She cocks a brow, and I think this is as much as she and I have looked at one another conversationally. “Oh my god,” she deadpans. “Atticus and Goldie agree on something.”
“Too bad we’re snowed in,” I add, “lotto ticket-type odds in this place.” That earns me a laugh, and her sweet chuckle makes me grin just a little.
“Let’s see. Maybe we have more in common than we think,” she says, producing a hair tie from her wrist. She grabs all her hair and starts twistin’ and spinnin’ the way only women can do, and a moment later, I’m not the only one with a messy bun.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asks, leaning back against the old wooden chair. My hoodie is legit fuckin’ huge on her, and every time I look over and see her in it, I feel shit I got no business feelin’.
“Favorite color? What’s next? You gonna ask what I wanna be when I grow up?”
“Don’t be a pooper,” she offers drily. “What’s your favorite color?”
I look at my sweatshirt eating up her slim frame. My eyes jump to hers. She’s staring at me like she knows what I’m thinkin’ and just why I’m thinkin’ it. “Black.”
She swallows, and my cock stiffens a little. “Mine too,” she says, all whisper soft and shit.
I push the sausages around in the pan and start sauteeing the mix of cut-up veggies I brought with me. I add some seasoning and the smells start making my stomach talk. “And you take your coffee black,” I add because that seems to be the only thing I know about her so far.
“And you do, too, it seems.”
I look over and catch her holding the sweatshirt up to her nose, inhaling as her eyes flutter closed. I turn my focus back to the food, but I replay that moment behind my eyes at least ten times while pushing that sausage around.
“What are you making?” she asks, straightening her spine in the chair, attempting to peer into the pans on the cooktop.
“Chicken apple sausage with onions, peppers, and potatoes.” I watch her mouth move from side to side, and then she swallows. I don’t know what to make of what she’s doing. “You a vegetarian?” I ask, thinking maybe it smells good to her, but she can’t eat it.
She shakes her head. “No, I eat meat.”
“You… hungry?” I ask, flipping the sausages for the final time.
She stares at me. I move the spatula around the pan with the vegetables while I keep my eyes trained on hers. I don’t know why she’s starin’ through me right now, but I don’t look away.
“I want to eat,” she says, and I think it’s a strange way to answer that question, but hell, I don’t know Goldie all that well. Maybe it’s not.
“Okay, good.” A few minutes of quiet as I finish cooking, turn off the burners, and plate up our food.
“Should we make the switch?” Goldie asks, surprising me by being on her feet at my side. I was going to get us water, and I had no idea she was reaching for the glasses behind me. I pass her the glasses I was pulling down, and she smiles up at me. “Wine?”
“Wine,” I repeat with a nod.
I don’t like wine. I can’t be convinced that anyone really likes wine. I’m pretty sure everyone just wants to act like they have some refined palette because I’m a normal guy. I know when cake is too sweet or chicken is too dry. I can tell when a brew got too many hops. But wine? All of them taste the same. Dried up grapes and bitterness.
Something tells me if I don’t say yes, she won’t be comfortable doing it. I hand her a corkscrew I find in the drawer as she returns to the kitchen with two bottles she presumably pulled from her bag.
For whatever reason, I watch her collect sausage with some pepper, cautiously stabbing a small piece of potato with the tines of her fork. She blows on the food then brings it to her nose, inhaling deeply before it goes into her mouth. Her eyelids waver before shutting, and her entire frame, covered in my sweatshirt, seems to melt into the chair a little.
“Oh, God, Atticus,” she says finally after she’s slowly chewed and swallowed her bite. “This is so good.”
“It is,” I reply, taking my own first bite. It’s hot, so I toss it around on my tongue, exhaling steam. I eat alone, so my table manners right now would make my Mom cringe. I blot my lips with a napkin and take a drink of the wine she’s poured into our water glasses.
My food is good, but it is quite possibly being ruined by this god-awful wine.
“Like the wine?” she asks, sipping hers while forking up another bite.
I take another bite and talk around the mouthful of food. “Fuck no.”
At first, she looks shocked and maybe a little offended. I take another drink of the devil’s piss and then help myself to another forkful of food. “But,” I say with a mouthful, “that don’t mean I’m not gonna drink it.”
Then she smiles and takes a drink of her wine, too. After another few bites, conversation starts.