All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

I had never actually thought about it, but it was sort of nice that Ian had. That the things I said were noticed.

“They serve fusion Vietnamese-French,” Kemen said out of the blue.

We both turned to him.

“At Bastille,” he retorted, annoyed with us. “It’s called a conversation. We were having one. Hello.”

Ian made a retching noise in the back of his throat.

“Ohmygod, don’t ever do that again when I’m about to eat,” Kemen said dramatically, eyes wide. “Holy crap, he’s disgusting.”

“Eat your food.” I said, trying not to laugh.

“And this omelet is ridiculous,” he passed judgment. “Who eats this much food in one sitting? It’s the size of a pound cake.”

Ian said something back, but he was chewing.

Kemen asked me for the translation.

“He said it’s the Wednesday morning special.”

“You guys shouldn’t eat like this,” he warned. “Nobody should.”

“You’re gonna eat it.”

“No, darling, I’m going to pick at it. I’m not going to eat it all. Who eats like this and doesn’t have a heart attack?” he asked, making a face as he watched Ian hoovering it down. “Oh dear God.”

His horrified expression was the best part of my morning.

THAT EVENING as I cleaned up after dinner, putting the remaining five slices of deep-dish spinach pizza in my refrigerator, I replayed a conversation I’d had with a very handsome man who’d cornered me after my shower at the gym. He’d been very clear as he leaned into my space that he would love to eat dinner with me, but more importantly, he’d like to take me home.

“We could have a really good time.”

I had no doubt, but I could not have been any less interested. There’d been no one since my ex, and it wasn’t that I was pining over him—it was simply that whoever I dated I had to introduce to Ian. And if I wasn’t going to introduce them to Ian because it was just a one-night stand—what was the point? Besides, no one turned me on enough to want to jump into bed except for my very straight, very unavailable, partner.

The whole thing was a mess. I needed to get laid. As soon as I met someone I couldn’t keep my hands off of, I’d be all over this insane obsession with Ian.

My phone buzzing with a text startled me, I’d been so lost in thought. I was not surprised to find Ian wanting to know where I was. It was a big part of the problem for me, his constant attention, even though I would’ve bet my life that he didn’t realize what he was doing. The fact of the matter was, though, that Ian was as possessive of me and my time as he was of my stuff. It was too bad it didn’t really mean a damn thing.

Ignoring the text, I finished cleaning up and left the plate and wineglass I’d used on the wooden dish rack to air dry.

When the phone rang minutes later, I answered.

“Are your fingers broken along with your wrist?”

“You’re on a date, dumbass,” I informed him. “Focus on the people in front of you and stop trying to talk to me. Endeavor to make a good impression.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t what? Focus?”

“Yeah.”

“And why not?”

“’Cause now we’re heading over to Ethan’s house to have drinks and maybe play board games.”

I had to process that. “What?”

He grunted.

“You don’t like board games. You like video games.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Tell them you like to shoot stuff.”

“I’m starving.”

I stifled a laugh. “What did you eat?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know what you ate?”

“Nope. The whole menu was in French.”

“You didn’t eat sweetmeats, did you, because I think that’s brains.”

“No, I think it was fish.”

“You hate fish.”

“Yeah, I know that too.”

I coughed. “You realize that Emma is doing her damnedest to integrate you and her friends because she cares about you? And you’re being an ass about the whole thing?”

“Maybe she should care less about group stuff and more about her and me stuff.”

“But she knows you guys work when you’re alone, and now she needs to see how you fit into her life with her friends and family.”

“Yeah, okay, what’re you doing?”

He shouldn’t have cared right then. “Ian? I’m hanging up.”

“No, really. What’re you doing?”

He was like a dog with a bone. “Cleaning up.”

“Cleaning up what?”

“Dinner dishes.”

Silence.

“Ian?”

“You had pizza, didn’t you, you shit?”

I laughed. “Well, yeah, but I had deep-dish that you hate.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t love it.”

“I love it more than French food.”

“Because you have an undeveloped palate,” I criticized.

“Who cares?” he said harshly. “I love… pizza.”

“I know.”

“And Chickie.”

We were going to talk about the dog now? “Get off the phone.”

“Go walk him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Chickie. I thought I’d be home by now to take him out, but I’m not, so—go walk him.”

“Screw you. I am not the dog walker.”

“He’ll pee in my apartment.”

“Like you’d notice.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”