Even the bossy, invasive parts, because I might be able to dump some money into fixing up that house if I wasn’t paying for Angelica’s massages.
And he gave that to me.
“Can we take it slow?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t take it any other way.”
I pulled in a shuddering breath.
Then I said, “I like white meat.”
His smile was…
It was…
God.
Way, way better than a frosting-festooned big cookie.
“Baby, the thigh’s where it’s at.”
I made a face even though it was not lost on me if I did something I’d never done in my life, roasted a chicken for us (though I could buy one), I wouldn’t have to fight for the white meat.
This was already working.
Which scared me even more.
He ripped the chicken bag open and said, “Dig in.”
We both dug in.
He gave me shit I didn’t have any beer.
I gave him shit about the fact I wasn’t clairvoyant about his beverage tastes or his plans to invade my true crime night and further shared I drank gin in cocktails, wine most other times, cider when I was feeling caj (as in casual, and when I used that word, Boone chuckled), and tequila when I wanted hardcore.
He shared, “I drink beer…and beer.”
I started laughing and then had to work harder at balancing my plate because I had his arm hooked along my stomach, my side pressed to his front, and his lips to my temple before they went to my ear and he said, “See, this is already working out great.”
I turned my head, caught his gaze, and wanted so bad to kiss him, it was an all-over itch.
All I could think to say was, “Yeah.”
He smiled at me, warm eyes, sweet expression, before he gave me a squeeze and let me go.
We were in my living room, in front of the TV, Boone at the other corner of the couch, angled, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. I was back in my corner, knees up, plate wedged between thighs and chest, his “beer…and beer,” sweet words in my ear and squeeze had worn off, and I was freaking out.
I had never really been one to be super nervous around guys.
My dad taught me that, but not in a good way.
He left my mother, who was awesome, and my brother and me, who were also awesome, and after being banged around emotionally by that and other shit he pulled for years, I’d come to the conclusion that anyone who entered my life could take me as I came, or like my dad, they could go.
This was not that.
This was someone I wanted to get to know better.
This was someone I wanted to like me.
This was something I wanted to work out.
“What the hell is this?” Boone asked, and I looked from tearing the crispy skin off my chicken breast to him.
“Sorry?”
“On TV.”
I turned to the TV. “Saturday night in front of television nirvana. A marathon of The Case That Haunts Me.”
He stared at the TV.
I stared at his profile not knowing which part of his profile to focus on, his jaw, or his cheekbone.
He looked to me. “Sweetheart, TV nirvana is a Saturday night Rockies game.”
“We can switch to baseball,” I offered. “If you want me catatonic in ten minutes.”
He smiled at me and asked, “So, you’re into true crime?”
“Yup,” I said, popping the crispy skin into my mouth.
Boone watched me do that and it made him smile again before he reached to my battered coffee table, nabbed my remote, pointed it at the TV and it paused.
He tossed the remote on the seat between us and twisted further my way.
He took up a forkful of macaroni salad before he teased, “This room could be darker.”
All righty then.
It was get-to-know-you-better time.
Fabulous.
Because suddenly, I had the unique, and not-all-that-fun sensation that I hoped I was interesting to know.
I considered what my living room said about me.
My couch was a deep purple. My armchair was a brick red. The walls were a deep orange-red. The rug on the floor was fake Persian with a dark-blue background and red, orange, pink and peach designs.
And my dark-wood roller shades were closed.
“I like dark,” I muttered.
“Mm,” he hummed and shoved into his mouth salad that was so far from the true meaning of salad, it was kinda hilarious.
After he swallowed, he said, “Do you know how many plants you have? Or did you lose track after number three thousand?”
I was fighting a smile when I replied, “Evie says they’re destroying the Amazon, and this destruction is depleting the world’s oxygen, so I’m doing my bit to oxygenate Denver.”
“Obliged, baby, I’m already breathing easier,” he murmured, and forked more macaroni into his mouth.
“Can you tell me how our meal is drenched in mayo, grease and marshmallows and you have negative body fat?”
He chewed, swallowed, and replied, “I work hard. I work out hard. And I fuck hard. Calories aren’t a problem for me.”