“Yes, because Olive is so much better than Lyle.”
“I kind of like Lyle,” she demurs.
“More than you like Alexander?”
“Lyle was safe,” she almost whispers, ducking her head.
I swallow thickly because she almost proves my point. I’ve been sitting here in this kitchen since dinner, wondering what she was doing. Waiting for her to come home. Dougal must’ve thought I’d lost my marbles. Mute and barely moving save for to pour and drink my whisky as I’d contemplated my life. But I hadn’t considered how if Lyle was a figment of her imagination, then maybe Alexander was her nightmare.
Maybe Alexander asks for too much.
“Do you regret taking Lyle for a coffee?” I ask carefully. “To your hotel room?”
From the periphery of my vision, I see her shake her head.
If she doesn’t regret the night then she can’t regret the rest, I decide. But I need to be smarter about this. Wasn’t that the whole point of tonight’s introspection? Sliding open another drawer, or three, I find the silverware and then a napkin as she makes some comment about only duke’s needing a fork for a sandwich. But she’ll see, I think as I begin to plate up.
“Come on.” As I reach for her hand, Holland slides from the countertop, her feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump.
“I’m really not hungry.”
“I’ll help you finish it if you like. Though I think you’ll probably jab me with the fork when you taste how good it is.”
“Modest, much?”
“Modesty never did anyone any good. But I can’t take the credit, really. It’s Dougal’s recipe. All I did was assemble it.”
I lead us back to the table and Holland takes a chair next to where I’d placed my whisky glass.
“What were you doing in here tonight?” As though she regrets voicing the question, she keeps her eyes on the plate as I place it in front of her. “This smells so good, by the way. And if I forget to tell you afterwards, I appreciate you looking after me. I mean, making it for me, even though I’m not hungry.”
“You’re welcome.” A tiny pinprick of pleasure pierces my chest. I want to look after. I just have to persuade her to let it happen. That I could be good for her. That we could be good for each other. “As for appetites,” I find myself saying, “sometimes you don’t know what you want until it’s placed in front of you.”
I’m not sure truer words were ever said. Certainly, not by me.
I want her. I want to get to know her. I want her by my side. I want to see where this goes. I want to try. And I want her to be open to it. To this. To us.
“You know,” she says, picking up her silverware, “I told your sister this afternoon that your moods were pretty changeable.” Holland freezes for a minute, her eyes rolling closed as the corner of her mouth tips. “Actually, that’s not really true.” She twists her head my way, the quirk of her lips still visible. “I muttered something to myself, and she overheard.”
“What was it?” I ask, ignoring the prickle in my fingertips and the desire to curl a lock of her hair behind her perfect pink ear.
“I asked myself if you were bipolar.” She shrugs tightly then cuts a corner from one of the chunky triangles. “The changeable moods.” She pushes the bread into her mouth.
“Lovely,” I say, meaning the exact opposite.
“Oh my gosh, this is so good.” Her expression isn’t quite her orgasm face, but it’s a close second as she chews and rolls the morsel around her tongue. “This is the best grilled cheese sandwich I have ever eaten,” she adds with such seriousness before she begins to dig into the croque monsieur with gusto.
“What?” she asks suddenly, looking up and watching me.
“You were saying. Mercurial,” I prompt, shaking my head. I’d become a little intent, watching her eat. Watching her lips purse and stretch while ignoring how my cock perks up as she opens her mouth. Yes, just like that.
“Just remember what went on in that room before she turned up.” Her gaze dips diffidently to her plate and I decide against telling her I have, that, in fact, I’d gone on and reimagined it in explicit detail. “Anyway, Isla said you weren’t of a capricious nature,” she adds in some approximation of my sister’s voice. “But maybe she’s too close to see how hot and cold you run.”
“Holland, my moods are never cold around you.” Possibly my words, but only when I’m deflecting. And that’s at least ninety percent of the problem, I think with a sigh. “You asked what I was doing here in the kitchen. Apart from waiting for you, which you know already without asking. But I was thinking about this afternoon, too. I realised I’d asked too much of you. While we don’t really know each other, to me, it feels like you’ve been in my life for longer than a couple of days.” She doesn’t answer but I don’t think I need her to. “That night, the night in London, you said you were on holiday.”