He nodded and held up his fingers with about an inch between them.
She poured him an inch and a half, knowing that was what he really meant. “I managed by telling Tyler this is your favorite meal, and that I wassureyou would agree to eating it tonight.” She leaned over the island and conspiratorially lowered her voice. The camera crew had left early given that the day turned out exceptionally boring what with Chuck resting and her watching movies all afternoon, but there were still the cameras in the ceiling to mind. “Between you and me, Tyler is a pushover. It doesn’t take much to convince him of anything.”
“Or maybe you’re just very compelling,” he said with a crooked grin that felt like he was flirting.
Olivia quickly changed the subject. “The couch passed the rigorous movie marathon test I put it through today, so as long as we limit ourselves to gentle lounging, I think it should hold up.”
Chuck sputtered into his wine, and the sound made herrealize he thought she was making a suggestive comment about other uses for the couch.
“Oh! I didn’t mean—”
He shook his head with a shy flush in his cheeks. “The couch is for sitting or lying only, got it.”
Olivia tucked her hair behind her ear and set about plating their dinner.
They sat at the barstools facing into the kitchen, which felt a little less intimidating than formally sitting at the dining table. A casual ease hung over the room, and Olivia found herself settling into a relaxed meal.
The wine might have had something to do with it.
Chuck cut into his steak and took a bite. A little groan escaped his throat that made Olivia sit up straighter. “You know, your cooking skills are underrated.”
“Thank…you?” she said, and cast him a curious look.
He waved his fork over his plate. “I just mean we hardly ever eat anything home-cooked together, but when we do, it’s amazing.”
“Yeah, because we can’t ever agree on anything.” The words slipped from her lips like they were ready and waiting to go.
Chuck cast her side eyes and sipped his wine. She expected him to volley a snarky remark right back, but instead, he said, “You’re right. I know I’d be considered a picky eater in some circles, and you’re incredibly patient for putting up with it.”
Olivia snorted. “I don’t know if I’d consider giving up and ordering takeout for myself patient, but thanks.”
“You did your best. I know I’m not that easy.”
It took a willful effort to stop the next quip from slipping off her tongue. The habit was so ingrained, it was like unlearninghow to ride a bike or write with her dominant hand. She suspiciously eyed him and took another gulp of wine. “Am I drunk or are you being weird? Why are you admitting to your faults right now?”
He laughed a warm, gravelly sound and nodded at the half-empty wine bottle. “Judging by how much wine is left in there, no, you are not drunk. You’d need at least another glass before your lips got tingly, and two more before you started getting philosophical and handsy.”
Her mouth popped open to argue at the same time she blushed. She could not deny that either of those things was true. “Shut up,” she said with a half smile. “You do not know my drink thresholds.”
“Oh, but I absolutely do.” He reached for the bottle and refilled her half-empty glass. Then he leaned his elbow on the island and turned toward her. “I know all sorts of things about you, Olivia Grace Martin.” He cocked his head like he was studying her. His eyes turned soft and sincere. Something daring flickered in them at the same time. “One glass of wine, you’re relaxed, pliable. Two, your lips start to turn purple, and you kiss with your mouth open.”
She felt herself flush again and swore he’d scooted closer. His eyes traced her mouth, and with the heat of his gaze, he might as well have been running his thumb over her bottom lip.
“Three,” he continued, “and your hands find their way to my back pockets and the inside of my collar, and usually my hair, which I have to admit always made it hard to concentrate when you inevitably start talking about the finer points of human existence on a floating rock in the middle of nothing with drink four.”
He really had moved closer. His knee was dangerously close to touching hers now.
“Five,” he said in a low growl that she had to lean in to hear, “and I’m carrying you to bed, where things I will not describe in polite company tend to occur.” His eyes flicked up to the camera in the corner. The soft grin on his face was positively wicked, and Olivia noticed she’d stopped breathing.
He stared at her for three more seconds, each one making her feel like her heart was going to beat out of her chest. She was the one to tear her gaze away and it was as if she’d severed a physical thing. When she regained the ability to breathe, she nodded at the bottle and stabbed a Brussels sprout. “Better put the cork back in, then, shouldn’t we.”
Chuck held still long enough to make it feel like the air between them might ignite and incinerate them both. Olivia wasn’t sure what he was going to do, or what she wanted him to do. Half of her wanted him to pour the bottle down the drain and the other half wanted him to pour it in their glasses until they had to open another. He ended her game of daring him and damning him when he softly laughed and found the cork to wedge it back in.
Olivia exhaled in relief loud enough—louder than she’d meant—that he glanced at her. His lips lifted in an imperceptible twitch that no one else would have noticed except her, because she knew all sorts of things about Charles Michael Walsh too. Like how he tasted when she kissed him with her mouth open, and what his shampoo made his hair smell like. And how he lightly shivered when she ran her fingertip along his collarbone, and the sounds he made after he carried her to bed and polite company was gone.
At the risk of doing something she’d regret, she pulled awayand focused on her food. “You never answered my question,” she said.
“Which one?”