If I wasn’t so conscious of what the next couple of days would entail with the Short case, I would have been walking into the station with a hard-on.
By 6:30 PM on Friday, I hadn’t had time to buy milk, let alone the ingredients for a lasagne. Exhausted, I dropped my bag in the doorway and tried to decide what I needed to do first. I needed to shower and get ready; I needed to work out food. There was probably a bottle of Merlot in the cupboard. I hadn’t even progressed from the entryway when my phone beeped. I smiled through my sleepiness once I saw his name on the screen.
Evening, babe. Are we still good for 7? Hopefully you have your lasagne in the oven and are lazing on the lounge with a glass of Merlot. I can’t wait.
I felt my tired shoulders slump even further. Damn it. I didn’t want to disappoint Nick.
Hi. I’m so sorry to do this so last minute, but could we do a rain check? I’m so sorry. I just got home. I’m tired. I need a shower and twelve hours of sleep. I didn’t have time to get food. I know you went to all this trouble, and I really wanted to do this. I’m sorry.
His text came in a couple of minutes later.
That’s completely fine, sweetheart. You have one thing you need to do to make it up to me. Go and fill the bath. Put in some oil. Once you are in there, send me a picture.
I really didn’t want to. It sounded like a good idea, but I wanted a quick shower and sleep. Talking to Mr. and Mrs. Short had been hard. Of course it was. We were telling grieving parents we believed their daughter had been sexually assaulted over a long period by someone they loved and trusted implicitly and possibly the same had been happening to their son. We couldn’t even give them any positives. We couldn’t reassure them Aimee hadn’t hurt herself or her brother. We couldn’t tell them the kids were safe. Even if it was progress for us, it wasn’t for them. We’d only shoved them further into their hole of grief and guilt and fear.
But Nick had told me what to do, and honestly, something was comforting about him taking over and telling me what I needed. So I did it. I filled the bath. I threw my clothes in the wash basket. I poured in a couple of drops of the lavender and chamomile Mum gave me last year, which I had thrown in the cupboard, never intending to use. I stepped in and sank down until I was as far into the water as possible. The bath wasn’t the largest in the world, but it did the job. Laying my head back, I took nice slow breaths. Nick was right, as usual. This was exactly what I needed.
Well, not exactly. The only thing I needed now was him. Here. I needed to curl up with him after the bath and relax.
I sank down until my head was underwater and blew out all the air in my lungs, staying down until my lungs burned with the need for air. I lifted my head out of the water, wiped my face, and grabbed my phone. I took a couple of selfies, all of which looked weird, so I deleted them. Finally, I got one with my arm stretched out so most of my body was in the frame. I looked tired, but I couldn’t do much about that, so I stopped critiquing it and pressed send.
Right as I put it down, my phone rang. I wiped my hand on the towel and grabbed the phone, swiping a couple of times. “Hey.”
“Baby.” His voice sounded husky, and Jesus Christ, that worked for me. “I hate that I’m not there. That photo nearly killed me. I love your hair when it's wet. And your chest. God.”
The groan that came through the phone at the end hit me deep in the chest.
“Ky?”
“Mmm.”
“I don’t like the dark circles around your eyes, though. That needs to be fixed. I understand that it isn’t always easy to walk away from work. I really do, but you need to look after yourself. I’m not happy.”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t entirely sure I should have been apologizing. But I wanted to do what made Nick happy. And if promising to look after myself worked, I would try. After talking a few more minutes, he made me promise to enjoy the bath and then text him when I was out.
After I threw the towel in the wash basket and pulled on some comfortable old pyjama pants, I texted Nick. My door buzzer sounded. I frowned and ignored it, assuming it was a salesman or a neighbour who had forgotten their key. When it buzzed again, I answered. Eric’s familiar voice was way too cheery, announcing, “Special delivery for a Ky Rixon.” I buzzed him up and went to open the door.
Eric was carrying a Styrofoam box, with a bag slung over one shoulder as he climbed the stairs. “Wow, thank God I get to sit behind a desk all day pretending to work. This whole delivery business would kill me.”
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Delivery. Apparently, it was an emergency. Chef Julian wasn’t overly impressed, but damn, his ego won’t let him produce anything other than magic.” I must still have looked confused as he put the box down. He smiled. “Your boyfriend sent very exacting orders.”
He opened the bag, pulling out a wine glass wrapped in a cloth and a bottle of Merlot. He poured a small amount, making a grand gesture out of me tasting the wine. I sipped and nodded, still completely baffled. After filling my glass, he opened the box and assembled a dinner of lasagne, garlic bread, and a small side salad. I was left staring at the dinner assembled in front of me when he bowed dramatically and left without another word.
I didn’t move until my phone beeped, startling me.
I pressed to accept the Facetime call. He was right there, curled up on a black leather lounge, wearing pyjama pants and my old worn university games T-shirt.
“Hey,” I croaked. He was so beautiful.
He smiled at me. “Hey yourself.” He leaned forward and lifted a wine glass. Merlot. Then I blinked and looked at the screen properly, not only at Nick. He had a plate of lasagne and a bottle on a small table beside the lounge. “Eat, sweetheart. I assume you haven’t been eating properly.”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t totally sure what I was apologizing for. No, I hadn’t been eating properly or getting enough sleep, but I was fine. I was just fine without him here.
I looked down at my plate and realized my hand was shaking slightly as I reached for the wine. Swallowing, I blinked at the tears burning my eyes. I was fine without him here, and I was not under any circumstances going to cry.
“Are you crying, sweetheart?”
“No,” I answered defiantly, swiping at the tears with the audacity to form on my eyelashes to spite me.
“Eat,” he said softly. So I did. I moaned as I tasted the first mouthful. Before I knew it, I had eaten half of the plate without taking a breath. I wiped my mouth, embarrassed at my complete lack of manners or, you know, dignity. When I glanced at the screen, Nick was watching me. The hunger on his face didn’t look related to the completely untouched lasagne on his plate.
My cheeks heated, and l leaned forward to put the plate down.
“Don’t,” he commanded. “If you put that plate down before you are finished, I will be beyond cross.”
“Yes Sir,” I answered playfully.
He squirmed. I would file that reaction away to think over when I wasn’t too tired to appreciate it. He picked up his plate, and we both ate in silence.
When we finished, I held my glass of Merlot.
He said, “Talk.”
So I did.
Every night the following week, I spoke to Nick. Sitting on the lounge in my pyjamas talking to him had been exactly what I had been needing. Last night, we talked for about an hour before he told me to go to bed, and then we talked for another hour, only hanging up when I couldn’t focus on his voice anymore.