Chapter 15 #2
A lowball glass appears over my shoulder.
I glance up and meet his eyes as I reach up to take the whiskey.
I wouldn’t call it a standoff, but no one makes the first move after that.
I don’t know what comes over me. I can’t blame the alcohol since I haven’t even taken a sip.
“I don’t want to overstep, but the way information is being disseminated leaves my imagination to run wild. It’s not my place to pry—”
“Your place is as a guest of mine, Poppy.” Releasing the glass, he returns to the chair closest to where I’m seated on the couch. “No requirements. No demands. I want you to enjoy your time here if you can. Obviously, the weather might put a damper on things—”
“The weather is fine.” I tip my glass toward the fireplace.
“This is nice. No complaints. Cheers.” I take a long pull of the drink, unable to hold eye contact under the fire he lights in me.
Instead, I let the alcohol warm me as it slides down my throat while he does the same.
“You’re making me work hard for the double pay,” I tease.
I’ve heard him laugh quite a bit, but the deep and genuine sound of it filling the intimate space is my favorite. He replies, “Worth every dollar.”
But there’s no laughter attributed this time. He sounds like he means it. “You’re making me feel bad for sitting on my ass and making you do all the work.” I don’t actually feel bad. I quite enjoy him being in service to me for cocktail hour.
His expression shows no sign of quibbling over money. I’m not sure what to think about that. I can’t have him pay, especially when he’s now serving me. When he gets up once more, I stay snuggled on the couch under a blanket he procured for me earlier.
He returns with the bottle of whiskey and two cans of soda, setting them on display on the coffee table. I ask, “Trying to get me drunk?”
His eyes dart to mine, the blue less so as his pupils widen, taking me in. I see his chest slowly fill, and then he exhales again. The need for air is familiar when I’m around him as well. “Figured we’d just bring the party over here.”
“Good idea. Though moving around keeps the body warm.”
When he finally relaxes back again, stretching his long legs in front of him, he chuckles. “I’m not sure the expenditure is worth the effort.”
“That could be said for many things in life.”
“As could the opposite.”
“Checkmate.”
Intrigue shapes his face. “Do you play chess?”
“No. My mind isn’t that conniving.”
His eyes narrow, and a smile appears. “Conniving or strategic?”
“It’s the same, Laird, no matter how you slice it. You’re either a victor of war or dead on the battlefield. Does anyone really win in the end?”
With his eyes trained on the amber liquid in the glass, he says, “Speaking of love lives . . .” He sends me into a fit of laughter.
Holding up my glass again, I reply, “Well played.” Happier than I’ve felt in some time, I take another drink and allow myself to indulge in his presence because it feels too good not to.
“No sous chef at home?” he asks, too good at controlling his tone. I can’t tell if he’s asking to make conversation or if he's curious for himself. Pfft. Of course, he isn’t inquiring for his own purposes. It’s casual small talk at best.
“Oh, you were really asking?”
“I was.”
“No,” I reply, swirling the liquid around the glass. “No sous chef, head chef, or any other kind of chef in my life. You?” I hate that my stomach knots itself to brace for the response.
“You’re the only chef in my life, Poppy.”
Laughing, I rest my head back, enjoying the fun of this evening. But as I relax, I catch him staring at me without apology and not laughing. “Oh, um. It’s good to cook for yourself sometimes.”
“Are we speaking metaphorically or culinarily?” I don’t know if he realizes his foot has shifted and presses against mine, but I sure do. I don’t want to move a muscle in fear he’ll remove it.
“Both,” he replies and then finishes off his drink. It’s tempting to keep pace, but I’m a lot smaller than he is and don’t think passing out is the right move.
He picks up the bottle and pours more than a shot.
With his attention on the glass, he spins it around on the coffee table, his fingers steady and swift, and then says, “I fell in love once.” His gaze shifts to me ever so briefly before returning to the glass.
“I thought I’d been in love before I met her, but she made me realize the difference.
” I love how a smile plays on the corners of his mouth just thinking about her.
It’s invasive on my part to watch, but it's so romantic that it would hurt too much to look away. “She knocked me on my ass the first time I saw her.” Sliding back into the leather chair, he angles toward me. “She’s the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen and so fucking clever.
She made me laugh until my stomach hurt and made me fall so fucking hard in love with her before we ever fell into bed. ”
My heart races just listening to him, but the connection we’re sharing—our eyes, our pain, about ourselves, and even the way our feet touch—has me thinking about us and the possibilities. I shouldn’t. I can’t . . . I just . . .
“I knew . . .” He continues. “I just knew . . .”
I take a gulp, needing to quell my nervousness or drown it altogether. The last thing I want to do is upset him by asking the wrong question. “What did you know, Laird?”
His gaze finally fades from mine, and he turns to watch the fire instead. When he blinks, his lids stay closed a beat longer before he swallows. “That she was the woman I loved in every lifetime I’ve lived. And I’d finally found her again.”
The purity of emotion in his smile causes me to smile in response. If it were possible to light from within, his thinking about this love has achieved it. I’m ready to live in his loss. I’d rather stay in the love he found, hopeful in my own life. “Do you think everyone finds their soulmate?”
The conviction he has shines brighter in his baby blues when he says, “Only the lucky ones.”