Does he?
It’s hard to tell, and I’m realising the face he’s shown me when we’re alone is nothing like the one he’s showing now.
I hate that too. Maybe because I understand it—because I feel it in the bland smile I give Sol as he hands me a plate of food that signals the start of a battle of wills that never quits whatever kind of day I’m having.
A bell rings in my head, like the start of a boxing match. Sol’s given me less than everyone else, and spread it out so it’s harder to tell, less sauce, more pasta.
White food.
Mal leans forward, picking up a fork. Tension floods me, but I realise he’s watching Sol lower himself into his seat, absorbing his clenched jaw and tight gaze, his own eyes flaring with challenge. “Long hangover, eh?”
“I’m getting old,” Sol retorts. “Too old to drink with Oscar, anyway.”
Jack looks up. “Oscar was here last night?”
Sol shrugs, vague.
Jack frowns. “I didn’t see him.”
“You were busy.”
“He didn’t sing?”
“No one did. It was an early one.”
“And you’re still hanging?”
Sol waves a hand in another absent gesture and digs into his food, leaving Jack to his confusion, which adds more weight to the bullshit theory as silence falls over the table.
Mal starts eating. Eventually, Jack does too, and I run out of time to play chicken with my plate.
I eat the pasta, warming up to the rest of it, playing a strong game, even with Mal’s presence branding my fucking soul. Ormaybe because of it. My plate is half gone before I realise it, my focus drawn from the sensation of food settling in my stomach by the searing buzz of where Mal’s thigh has inched closer to mine.
How does he do that? I take a more loaded bite. Testing him. Or at least how I’ve chosen to perceive his effect on me. The way my stomach tightens, mirrored by my grip on my fork, muscle memory from every battle I’ve fought at this table, and the slightest shift from him fades the ache to a dull roar.
Dull enough that I clear my plate, and Sol fails to hide his surprise.
Jack blinks too, but he’s called away by more hassle from the intercom, and eventually he and Sol go downstairs.
It leaves me alone with Mal, a state of affairs I’m not sure what to do with.
I take dishes to the sink.
He comes up behind me with more and his reflection in the kitchen window entrances me. His nearness. The hard lines of his body that would feel so fucking good against mine.
I run the water, shaking my head at myself. I’ve met hotter men than Mal Gallagher.
Sol’s hot.
Oscar.
Jack.
Fuck, even Sev’s some kind of beautiful, and none of them have ever got under my skin like this.
You’ve never wanted to fuck Jack.
Truth.