“Are you hungry?” I whisper.
He squeezes my ass in one hand and explores my back with long strokes with the other. “Starving.” His eyes run over my face, down my body, suggesting another appetite. “What’s on the menu?”
Me?
“Gumbo?” I offer as a half-question. “MiMi’s recipe.”
The way he looks at me, as if he’d be inside me already if he could, it softens into affection. He sets me on my feet and tucks my hair behind my ear, settling a kiss between my eyebrows.
I didn’t flinch!
He tucked my hair behind my ear and I didn’t flinch.
I’m inordinately pleased with myself while he conks out in the living room and I heat up a bowl of gumbo for him. I lean a shoulder into the archway leading from the kitchen and steal a moment to watch him.
He’s on the floor, his back to the couch and his long legs stretched out in front of him. His head flops back, eyes closed and hands linked over the tight, muscled plane of his abs.
“You wanna eat right there?” I ask, hesitant to disturb him.
His eyes open and he sits up straight, resting his arm on the coffee table. “You sure it’s okay?”
“So nice of you to be concerned about ruining my flea market table.” I laugh. “But yeah. I eat there all the time to watch TV or whatever.”
“Okay.” He smiles and runs a hand over his messy hair. “Thanks.”
I head back to the kitchen to grab his meal, then return and set a glass of water and his bowl on the coffee table. “Unless you want wine?”
“Nah. I don’t drink much during the season.”
He spoons the first steaming bite into his mouth, groaning appreciatively and looking at me.
“This is delicious.” He takes another bite, shaking his head. “Be careful or I’ll be demanding this all the time.”
“You’re not very demanding.” A sad smile touches my lips. I know what a demanding man is like, and August is the opposite. If anything, he’s constantly looking for ways to help, to make things easier for me.
“Did you watch the game?” he asks, his full lips tightening and his eyes on his bowl.
“Of course.” I settle onto the couch and tuck my legs under me, careful to keep the robe closed. “I saw it.”
He closes his eyes and frowns. “I hate for you to see me lose,” he admits softly. “And we’re losing so much.”
“You shouldn’t have lost tonight,” I snap, indignation ramrodding my spine. “That ref needs glasses and a lobotomy. All those shit calls in the last five minutes.” I growl, banging a fist on my leg. “And the foul he called on you in the third quarter? Are you fucking kidding me with that shit? I wanted to come through the television and strangle him with his whistle. I mean, really? You barely touched that guy.”
I’m fuming so much, I don’t notice at first that he’s watching me with a wide smile. “What?” I frown at him and cross my arms under my breasts.
“You.”
“What about me?”
“One, you cuss like a sailor when you watch basketball,” he says. “Two, I love how you’re so outraged on my behalf. I thought you saved all that for your precious Lakers.”
We share a smile, and I go back to that first night we met in the bar.
“Well they have to share me with the Waves now.” I sober. “I am sorry, though. I know you hate losing.”
“Fuck.” The hard line of his jaw sharpens. “And of course, everyone’s saying it’s my fault.”
“Which is ridiculous! It’s a team sport.”