Insecure (Love Triumphs 1)

She backed away to give him space, going to the stool he’d vacated. He studied the cupboards that hid the pantry, a wine fridge and the ordinary fridge.

“To the right of the stove, put your palm down and press gently.” He did and then made a hey presto flourish of his other hand when the fridge opened and she laughed.

She directed him to plates, glasses and cutlery and watched while he assembled chicken and salad. They ate side by side at the counter and it was much less awkward than it might have been. Giving him something to do was a good idea; it made him less irritated about being dependent on her hospitality. If he thought she was completely hopeless in the kitchen that couldn’t hurt, and it wasn’t far from wrong anyway.

He was on a second helping of salad when he said, “Did you set me up so I’d quit being such a grump, or are you really incapable of putting stuff on plates?”

She pushed away from the counter and looked over at him. “I was manipulating your extreme sensitivity about having to hang out here and hoping to appeal to your hunter, protector instincts.”

He coughed on a mouthful and when he’d recovered said, “Don’t you mean predator?”

She laughed. “I’ll handle dinner.”

Yes, dinner. They had hours of hanging out to do, unless she was the one who retreated to the office and went to work. There was enough to do, but the idea had lost its appeal. And unless the curfew was lifted there was another night to get through. She could take the worry out of that right now.

“There is a guest bedroom. It’s all made up. It’s yours for the night, or for an afternoon siesta, whatever you feel like.”

He gave her a curious look, and started cleaning up. He ran the plates under water in the sink. “Is one of these a damn dishwasher?”

She tapped the counter in line with the cupboard that hid the dishwasher and he opened it and stacked the crockery and cutlery inside.

“You’re welcome to my office.” But he knew that already. “What do you feel like doing?”

He closed the dishwasher into its cupboard. “I was considering going all out for temporary residency.”

Unexpected. “Really?”

“Are you backing out of the offer to earn my stay by making you feel nice?”

He said the word nice like it was charged with an offense against everything natural and she felt her face colouring for no good reason. She hadn’t blushed since she wore a school uniform. She should back out. Backing out was the smart thing to do. He was waiting, watching her. He was more than just a body to get lost with, a brain that didn’t bore her, and for all his rough oyster traits, his hidden onion layers, he was a considerate lover.

Who was she kidding—considerate. He’d m

ade her feel things she didn’t know her body was capable of. He’d torn open the sealed packet of her senses and let light and heat in. Except maybe she was romanticising that. The drink, the wild, weird day, her loneliness weren’t conducive to clear thinking. The forced confinement was, however, conducive to repeating the experience to find out. “The offer is still open.”

He stood with his arms stretched out on the counter, palms flat. His broad chest was a page in the story of his physical fitness that her hands had read last night and twitched now to re-read like a favourite book. He could vault the counter and have her on her back in less time than it took for a pygmy cymbal crash to sound in her head and there’d be nothing she could do to stop him. There was a certain danger to him because she had no idea what he was thinking. And that felt like so much trouble, like being insanely drunk without drinking and driving way too fast without brakes.

His eyes did a slow samba over her face. This strangely reticent man was oddly bold. He leant forward and stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. She closed her eyes against the soft pressure while other parts of her body jolted to wakefulness. It would be a crime if this man ever saw the inside of her guest bedroom. She needed to find a way to make sure that didn’t happen.

When she opened her eyes again, he was back in front of the TV. Maybe it wasn’t boldness. Maybe he needed alcohol to be attracted to her. She could hardly complain; she’d virtually forced herself on him in the first place. She took her place at the other end of the lounge. The screen showed a graphic re-enactment of the bombing, with cartoon figures demonstrating trajectories and blast impacts. They’d reduced the severity of the event to a macabre video game in an effort to have something new to broadcast. It was sickening.

“I can’t watch this, Mace.”

He picked up the remote and switched the channel, flicking impatiently past more of the same on the other networks, sport and home shopping. He landed on a movie, sea monsters invading land. He grunted and switched to Hugh Jackman showing his Wolverine claws, then Brad Pitt running from zombies. He skipped over the Linda Lovelace 70s porn movie and Iron Man doing his thing. He stopped on The Great Gatsby.

“Violence, destruction, end of the world, sex or excess.” He looked across at her. “Preference?”

If he wasn’t going to take her to bed then he had to talk. “How did Buster get her name?”

He muted Gatsby flinging shirts at Daisy Buchanan. He squared his shoulders off on the arm of the lounge and faced her. She did the same and brought her legs up, stretched in front of her, toes pointed towards him.

“She used to call me that when I was a baby. One day she came into the room, I looked her in the eye and called her Buster. It was the first real word I said.”

She smiled and Mace did too, a crooked half embarrassed smile. “That’s a cute story. How did she come to be your Malcolm?”

He turned his head to look at the TV. There was room for a Sumo wrestler and his two size zero girlfriends between them. If they touched it would be no accident. If he went back to one phrase sentences she’d be bereft.

“What happened to your parents?” he said.