"Are you really going to make me eat a salad?" he asked, closing the door behind me himself, following me toward the kitchen.
"I don't even have anything in the place to eat," I admitted. "Unless you count cheese singles."
"You got any bread?" he asked. "Grilled cheese is always a good meal."
"It's probably stale," I admitted, trying to remember the last time I actually bought a loaf.
"It's going to get toasted anyway," he said, taking it out of my hands, opening it up. "No mold. Alright. We have dinner," he declared, pulling slices out. "Are you a two-sandwich person or a liar?" he asked.
"A liar?" I asked, brows scrunching.
"You know. Trying to convince me you only eat like a bird meanwhile your stomach is growling for more food?"
"What about me suggests I would do such a thing?" I challenged.
"Fair enough," he agreed, peeling the plastic off the cheese slices. "You want to go get changed?" he asked. "I can handle the food. Though I am going to go ahead and suggest that slipping panties back on would be completely pointless."
Despite myself, I felt my lips curling upward. Charmed, that was what I was. It was impossible, I was sure, not to be charmed by West.
Damn him.
"What makes you think I want another round with you?" I asked.
"One word," he said, pausing in spreading butter on a slice of bread. "Aftershocks."
A sigh moved out of me as my hand raised, pushing my hair back.
"It was pretty good," I admitted, smiling.
"Babe..." he said, shaking his head.
"Fine. Really good."
"Getting closer," he agreed, waiting.
"Alright. It was epic. You fucked me into oblivion. Happy?" I asked, watching a slow, giant smile spread across his face.
"I'm not unhappy with that, pretty girl," he admitted, shooing me down the hall as he turned to turn the heat on under the pan.
I did a quick body rinse, realizing I was a little more stubbly than I cared to be when someone was going to have their hands all over me, so I shaved and lotioned and changed into a pair of leggings and a tee, before following the scent of grilled cheese and something else I couldn't quite place, back into my kitchen.
Where West was spooning tomato soup into bowls.
"Look at this gourmet shit," he declared, waving an arm out dramatically to the mismatched plates and bowls, the glasses full of something reddish tinted.
"As someone who has never seen a man get more fancy than pouring boiling water over ramen, I am suitably impressed."
"Alright. Are you a purist or a normal person?"
"I'm going to need more than that."
"A 'food at the table only' sort of person, or a person who eats in front of the TV because staring at each other and listening to one another chew is fucking awkward."
"Oh, in that case, Netflix and food all the way," I told him, grabbing both plates, balancing them on an arm, then slipping a bowl into each hand. "I used to serve tables," I explained to his impressed look. "You get the drinks. And just so you know, this is not the sort of house where the guest gets control of the remote. The bill-payer does."
"So long as I am not watching some Real Housewives bitch about the ungrateful kids they spoiled their whole lives, I'm good."
"I hope you like horror. Because someone is going to get brutally murdered in the woods."
"The woods, huh?"
"It's always the woods," I told him, putting down the plates and bowls, carefully pulling the coffee table closer, then dropping down on the floor in front of it as I snagged the remote from where it flew under the couch the night before, and I'd been too lazy to retrieve it. "I hope you're not squeamish."
"Used to beat the shit out of people for a living, babe, I think I can handle people being bludgeoned to death."
"Bludgeoning is a classic. Sometimes they pull a Vlad The Impaler. Those are cool."
"Gotta like a woman who is impressed with murder."
"Oh, I watched one last week that fed a guy to his pet alligators. That one was intense."
"Any kind of murderers you don't like?" he asked, sounding amused as he dropped down next to me.
"Creepy kid murderers. I saw this one when I was like twenty-one where the adopted kid was tormenting his parents. I almost made an appointment to get my tubes tied that week."
"No creepy kids," he repeated, like he was making a mental note. Almost as if he thought he might be around long enough for it to become useful.
No.
Nope.
I wasn't going to let my mind go there.
So we ate our canned soap and very nearly over-toasted grilled cheese while watching a couple of college kids get parts cut off by meat cleavers.
"Okay. I've tried guessing. What the hell is in this drink?" I asked, taking another sip, trying to roll the taste around on my tongue.