9. What I Actually Like
Chapter Nine
WHAT I ACTUALLY LIKE
Mark takes me to dinner at a small Italian restaurant where the bread is excellent, and the lighting is low enough to flatter everybody, not that his good looks need the enhancement.
We talk for three hours, and somewhere between the second basket of bread and dessert, I learn that he despises olives but likes olive oil, which I insist is suspicious.
He learns I watch terrible home renovation shows and yell at the television when people remove original hardwood.
He tells me Nina once accidentally emailed a client a photograph of Mark asleep on a showroom sofa, and I laugh hard enough to nearly choke on my wine.
Mark reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. The gesture is easy, warm, and uncalculated, like him.
We date for two weeks before pumpkin spice comes up.
We’re in Mark’s kitchen on a Saturday evening. Of course he has a nice kitchen. He designs interiors.
I’m sitting on a stool at the island with a glass of wine while he works on some kind of lemon-garlic pasta that looks far more ambitious than anything I usually make for myself.
He glances over his shoulder as he stirs the sauce. “I’ve been afraid to ask you something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Do you actually like pumpkin spice?”
I stare back at him with a flat expression.
He laughs. “I’m serious.”
“No,” I say.
“So the infamous pumpkin spice latte wasn’t even something you wanted.”
“It was never about the latte.”
“I know.”
I wrap both hands around my wineglass and lean my forearms on the counter. “I wanted him to think of me.”
Mark’s expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t want Bree’s coffee. I wanted my husband to be somewhere without me, see something, and think, Melanie would like that. I wanted to exist in his head when I wasn’t standing right in front of him.”
“That doesn’t sound unreasonable.”
“For a while, I thought it sounded pathetic.”
“It doesn’t,” he says. “Not at all.”
“He kept saying he knew I didn’t like pumpkin spice, as if that explained why he hadn’t brought me anything. He knew what I didn’t like, but somehow he stopped paying attention to what I did.”
Mark turns down the burner, then looks over at me. “So what do you like?”
“What?”
“In fall.”
I think about it while he drains the pasta. “Hot cider.”
“Okay.”
“Extra cinnamon.”
“Very specific.”
“Cider doughnuts.”
He grins at me. “Obviously.”
“Cold evenings.”
He glances back. “Questionable.”
“Leaves crunching under my shoes.”
“That one I’ll allow.”
I smile, and Mark smiles back before turning to finish dinner.
He doesn’t say anything else about it.
The following Saturday, I’m in Mark’s car, and we’re about twenty minutes outside town when I finally ask, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s what kidnappers say.”
“You don’t have to worry,” he says. “I have references.”
“I’ve met your staff. That weakens your case.”
He laughs and turns onto a country road. A few minutes later, an orchard comes into view, rows of trees stretching over rolling land with pumpkins piled in wooden bins near a farm market. A painted sign advertises hot cider, doughnuts, hayrides, and pick-your-own apples.
Something tightens in my throat, and he sees it immediately.
“Too much?” he asks.
“No.”
“Because if this feels like I’m auditioning for the role of Man Who Is Better Than Owen, we can leave.”
I shake my head. “That’s why it’s not too much.”
“What?”
“You asked.”
He studies me.
“You actually care whether this is something I like.”
His gaze warms. “Yes.”
We spend two hours walking through the orchard, buying doughnuts, arguing about whether either of us needs a decorative gourd, and pretending we know something about apple varieties.
At the cider stand, Mark comes back carrying two paper cups. Mine has cinnamon floating across the top.
“Extra?” I ask.
“Obviously.”
I take a sip, and it’s perfect.
“You look pleased with yourself,” I say, smiling up at him.
“I remembered the assignment.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
By the time we reach his house that evening, I’m aware of every inch of space between us.
We’ve kissed plenty by now. In cars, on sidewalks, on my front porch, and once on his couch until both of us deliberately pulled back, but we haven’t gone farther.
Mark unlocks his front door, lets me step inside, and closes it behind us.
Instead of walking in further, I turn to face him so we’re standing close. Very close.
“I think it’s time for another policy change,” I say.
He kisses me, giving my bottom lip a gentle tug with his teeth. “What’s that?”
“I think we’re ready for a much-more-than-friends policy.”
Another kiss, longer and deeper. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I slide my hand under the bottom of his shirt, and he groans.
He keeps kissing me until my knees are weak. His hands settle firmly at my waist, and heat unfurls through me as I wrap my arms around his neck.
His mouth moves along my jaw.
“Do you want to take this more-than-friends thing a little slower?”
I shake my head once. “I don’t.”
He kisses my neck and smiles against my skin. “Good. Me either. But tell me if you want to stop at any point, and we’ll stop.”
I pull back enough to look at him. “I want this,” I say. “I want you.”
That’s all he needs. The next kiss is deeper still, and his hands start exploring. My coat ends up over the back of a chair, his follows, and my sweater disappears somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom.
He doesn’t rush the rest. His fingers move over my skin as though he’s getting to know my body rather than claiming it, and when his mouth finds the sensitive place below my ear, my hands tighten against his shoulders.
For months, my body has been tangled in humiliation.
Did Owen cheat because Bree was prettier? Younger? Had I become invisible?
Now, those questions don’t matter. Mark looks at me like a man who’s spent a long time deliberately not looking and has finally been given permission.
His hand slides beneath my bra, and when I gasp, he pulls back.
“Touch me again,” I say breathlessly, and he does.
By the time we reach the bed, there’s very little nervousness left. I’m too aware of his hands, his mouth, the solid warmth of his body against mine.
He takes his time because he pays attention. When something makes me inhale sharply, he notices. When my fingers tighten, he notices that too. He adjusts without making a performance of being considerate, and the intimacy of that is almost as arousing as the touch itself.
When he makes me come, the pleasure hits suddenly enough that a startled laugh escapes me afterward.
Mark lifts his head, grinning. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No.”
“Should I be concerned?”
I reach for him. “Come here.”
The second time is slower. When he finally moves inside me, he keeps his eyes on mine, and there’s something unexpectedly tender about it.
I wrap my legs around him, and his forehead drops to mine.
“Melanie.” The way he says my name makes something ache beneath my ribs, but this ache feels nothing like the one that started with a pumpkin spice latte. This ache feels good.
Afterward, we lie beneath the sheets with my head on his shoulder. I trace one finger over his chest, and he strokes my arm.
“This is the part where you tell me we’re destined,” he says.
“I was actually going to say I’d like to see you again.”
“That works too,” he says. “How about Wednesday?”
“Planning ahead?” I ask.
“I’m a professional.”
I smile. “Wednesday sounds good.”
He kisses my forehead.
There are no promises about things we can’t know yet, and no declarations designed to erase what came before. Just Wednesday.
Then, maybe, another Wednesday after that, and for now, that feels exactly right.