A minute later, when the delivery guy knocks on the door beside us, we pause briefly, but my soft whimper has him plundering my mouth again. The knocking is louder the second time.
Scott grudgingly releases his grip on me to open the door. Glaring at the poor kid, he passes me the food, while I try to hold in my laughter. Why is his irritation so endearing?
While we unpack the food, the air shimmers around us with potent, unfulfilled desire. God, if I’m going to stick to my principles, I’ve got to find a distraction.
“So, um, where is your family from originally?” I ask, sitting on a stool at the island to fill my plate.
He eyes me like he knows exactly what my game is. “My grandfather was born in Texas, but his parents were from Sinaloa, and my grandmother grew up in a small town near Acapulco. So, Mexico. You?”
Stop watching his mouth, Ellie. “Well, I told you my mom was born in Poland. And supposedly, my dad’s family practically came over on the Mayflower.”
He considers me. “You want to tell me how a half-Polish Catholic school girl speaks Spanish?”
“Oh, um, I –”
He holds up a finger to stop me. “Tell me in Spanish?” He poses it as a question. As if he doesn’t quite believe I’m fluent enough to do it. This time it’s me with the smirk on my face.
“Pues . . .” I start telling him about one of my first wars with my mother, who was adamant that I learn French. I didn’t see why I couldn’t study Spanish so I could practice with my beloved Amelia. Even at ten years old, I chafed against her prejudice. At the time it was only a partial victory; I could learn all the Spanish I wanted as long as I learned French as well. In the end, it helped me get into college, so I can’t bitch about it too much.
All through the story, his jaw has been clenching and unclenching. When I get to the part about how I learned all the really filthy swear words in Madrid and then on the beaches of Ibiza (because no one wields a curse better than a Spaniard), he interrupts me.
“Opal?”
“Yeah?”
“Unless you want me to take you up against the wall behind you, you need to stop talking.”
“What?”
“That crazy accent of yours is making my dick hard.”
“¿No te gusta mi acento español?” I ask him with more than a little sass. You don’t like my Spanish accent?
He laughs. “No, me encanta tu acento español.” No, I love your Spanish accent.
I feel my mouth go lax at the incredible sound of him speaking a language I adore. After a much needed moment to recover my equilibrium, I agree with him. “Yeah, okay, we’ll save it for another time.”
Turning my attention to my plate, I can’t stop the dirty girl in me from wondering just how extensive his vocabulary is and if he’d be willing to whisper dirty things in my ear.
His low chuckle catches me mid chew and does nothing but add to the desire that’s growing inside of me. “What’s so funny?” I demand after I swallow my food.
“Just that you’re so transparent.”
Even if I don’t have a clear view of his lap, I drop my gaze suggestively. “No more than you,” I purr, loving it when he shifts in his seat.
“Okaaay, next question. What’s your major?”
I take a breath. “I have two. Poli-Sci and Spanish.”
“Poli-Sci? As in . . . as in politics? You want to be a politician?”
The dawning horror in his voice has me smiling. “No. I’m more interested in social policy . . . things like immigration and education reform, social programs for women, homelessness.”
Now he’s the one who’s stopped chewing, looking at me like I’ve grown horns and a tail. He’s quiet for longer than I’d like and just as I’m on the verge of worry, his lips tilt up ever so slightly. “I thought we agreed to lay off the sexual innuendo.”
“Huh?”
“I knew you were smart, Opal, but not that smart. I never stood a chance against you, did I? I mean, how is it fair that your brain is probably hotter than your ass?”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“You’re damn right it is.” He puts down his chopsticks. “So let me get this straight. You’re fun and funny, you’re about to graduate from Stanford with a double major, and you’re more beautiful than . . . any woman – ever.”
I’m unsure how to respond to so many compliments, but he doesn’t notice.
“I’m going to ask you straight up, El. What the hell are you doing with me? I just got my GED last year. Plus, I’ve got an entire family to support.”
Though he’s trying to joke, I can hear the unease that’s scratching at the edge of his tone. His vulnerability has him inching his way further into my heart. “You’re also a very decent human being, Scott, and a wonderful father. And don’t even get me started on the situation we’ve got going on here,” I say, waving my hand at him.
He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not Stanford smart.”
“Please. Everyone knows book smarts don’t equal intelligence.” I jerk my thumb at my chest, like I’m the perfect example. “At least you have a moral compass that’s fully intact and operational.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your moral compass.”
How can he say that after everything I’ve told him? I give him a look that says give me a break.
“I’m far from perfect,” he says like that’s the real issue here.
“No one’s perfect. If you knew how many pretentious assholes I’ve met in my life, you’d have no problem understanding what I find so attractive about you.”
He ducks his head a bit, pleased, I think, by my words, possibly even embarrassed. If I’m not careful, he’ll win me over so completely that I won’t be able to keep a clear head.
He stays with me until late. We talk some more, we endure another agonizing make-out session, and then, because I’ve had such an exhausting day, I fall asleep on his shoulder while we watch a movie.
I wake up as he places me on my bed, tucking me under the blankets. He smiles at me in the light from the streetlamps outside my window.
“Sorry I woke you,” he whispers. “But I have to go.” He pushes my hair back from my face and I press my cheek into his palm. “What time do you work tomorrow?”
“Mmmm? Early. Six to two.”
“Your phone’s here,” he says, lifting his chin at the night stand. “Is your alarm set?”
I sigh with happiness as I nod. “Yeah”
“Okay. One more thing, will you go on a real date with me tomorrow?”
My sleepy smile must be as wide as the Cheshire cat’s. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’ll pick you up around six?”
“Okay.”
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the approval on his face as he leans in for a quick, sweet kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Sleep well.”
“You too.”
Scott
The next morning, weekend breakfast with the girls once again leaves the kitchen resembling a war zone, but we’re happy. The time and effort to clean up is well worth it; cooking is an activity that we can do together, one that I’m thankful for because it doesn’t involve dolls or ponies. I really want to be a good father, but that uber-girly stuff grates on my nerves like you wouldn’t believe. Also, I like that we work together as a team to put the kitchen to rights afterward. The sense of accomplishment suits all four of us.