I got a nuance of the feel of his lips, the full, heady impact of the bristle of his whiskers (he’d come to work on Monday shaved, but he hadn’t shaved since, yes, I was keeping track) and then I started moving away.
I didn’t get far.
His hand came up and cupped me under my ear.
“Hey,” he murmured this repeat.
Annnnnnd….
Ohmigod.
The sound of that drove up between my legs, like a phantom thrust.
He was still murmuring when he went on, “I feed you. I water you. You bring shit to my house again, baby, and I spank your ass.”
I blinked.
Though I did it through another phantom thrust.
He let me go (though he didn’t do that until after he’d glided his thumb soft as a whisper along the sensitive skin in front of my ear, gah!), tugged the bottle of wine out of my hand, the handle of the six-pack from the other, then he stepped back, reaching an arm long with the wine in his hand to indicate my welcome.
I walked in.
Being in his house was better than being outside, looking in.
It really was attractive and well-put-together, but not in a way it was scary. Like, you didn’t want to touch anything or mess anything up.
You would definitely feel comfortable curling up on that couch with your feet under you or setting a drink on one of the plethora of options available.
I heard the door close and then Rix and his swaying hips were moving through the space.
“We’re having baked chicken parm and couscous ’cause I’m not feeling a lot of effort. I’ll wow you with my culinary skills tomorrow at the grill. We’re chilling out tonight,” he declared as he went.
I followed him.
We rounded the partial wall, and I met his kitchen.
It was another revelation. Mid-century feel. Light-wood cabinets with top edge, long finger cabinet pulls. Pear-colored tile with interesting white lines through it going from the stainless-steel countertops to the ceiling. Though, on the back wall, sandwiched between narrow upper cabinets and counter with the sink, was all windows. A short bar with two stools on the outside which faced the dining room table.
And there was a rolling stool off in a corner that had a high seat, much higher than his chair, which was probably what he used to cook when he wasn’t on his legs, or used to rest on when he was giving his legs a break.
“Did you do all this work yourself?” I asked, glancing around.
“Nope,” he said, tucking the beer and wine in the fridge, then turning to me. “My dad taught me, you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t do it. I could YouTube how to install a kitchen sink, but this house is over fifty years old. There could be shit I don’t know what I’m dealing with in the walls, under the floors. Lucky I have a bud who does know what he’s doing who did it in exchange for me providing muscle when he had bulky materials being delivered and other shit he needed that a layman could do running a contracting business. Though, he did it in his spare time, so it took almost a year for this kitchen to get done. Six months each for the bathrooms.”
He was grabbing a stemless wineglass from one of his cupboards.
There was already a bottle of rosé open on the countertop.
And Rix kept the information flowing.
“The living room was already paneled, though, and I put in the floors, after my bud gave the approval that what was underneath was good to go.”
He poured, and I approached when he turned.
He handed the glass to me.
I had questions to ask that I was uncomfortable asking.
They were things I’d need to know, things I should know.
His life.
His history.
His heartbreak.
Sure, understanding he stubbornly stuck to the original Star Wars as his favorite in the franchise (I mean, he wouldn’t even discuss Rogue One, which was lunacy) was important.
But there were much more important things.
And as his fiancée, I’d know those things.
So as my fingers curved round the glass, and I allowed the zap of energy I felt when they touched his to course giddily through me, I asked, “Was this before your fiancée, with her, or after?”
He looked dead in my eyes and shared, “The floors went in before. The rest, when I was with her.”
“Did she live here with you?”
A curt nod and, “She moved in halfway through the kitchen reno.” He turned to the fridge, and I noted with no small amount of satisfaction that he grabbed a Goose Island. “Then she moved out.”
Right.
I’d pretty much used up my courage to dig into that situation, so I took a sip of wine and dropped the subject.
Rix popped open his beer.
“Chicken is already in the oven,” he announced. “I’m gonna finish getting these carrots in the water. You’re on couscous duty.”
He said his last nabbing a box of Near East couscous that was on his counter.
I approached him again, taking the box.
“Pan beside the sink, baby, measuring cups are that cupboard there”—he titched his head toward a cupboard—“butter in the fridge unless you want olive oil, that’s by the stove.”
I nodded.
He turned back to a cutting board that had some sliced carrots on it. “Eating out back on the deck.”
“’Kay,” I mumbled, making a mental note not to bring up Peri again, because Rix wasn’t a fan of talking about her.
What I did not make a mental note of was what that might mean.
We finished making dinner in silence that wasn’t companionable, but it also wasn’t entirely awkward.
We loaded up our plates in the kitchen, cutting up our chicken at the counter so we didn’t have to do it in our laps, since Rix told me he didn’t have a dining table out back.
Then we went to Rix’s small-ish (actually, it seemed less small and more intimate) back deck, and by then, I was used to the revelations.
Still, it should be noted, his deck was fab.
“This,” he muttered when he noted my appreciation, “is all mine.”
He hadn’t stained it brown or red, a cool and unusual choice.
The wood of the floor was stained gray, partial walls slanting down each side to provide privacy from the neighbors were stained black. Benches were built in, covered in white or black and white striped pads and pillows, making them look cozy. A hammock-weave club chair with cushions sat opposite a corner bench. Some small tables for drinks. And even black lanterns with battery-powered candles in them.
“Your place is awesome, Rix,” I told him as he indicated I was to curl into the cozy bench seat with a jut of his chin.
I did that, putting my glass down on the small, round table in front of me and holding my plate.
He lowered himself into the chair and set his beer aside on his own table, stating, “Your place is better.”
Really?
“You think so?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said, scooping couscous on his fork.
“Because it’s in the trees,” I deduced.
“No, because the inside is kickass and very you,” he contradicted.
I stared at him, feeling that compliment snuggle down deep.
He shoved couscous in his mouth.
“Well, you’re wrong,” I told him, spearing carrots. “This deck is everything, and your front porch isn’t far behind.”