There’s a sheet pan in my hands now, and I drop it in front of him and nod toward the recipe before I preheat the oven. He’s quick to grab the next few things he’ll need, but I flatten my hands on the island until he’s looking at me again.
“It wasn’t until you knelt between my bloody legs and found out no man had been there before that I became a real challenge.”
“Jake, you’ve been a real challenge since the day we met. Knowing I’d be your first only stopped me from sucking your dick before sunrise.”
“Glad we got past that.”
“So am I.”
He pops a cherry tomato into his mouth then.Swallows it and steals another. Of all the things I’ve imagined him doing, this isn’t one of them, and I think I must have been naive not to have seen it coming. His smile is unapologetic, and the only reason I don’t kiss it off his face is because I’m too busy clinging to a moment I’ve missed for the past ten years.
Darren must know because he doesn’t ask.
And he returns to the recipe because he’s here to cook with me.
We’re both on our second glass of wine by the time we sit down to eat, and we’re far enough apart to have plenty of room to breathe. It won’t last, this space between us, but I appreciate it for as long as either of us needs to pretend this is a meal shared by friends who will go their separate ways again and again. After every few bites, we talk about the rest of the groceries we’ll need to pick up tomorrow, and the ice we’ll grab for coolers we’ve borrowed, and the side gate we’ll unlock to let everyone in without having to lead them through my house.
We finish the wine.
The playlists are ready. The décor is going to be minimal.
The last of the pasta is gone.
My daughter will get to meet the people I love dearly. And they’ll get to meet her.
“Your face just did a thing,” Darren says. “Michelle?”
“Lucy.”
“You’re protective.”
“She doesn’t need me to be. Not now.”
“And not around us,” Darren points out. “But I’m nervous, so I get it.”
I smile, dazed by that. “You’re nervous about meeting my kid?”
“Of course I am.”
He doesn’t explain, and I don’t need him to. His feelings make sense on more than one level, and examining them too closely feels unfair when I’m holding on to a few of my own. They’re all better unnamed tonight, and I lift my empty wine glass to help distract myself under the gaze of a man who might have other things to say. Darren nods and gathers our plates, then wanders toward the kitchen as he promises to take care of the dishes tomorrow. I’m not surprised when he reappears a couple of minutes later with a second bottle of wine and dimples for days.
“Thank you,” I say as he pours for both of us.
“Of course.”
With the bottle left on the table and his glass in his hand, he leans back against the dining room wall, as attractive as I’ve ever seen him, maybe because he’s not trying to be attractive at all. We both drink, and we could stay here and keep talking about grilling supplies and inflatable rafts, but he might want to go somewhere else, and I know I do. Eventually, I push out of my chair and make my way to him, effectively pinning him where he stands without making contact at all.
“Take your glass and the bottle into the living room. I’ll be right there.”
His grin goes nowhere, and whatever he thinks I’m up to, he’s almost certainly wrong, or at least wrong for now. We’re months into this thing we’ve been doing, so it’s not difficult to predictthat our night will end with us deliciously spent on the couch or upstairs in my bed or anywhere in between. But tomorrow there will be a limit to how much Darren and I can touch and play and tease, and I want to revel in it tonight.
When I join him in the living room, I bring a pint of ice cream—rich and dark and perfect with the new bottle we’ve started—and a single spoon. There’s not much wine left in my glass considering I haven’t had it all that long, but I set it and our dessert on the coffee table next to the bottle that’s already there. Then I crouch in front of the fireplace, the warm day giving way to a cool night that makes this reasonable. I breathe easily at the first flicker of flames, and chuckle when I hear his low whistle behind me.
“Hot,” he whispers.
I think it’s an understatement when I turn and really look at him, so comfortable in my home when he relaxes against the sofa cushions, takes another sip, and waits for me. It feels like I can’t possibly screw this up, and he might be the one person who’d be gentle with me even if I prove myself wrong. A couple of steps bring me to his side, and I lower myself to the couch, careful not to jostle the glass of wine in his hand when I top both of us off. It’s far too late for a toast, but we drink together until I glance at the ice cream, and he licks his lips.
“Want some?” I ask unnecessarily.