“Oh…no, is that what was happening earlier out here?”
“Uh, no. I was just having a fi—an argument with this guy…I’m not even sure what it’s about anymore. I can’t help but assume that it’s always gonna be bullshit, you know? Like, I can’t let myself keep falling for the same old…”
“It’s not part of the pajama thing, then?”
Emilia can’t suppress her laughter anymore. “Lady, I appreciate the laugh right now. Good luck with your play or whatever.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I think it means I can close the door without being too rude. Which is exactly what I do.
“She’s the one doing the performance thing, right?” I ask Thomas.
“I’m quite confident that was real and also that you just slammed the door in her face. But, hey, what the fuck do I know?”
The smile sneaks up on me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from grinning, feeling the mischief spread across my face. That roguish feeling is taking over me entirely when I turn to my husband, a bit amused himself with my behavior.
“So, Thomas, as the French say, are we going to go into the other fucking room or not?”
“It’s quiet now. We can talk here.”
“Can we, smart guy?”
“Now you think I’m smart?”
“Not smart enough to spot sarcasm…”
“You know our martinis are still waiting for us, right? Why don’t we make that Step One?”
There’s that feeling of mischief again. It’s like it’s in the air, and it has us both captured. It’s clear in Thomas’s smile—and I’m sure in mine, as well.
“Step One in what? Towards what?”
My curiosity is, admittedly, overwhelming—to the point I may be running a slight temperature.
Is that a normal symptom of curiosity? No wonder it’s so dangerous to felines.
Yet my husband’s refusing to indulge my question. Silently, he takes a single step towards me.
That isn’t helping to solve my curiosity one bit. In fact, my feverishness is suddenly getting worse.
“Goddammit, Thomas.”
Out of frustration, I grab that smiling face of his and pull it towards me, not stopping until my lips are softly touching his ear.
“Don’t like answering questions, do you?” I whisper, before giving his earlobe a firm little bite.
And my husband still doesn’t answer the question. All he does is lean down slightly to adorn my neck with slow, lingering kisses. Thomas is holding both my arms as his lips float up towards mine, and we spend a lengthy few moments returning to where we were before the last hallway interruption.
My curiosity-induced fever is at an all-time high by the time we stop, but I don’t feel ill in the least.
“To answer your question,” Thomas whispers, at long last, “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Wouldn’t you?”
“I think so, Thomas. I think so.”
“Our cocktails await, my love.”
“And your olives…”
“Oh! How could I forget?”