chewing on a piece of bread, her expression thoughtful, and I wonder if there’s more she’s going to add.
Usually, she tells me about her day in exquisite detail, and then I do the same in return, narrating every minute that we’ve been apart. I love hearing about every little thing.
And every single day, as I hang on her detailed descriptions of what most people would consider mundane details of daily life, I think about asking her to marry me.
The only thing that’s stopping me is the need to get this right. It has to be perfect for Rory. She deserves it, and we’ve waited for years to get to this point. I can wait a little longer if that’s what it takes to get it right.
“What did you do today? Did you hang out with the girls?” I prompt, taking another slice of bread and dipping it into the marinara sauce before I take a large bite.
Rory looks almost dazed, and I take particular satisfaction in the thought that I fucked her so well that she’s still hazy. Looks like I’ve still got it.
After a few beats, Rory lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I did. Allie and I went over to Stacey’s place for a while. Then…Stacey went shopping, and I came home while Allie went to Lone Brews to do some work for a while. The two of them are going to High Times tonight, so Allie will be home late.”
I chew on my bread and marinara as she speaks. It almost seems like there’s something she’s not telling me, something about her tone of voice or the way she shifts her gaze to her plate. But we tell one another everything.
After a miscommunication and secrets nearly destroyed what we had between us, we promised to put things out in the open. To never hold anything back.
I swallow my bite and am about to ask, but I stop myself. This whole thing with the Mr. Lonesome pageant has thrown me for a loop, and it’s entirely possible that it’s making me overthink everything.
It’s also possible that there’s something Rory isn’t telling me because it’s none of my damn business. We promised to be open with one another, but that doesn’t mean she has to spill every last detail about her friends. Maybe Stacey is seeing someone new, or Allie has a crush on someone.
I don’t need to know the details of those kinds of things. Don’t want to, really.
I reach for another slice of bread. “Sounds good. Are you going to go with them to the bar?”
It seems almost like a rhetorical question. The three have been inseparable since Allie arrived in town a couple of months ago.
Allie came to High Lonesome when Rory’s mom was sick and has stayed to help her through these last several weeks. She’s been an invaluable support for Rory through all of it.