I smile at her. “We’ve done this before.”
“Not while married.” She lifts her left hand, laughing and taking another sip of wine.
“No, not married.” I lift my own hand, wiggling my ring finger.
I stand beside her while I marinate the meat, and she cuts the lettuce. She leans over, and our hands slide next to each other, and she takes another sip of wine. Moving around her, I touch her just because like little touches on her hips.
Every single time I touch her, she takes another sip of wine. She does just as much touching, and every single time she finishes doing something, she either walks by and touches me or leans into me. I see her cheeks flushing, so I lean in and give her just a little peck. Then she drinks more wine, and my stomach sinks. Is she drinking because she thinks we are going to sleep together?
I walk away from her to go to the grill. “I’ll be grilling,” I say, and she nods.
“I’ll set the table.” She turns and gets on her tippy toes and her shorts ride up, showing me her long, lean tan legs. Her shirt also rolls up, showing me her tan tummy even more. I swallow down the lump in my throat and then go outside.
I watch her set the table from outside. She drinks another two glasses of wine, and her hands are almost shaking. When the meat is done, I walk in, and she turns around with a smile. “Smells good, Mr. Mayor.”
I smile at her as I walk to the dining room table that she set. I sit at the head and she takes the seat to my right. The salad bowl sits in the middle of our plates. She put another bottle of wine beside her and even put my whiskey on the table. I set the plate of steak down next to the salad, and she turns and walks back into the kitchen to grab the baked potatoes. I wait for her to sit down before taking my seat. She picks up my plate, preparing it like she always does.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a sip of my whiskey.
“You’re welcome, dear,” she says, laughing while she prepares her own plate. “How many women have cooked for you?” I look at her. “I mean, you date a lot.”
“Some would say you date a lot also,” I say, and she just looks at me. “Do they cook for you?”
“Not even once. I make sure my dates are out in public so there is no gray area,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “What about you?”
“No,” I answer, my stomach burning. “They don’t cook for me.”
“Well, at least I have that one up on them then.” She cuts into her steak. “Have you ever been in love?”
I take my glass of whiskey. “Yes.” Her eyes now fly up, and I see that they are a darker blue.
“You’ve been in love?” she whispers. She looks down, and I swear I see tears in her eyes, but she grabs her glass of wine, and when she looks back at me, there are no more tears. “You’ve never told me,” she says while cutting her steak and avoiding my eye contact.
“I’ve never really told anyone,” I say, hoping she looks at me, but instead, she drinks another sip of wine. “Have you?” I ask as she leans back in her chair, my heart hammering in my chest as I wait for her answer.
“The steak is cooked perfectly,” she says, avoiding the question. I want to press it again, but I’m not sure she’ll even remember this conversation. So instead, I just finish my steak without the both of us really talking. She gets up first and walks to the kitchen, bringing her plate with her. “This was one of my best dinners I’ve ever eaten.” She looks over at me, smiling, her cheeks pink and her eyes a light blue. She walks over. “Thank you.” She bends, putting her face in front of mine. “For cooking,” she says and kisses me on the lips lightly, then she moves away just a touch. “And for everything.” She kisses me again. This time, her tongue slides in with mine. I want to get lost in her kiss. I want to get lost in her, but I don’t want our first time to be because she’s drunk.
“You’re welcome,” I say softly as my hand comes up to touch her face. “I would do anything for you,” I say. I see her swallow and then move out of my touch. I try not to let it hurt, try not to dwell on it, but when I get up and bring the plates into the kitchen, she starts walking around me, holding my hips again. When she runs her hand up my back softly while she walks by, it takes all my willpower not to ignore the fact that she drank too much and touch her the way I want to touch her. When the kitchen is cleaned up, I lean against the counter, and she mimics my stance. “Are you tired?” I ask.
“Not really.” She walks over to me and wraps her arms around my neck, getting on her tippy toes. “We can maybe go into the bedroom.” My hands go to her hips, and I want so much to take her to the bedroom. I want so much to tell her all of the things, but I don’t want her to have to get drunk to be with me.
“I think I’m going to take a shower,” I say and see the look in her eyes change and her hands fall from my neck. Her shield is suddenly up.
“Yeah, that is a good idea,” she says. “Why don’t you go first?” She turns and walks away from me, and I want to call her back. I want to hold her hand and sit on the couch with her, but she has closed herself off. I saw it in the look she gave me. I walk to the shower, feeling defeated as the warm water runs down my body. When I slip on my boxers and shorts, I open the door and find all the lights from downstairs turned off.
After I walk downstairs, my eyes roam the area, looking for her, and I find her in a ball on her side. Her eyes are closed, and I have to wonder if she is faking. I stand here for a minute, and when she doesn’t move, I grab one of the throw blankets and cover her with it. I sit next to her, not knowing what to do. We are both in uncharted territories, and the last thing I want to do is lose her. I put my head back, closing my own eyes, and the next thing I know, light is coming into the house directly on my face as if someone is holding a flashlight. I put my hand up to block the sun from my face and open one eye. The smell of coffee hits me right away, and when I turn to look over in the kitchen, I find Savannah moving around.
“What time is it?” I ask, mumbling.
“A little after seven,” she says, and I see that she has changed from what she was wearing yesterday.
“How long have you been up?” I get up, going to the kitchen, and when she turns around, I see that her nose and her eyes are red from crying.
“I don’t remember.” She avoids looking at me. “I got up and took a shower.” She grabs her coffee cup, bringing it to her lips. “Then I couldn’t fall back asleep.”
I walk to grab a cup and pour coffee in it. “You should have woken me up.”
“There was no use in both of us being awake,” she says, standing exactly where she did yesterday right before she wrapped her arms around my neck, and I told her I was going to take a shower.
“I came out, and you were fast asleep on the couch.” I bring the cup to my lips. “It’s a rough day when your wife falls asleep on the couch two days into your marriage.” I can’t stop myself from saying the words. I don’t know what I was thinking, but what I wasn’t expecting was her comeback.
She blinks and looks me straight in my eyes. “It’s a rough day when your husband can’t stand your touch and runs off to shower.”