I Want It That Way - Aguirre Ann - Страница 34
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“I notice everything about you,” he said simply. “You don’t wear perfume often, but when you do, it smells like cucumbers and melon. You don’t wear much makeup. You prefer boots to any other footwear. Converse are a close second. Should I go on?”
My heart rate trebled, and to hide the shocked pleasure of my reaction, I challenged him with a raised brow. “What’s my favorite color? Food? Song? Movie?”
“Those aren’t things I can learn from observation. You have to tell me.”
His smile was so gentle; I’d never had anyone look at me that way. He smoothed his palms against mine, taking the lotion onto his skin, then he applied it smoothly, rubbing up and down my arms. Turning, I offered my back and he covered every inch, instead of my usual after-shower slapdash efforts.
As I did my legs, I managed to flirt. “Are you asking?”
“Yeah. But before you drop that knowledge, do you want to make food or go out?”
“Hmm. It’s supposed to be our weekend off, but I can’t decide which is lazier.”
“Would it impact your decision to know I didn’t do any shopping this week?”
I laughed. “Yeah, and my skills don’t extend too far past hot dog casserole.”
“Hey, that was amazing. Just ask Sam.”
Still thinking, I padded to the bedroom and put on clean underwear, yoga pants, T-shirt. “I didn’t bring much with me but—”
“You want to order pizza?”
“I’d rather have breakfast,” I confessed. “Let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”
I found enough eggs to fry some and make French toast. “I can work with what’s here.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I can do it.”
“You’ll get a turn tomorrow. I’m warning you, I have high expectations.”
Ty sat on a kitchen stool and watched me crack the eggs, whisk in the milk and vanilla, like it was totally astounding. “You said you can’t cook.”
First I tested my pan, making sure it was hot enough. Then I dipped the bread in the mixture and set it in the skillet. “When I was in high school, I worked at a diner helping out in the kitchen. Dishes mostly, but the fry cook showed me enough to cover his breaks.”
“So...burgers, fries, sandwiches, French toast, eggs, what else?”
Okay, so maybe I was showing off a little when I flipped the toast without a spatula. “Pancakes from a mix. I can also boil pasta and fry things.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Pretty soon I had six pieces of toast done, and I put them in his oven, set on low, to keep warm while I fried the eggs. It didn’t occur to me to ask permission before rummaging in his fridge and cupboards; maybe that was rude, but Ty didn’t complain. After setting out butter and syrup, I located the coffee and got some brewing. He had a simple machine, which was a relief because I hated the kind with tons of buttons and attachments. I’d never make it as a barista.
“How do you want your eggs?”
“Over easy.”
I made those briskly, then plated our breakfast. Ty caught the dish I slid toward him: two fried eggs, three pieces of French toast. Smiling, I poured two coffees and rounded the counter to sit beside him. I’d eaten breakfast with a few boyfriends now and then, but never one I cooked. This was a weekend for all kinds of firsts.
“Okay, now I get to test you,” I teased.
“Abraham Lincoln.”
“Good guess, but no. Based on your impressive observations, what do you think my favorite color is?”
“Green?”
I tilted my head, surprised. “How did you know?”
“You wear it a lot.”
Mentally, I sorted through my closet and realized I had three green hoodies, different shades, and four green sweaters, though to be fair, one of those could pass as turquoise in the right light. And it was amazing that he paid attention. That deserved a victory kiss, so I leaned over, planning to press my lips to his cheek, but Ty turned his head and took it on the mouth. He tasted like syrup, butter and coffee, absolute morning perfection. I licked my lips.
“I like this game,” he murmured. “I think I’m winning.”
“I won’t ask you to guess my favorite food. Since we haven’t eaten together much, it wouldn’t be fair.”
“So tell me.”
“My grandma was from Russia, and when I was a kid, every winter when the first snow fell, she’d make a big pot of mushroom, beef and barley soup.” It was odd to talk about her; she died when I was sixteen. “And since she’s been gone, I’ve never had any that tasted as good, not even my mom’s. Which is weird—it’s the same recipe. She made the most delicious black bread to go with it. To me, those two things, that’s what winter tastes like.”
I glanced at him, embarrassed about turning my favorite food into such a personal story, but Ty was just watching me. I lifted my chin, daring him to make a joke.
His response was surprisingly serious. “For me, winter is my mom’s shepherd’s pie. We have relatives in Ireland—on her side—who taught her the recipe. Yeah,” he added, sheepish. “That’s where the hair comes from.”
“I like it,” I said softly.
“You can imagine how it was in grade school.”
“I got tall jokes. Started growing when I was twelve and didn’t stop until I was eighteen.”
“You’re stunning.”
There went my heart again. I forgot about breakfast on my plate and focused on his face like there would be a test. In response to my look, he leaned over and kissed me, tracing a fingertip down my cheek to rest it lightly on my chin. My eyes closed, but he didn’t take it further, and I opened them, faintly disappointed.
“Not now, you have a headache?”
“We’re talking. If you cut it short, I’ll feel cheap and dirty.”
I grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Dirty’s not, but I seriously do want to get to know you better. I feel like before now, our time has been stolen, rushed, whatever.”
“That’s fair. Okay, so where were we?”
“We talked about winter food. I’m curious what you’d say for the other three seasons.”
“That’s easy. Summer is iced watermelon. Autumn is...” That required a little more thought, so I polished off my breakfast. “Squash casserole. And for spring, I have to go with strawberry shortcake. Your turn.”
“Summer is an ice-cold beer. Autumn is mashed potatoes and gravy. Spring is grilled salmon, seasoned with lime. What the hell is squash casserole?”
Laughing, I got my phone and looked up a recipe for him. “See? Sounds gross, but it’s really good, I swear.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Are you done?”
“Yep. Thanks.”
He took my plate and set the dishes to soak in the sink while we went to snuggle on the couch. It wasn’t cold enough to turn on the heat yet, but it was chilly enough that it felt good to tuck up beside him and cover us with the chenille throw. His arm around my shoulders felt perfect, and as I leaned against him, it was hard to imagine that this was just a time-out, so to speak, and that real life would resume soon—with none of this between us.
Friends with benefits.
“Favorite song,” he prompted, resting a hand on the back of my neck.
That felt so good, I tilted my head, and soon, he was idly toying through my hair, twining curls around his fingers. A pleasurable shiver ran through me.
“Mmm, that’s a tough one, because the music I listen to is driven by mood. But if I can only pick one, I’ll say ‘Fuckin’ Perfect.’” His brow furrowed, and I remembered Ty was more into indie stuff. So I clarified, “P!nk. She’s a complete badass, whether she’s singing a breakup song, girl anthem or something more emotional. You?”
“At the moment, it’s definitely ‘Afraid of Everyone’ by The National.”
“Dark choice.”
I felt him shrug. “It fits my mood a lot of the time.”
“We’re up to...favorite movie?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t laugh. This is an old one. But I never get tired of Groundhog Day. It’s deeper than the premise seems like, almost existential.” I’d had this conversation with other people, most of whom thought I was crazy, especially when I started sending links to internet essays about the symbolism and interviews with the producers.
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