12. Katherine
1151 Words
Twenty minutes later I had donned a loose sweatshirt and, without daring to look at him, I told him that dinner is ready; he gets up from the couch, stretching lazily to go turn off the console. Suddenly, his phone rings.
“Yeah?”
Small silence.
“What? Now? No...”
Chris takes a quick look in my direction.
“I’m tired, now... damn, Jo! I tell you I’m beat!”
He suddenly turns his back while I pretend to put away a few things when I’m just spying on his conversation.
“You know where you can shove your curiosity?” he growls softly as if to avoid me hearing him.
Silence longer than the first time and finally he sighs, exasperated.
“Anyway, you do what you want... what? Mel is with Ronan? No. I don’t want Ronan here, you sort this out... yeah, it’s not usual... Damn! Don’t piss me off! Yes, I know who that is, huh! This is my apartment, I decide who comes in or not!”
He hangs up and then turns, looking serious:
“Little wife? You think we can get to eat in less than fifteen minutes?”
Little wife?!
“Why...”
“Forget it. It’s just that if they see food that isn’t from a fast-food restaurant, they’re going to play swarm of hungry locusts destroying everything in their path. And it annoys me that they’ll eat my food.”
I raise an eyebrow unable to stop smiling.
“Your food?”
Chris gives me an annoyed glance.
“Yeah. It got cooked for me, not for their pesky stomachs.”
There I laugh.
“We can always try!” I suggest, between sobs.
He immediately gives me a carnivorous smile and we rush as one man into the kitchen. Chris throws himself on the cheese-topped dish where I mixed the spicy chicken breast with macaroni cheese and curry sauce. He didn’t even bother to sit down and, armed with a tablespoon, plunges directly into the dish. I look at him, stunned, guessing that he must be burning his tongue and palate. Especially given the way he doesn’t swallow the bite immediately and sucks air into his mouth to cool it. This doesn’t seem to put him off, as he shovels in spoonfuls, his upper body leaning over the table.
Then, as if he realizes I’m not eating, he gives me a quizzical look:
“You’re not hungry?” he demands between bites.
I’m startled.
“Yes, yes. You don’t want a plate?”
Chris shakes his head while continuing to dive into the food at a phenomenal rate.
“No time,” he says succinctly.
“So I see... you’ll end up choking at this rate.”
He still shakes his head and gives me a wink, a smile on his face.
He’s... really handsome.
The thought popped into my mind and I didn’t expect it to be there while I was staring at him as he swallowed the gratin. In his tank top with tattoos under which rolls every muscle when he makes even the most insignificant movements. Even his dark hair cut very short, borderline shaved accentuates his sexy side.
I have to slap myself mentally to return to reason.
Don’t let him get to you! There’s nothing sexy in bad boys of his kind! These are two-legged problems.
When I sit to eat, our heads find themselves dangerously close. This proximity makes me oddly nervous, but I try to act as if nothing had happened.
First, what is the ‘little wife’ nickname? Being the wife of a thug like him? Certainly not.
Chris suddenly stops, leaning over the Pyrex dish without straightening. I suspect he’s staring at me, and at this idea, my stomach tightens and I’m no longer at all sure I can swallow the pasta I conscientiously chew.
A strange tension envelops us while I confront his eyes—he scrutinizes me, without hiding it.
“This is very good,” he comments suddenly, in a slightly hoarse voice.
I shrug, mimicking a casualness that I’m very far from feeling.
“It’s just cream of chicken pasta.”
“Maybe, but I find it very good. Nobody cooks for me, and I’m not the type to bother to do anything but open a tin can, little wife.”
I plant my fork in the macaroni, bringing food to my mouth without looking up from the dish.
“What’s this new nickname?” I ask, endeavouring to keep my attitude cool.
“Because you’re like a wife to me. You live here, you did housework, food, laundry...”
I’m grinning.
“You macho bastard. I do these things in exchange for low rent, in case you forgot!”
But my heart, the revolting alien, is curiously excited every time he uses that nickname.
He brings his face closer to mine, and I feel his breath on my cheek and my mouth. I shouldn’t be here eating in the same place as him.
“You’re right. Something is missing for you to be that.”
His voice is hoarse, which is sexy, going so far as to give me a series of shivers along my spine.
“I don’t believe I applied for this function, so I’m not going to end up in your bed,” I reply, tense.
“You blush, my little wife. As for my bed... you’re already going to sleep there tonight.”
“Go to hell! It’s not the same thing! And no, I’m not blushing!”
“Say what you want, but now you are blushing. You’re confused, I know,” he ends with a certain arrogance.
I give him another murderous look.
“It’s the sauce: it’s too spicy.”
He finally leaves, laughing, and gives me a terrible, seductive glance that manages to take my breath away.
He has a way of looking at me as if he was going to touch me everywhere; his eyes becoming ethereal fingers. A smug smile distorts the natural crease of his mouth:
“You’re upset.”
There’s a long silence between us and I don’t have a clue how to break it as quickly as possible. He’s the one who deflects it by looking away:
“Good. The chocolate cake, now.”
What just happened? It was... were we just... flirting?
- Writer
