Chapter 25 #2
His gaze moves past me to the dining room, taking it all in: the candles, the plates set with the good silver Linda keeps for special occasions, the smell of stew drifting from the kitchen, and me, barefoot on the marble in a dress he picked out, his earrings catching the light.
The bag slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thud.
“Miranda.”
“Hi.”
“What is this?”
I have to wet my lips before the words come. “I wanted to do something nice for you. So it’s a date, for us.”
For one whole second, he doesn’t move. Then he crosses the foyer in three strides, catches me around the waist, and lifts me clean off the floor, swinging me in a full circle that punches a yelp out of me.
I clutch at his shoulders, breathless and laughing.
His face is buried against my throat, and I can feel his grin pressed into my skin.
“You did this,” he says, muffled and delighted. “You did this for us.”
“Put me down, you maniac. The dress—”
“You did this for me.”
“Yes.”
He sets me back on my feet, but his hands stay at my waist, his forehead dropping to mine. When I meet his eyes, they’ve gone tender enough to make my chest ache.
“You cooked,” he murmurs.
“I followed a recipe.”
“You cooked, Miranda.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I warn him.
He laughs, low and warm, his thumb tracing the line of my hip through the fabric. “Give me five minutes to clean up. I smell like a hockey rink.”
“Go. Hurry up.”
He goes, taking the stairs two at a time.
The shower turns on overhead. I press my palms against the cold counter, breathing out slowly while my pulse rattles, refusing to settle.
Two glasses of wine give my hands something to do while I wait.
By the time the stairs creak again, he’s barefoot in dark jeans and a gray sweater, hair damp at the nape.
The look on his face when he finds me standing at the head of the table is one I’ll be keeping for a while. He pulls out my chair before he sits.
“You’re really going to do this properly, aren’t you?” I mutter.
“Sit, fiancée.”
I sit, and he drops into the chair across from me to take my hand. His thumb brushes the ring he gave me. Then his eyes drop to my ears, his smile widening at the sight of the studs.
“You’re wearing them.”
His finger lifts to brush the side of one earring, and the small touch hums down my neck into my collarbone. Heat climbs my cheeks.
“Stop it,” I order.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re doing with your face.”
He laughs again, then cups my jaw, his thumb settling against my cheekbone. “You look so pretty, Miranda.”
I duck my head. “Are you happy?”
His eyes go serious. “Sweetheart. Yes.”
“I’m trying,” I confess, looking at the candle flame instead of at him because looking at him directly right now is more than I can manage.
“To meet you halfway. I know I’ve been hard about all of it.
The money, the clothes, you doing things for me when I can never figure out what to do back.
I just wanted to do something for once.”
His thumb tilts my chin up until I have to meet his eyes. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he says quietly. “Always.”
He leans across the table to kiss me, slow and warm, his mouth lingering long enough that I forget there’s anything on the stove at all. When he pulls back, his amber eyes are bright.
“Now,” he announces, “feed me. I’m starving.”
I rise to bring it over, ladling stew into both our bowls.
The smell coming off it is heavenly, rich with thyme and beef.
I even remembered to fish the bay leaf out at the end, so I’m pretty pleased with myself.
He’s buttered a slice of crusty bread for me by the time I sit, the small domestic gesture doing something to my chest I refuse to examine.
He lifts his spoon. “Wait. On three,” he says, and I raise my own spoon to match. “First bite together.”
“On three what?”
“One,” he counts. “Two.”
“Three,” we finish together.
He puts the spoon in his mouth, his eyes falling shut.
Mine never makes it to my lips because I’m watching his face.
He chews once, then again, his expression giving away nothing at all.
Then he leans forward, drags my bowl across the table toward himself, ladles half of mine into his already full one, and starts shoveling stew into his mouth at twice the rate any man should eat anything.
“Excuse me.” I sit up straight. “What are you doing?”
“Mmf.”
“Grayson.”
He swallows. “It’s so good. I worked up such an appetite at practice.”
“Then eat your own bowl, you animal. Give me mine back.”
He pulls my bowl out of reach, one arm a barricade between me and the food, the other hand waving me off. “You sit there and look beautiful. I’ll handle the eating.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Grayson Wolfe.”
“What?”
I lean across the table and reach for the bread. He intercepts me, sliding the plate to his side, then tucks two of the buttered pieces under his elbow and guards them.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Extremely serious.”
I sit back and study him. He looks back at me with wide, innocent eyes, cheeks slightly puffed around a mouthful of stew. Something is wrong here.
I get up, walk around the table, and snatch the third piece of bread off his plate before he can stop me.
He makes a wounded sound low in his throat.
I take a small bite to make my point, chewing with deliberate slowness, glaring at him the whole time.
The bread is fine. It’s just bread, plain and a little dry.
Then I slide my spoon into the small puddle left in my bowl, scrape up the last teaspoon, and put it in my mouth.
The salt slams into the back of my tongue, and my eyes flood instantly. I clap a hand over my mouth and stare at him over my fingers, my whole face on fire. His expression still hasn’t changed by a single degree.
“This is horrible,” I gasp through my hand. “Grayson. This tastes like the ocean.”
“It’s perfect.”
“It tastes like ass.”
“It’s seasoned beautifully.”
“It is not seasoned; it has been salted. How are you eating this?” I lunge for his bowl. “Stop, you’ll make yourself sick. Hand it over.”
He turns his shoulder, lifting the bowl out of reach with no effort. “No.”
“Grayson, this is inedible. I’m ordering you a pizza. Put the bowl down.”
“You made it for me.” His voice drops, the teasing gone out of it. “I’m eating every single bite.”
The breath leaves me on a half-laugh, half-sob I didn’t see coming.
He’s still got it tucked against his chest. His face has gone mock-solemn, his eyes soft, and he keeps the ruined stew pressed where I can’t reach it.
This is the man who’s become a shield for me over and over again.
No matter what the world throws at me, he doesn’t let it touch me.
He’s trusted me with his son, with his heart.
And now he’s prepared to swallow an entire bowl of stew that tastes like a salt mine just because I made it.
I love him.
I’ve known it for a while, said it to myself in pieces, in the dark, in the morning, on the patio with a wine bottle between my hands.
Standing here in a dining room with a man hoarding inedible stew, the feeling finishes clicking into place, and there’s no taking it back now.
I cross to his side of the table, gently pry the bowl out of his grip, and set it down on the wood.
“Grayson.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay.” My voice has gone gentle. “You don’t have to eat it. I’ll learn. I’ll get better. Tonight we order pizza.”
He looks up at me, his throat working around something. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I really would have eaten the whole thing.”
“I know you would have, you ridiculous man. That’s not the point.”
I bend and kiss him on the temple. He turns his face into my palm, closing his eyes for one slow beat.
“So. Pizza?”
He catches my wrist and presses his mouth to the inside of it. “Order two. I’m still starving.”
The pizza arrives in twenty-two minutes, and we eat it on the floor of the dining room with our backs against the cabinets, the candles still burning on the table above us. He gets sauce on his sweater. I get crumbs all over the dress he bought me. Neither of us cares even a little.
At nine, the doorbell rings. Linda steps in with a coat over one arm and a half-asleep Ethan glued to her hip, the boy complaining through a yawn that he wanted the whole day with Miranda and nobody asked his opinion.
“Hi, buddy.” I push up off the floor and cross to scoop him out of her arms. He locks his legs around my waist, pressing his face into the side of my neck. “I missed you too.”
Behind me, Linda begins lifting the empty bowls off the table, moving through the room with the quiet ease she’s worn into the house over years. There’s a small knowing smile on her mouth when her eyes find mine across the room.