She releases a long shaky breath and relaxes against me.
For a while, we both stare at the pasta sitting in the skillet. When our gazes connect, we break into laughter.
“Let’s eat,” I say.
TEN
Anna
I’m not sure I’m good company as we eat. There’s too much going on in my head for me to think of interesting things to say. I can barely taste the food and the wine. I can barely sit still. Every time our knees bump beneath my tiny kitchen table, my awareness of him escalates.
I’m really doing this. I’m going to have sex with a stranger.
I don’t expect to enjoy it, but it means something to me that I’ll be doing it on my terms, that I’m setting boundaries, even if it disappoints people—perhaps especially if it disappoints people. Telling Quan that I didn’t want to give him a blow job might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I did it. Part of me is still queasy from how unnatural it felt. Another part of me, however, is drunk with power.
That could just be the alcohol, though. Or his kisses.
I’ve never been kissed the way he kissed me. I’ve always loved kissing. It’s the only part of sex that I wholeheartedly enjoy, but Quan’s kisses swept me away. I can’t stop looking at his mouth, watching his jaw work as he chews, watching his throat bob as he swallows, fascinated by the way his tattoos shift. Is it normal to find a man’s Adam’s apple sexy?
This is physical attraction, I recognize. And I’ve never felt it before, not really. There are other things that I like about Julian—my parents hold his family in high esteem (his father is a urologist, and his mother is an obstetrician); he’s extremely smart and talented (he went to Harvard and then Stanford for business school); he’s hardworking (he’s an investment banker at a leading bank); he has an even temperament and never yells at me, never scares me; I understand him; I know how to be what he wants. At least, I thought I did.
He doesn’t know me, though. How can he, when even I don’t?
Intuitively, I sense that if I stray from the version of myself that he’s familiar with, he will no longer want me. That is, if he ever comes back to me.
Quan, on the other hand, has only known this chaotic, insecure, panic-attack-ridden side of me. He’s seen me at my worst.
And he’s still here.
For now. For tonight.
“You’re doing the same thing my mom does,” he observes.
I blink several times as I try to make sense of his words. “What does she do?”
“She watches people eat, like the food tastes better in someone else’s mouth,” he says with a grin.
I duck my head and tuck a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind. She’s a cook and loves feeding people, so I’m used to it. This pasta is good, too.” He points at his empty plate.
I hate the thought of him being hungry—and I’m ridiculously pleased that he likes my cooking—so I push my half-full plate toward him. “Help me finish?”
After giving me an assessing look, he spins his fork in the noodles and takes a big bite. It’s a bit unusual sharing a plate with him, but I like it. It feels intimate somehow. I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my palm, watching him.
As he scoops up a second forkful, he asks, “Do you always keep it quiet like this? You don’t like to play background music?”
“Do you want me to turn something on?”
“Not unless you want to. I’m just curious.” He takes another big bite of pasta, and his gaze strays to my instrument case in the corner.
“I like having music on while I cook and things,” I say, but then I frown down at the dwindling noodles on my plate. “Well, I used to. Lately, I can’t listen to music without picking it apart and overanalyzing everything until my head hurts. I haven’t listened to music for my own enjoyment in . . . a long time. I think I’ve forgotten how. Ironic, I know.”
When his expression turns thoughtful and he looks like he wants to delve deeper into the topic, I quickly steer the conversation away from me by asking, “What kind of music do you like?”
After a short hesitation, he says, “Most kinds, I guess. I’m not picky. To be honest, I’m really tone-deaf.”
“Tone-deaf as in . . . you can’t differentiate notes?” As a professional musician, one with perfect pitch no less, I can’t fathom what that must be like.