“Um, thanks for the food,” I offer lamely.
He gives me a nod before he and Ian exchange silent words with their eyes. None of the conversation is decipherable. Maybe if I put on heels and stood up higher I’d be able to intercept a word or two. But since I’m about eight inches shorter than the both of them, I figure I’ll let them have their relative privacy—even though this is my apartment.
Unsure of whether to wake Mom up to eat or let her sleep, I pause and peek into her room. Her face looks so peaceful I decide that sleep is better than anything. Behind me I hear the door close and the locks engage. Ian’s body brushes past mine on the way to the living room. The scent of delicious peppers, ginger, and garlic trails behind him, and I follow like a puppy.
“Do you want orange juice, milk or water? Your choices haven’t magically changed since the food came,” I say, detouring into the kitchen to grab plates, silverware and napkins.
“Bring the plates,” he orders.
On the table is an assortment of boxes Ian has unpacked from the sack. Next to him is a bottle of wine. I didn’t see that delivered. “So Steve’s in charge of you? How come I don’t believe that?”
“He’s in charge of where I can go. He gets very irritated when I’m in new places, and then I have to soothe him with expensive bottles of Scotch and free trips for his family to come visit him from Australia. It gets pricey. I try to keep him happy,” Ian says. The food is all unpacked and my stomach growls in appreciation, which evokes a low laugh from Ian.
Ian’s laugh, like the rest of him, is sexy and affects me in ways I wish it didn’t. There are a lot of questions still unanswered, like why he was at the park and what he wants with Malcolm, but I decide that I'll tackle those subjects after a meal.
“Not sure what flavors you enjoy, so I ordered a variety.” He sweeps a hand over the spread that could feed six instead of the two of us. The thought of leftover Thai food for days has me rubbing my hands together in gleeful anticipation.
I set down the plates and utensils and hurry back into the kitchen for glasses. Mom has some wonderful Waterford crystal glasses she received when she married Dad, and I pull those out impulsively.
“Part of me wants to complain about your high handedness but the food is too good,” I tell him while spooning a shrimp-and-vegetable-concoction onto my plate. It smells so good I’d swear my taste buds are watering.
“Complain and eat at the same time. I don’t care,” he says easily.
“You seem very casual and laid back, but I don’t think you can be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because . . .” I pause, wipe my mouth, and take a sip of the white wine he’s poured me. So good. I try not to swallow the whole glass in one gulp. “You’re very successful, and I don’t think you would own properties all over the world if you were as completely laid back and easy going as you’d like people to believe. It’s a sham.”
He stares at me for a moment, and the look on his face is fierce. Some unfamiliar expression lurks behind his eyes, but it passes before I can decipher it and his normal, humorous “life’s my personal game” facade takes its place.
“I like how quick you are.”
“That's a non-answer. Fine, you don't want to engage in normal conversation like a human being, then I'll eat.” I reapply myself to the food.
“I don’t like that you live here,” he says over his noodle dish. He wields his utensils firmly and confidently, as he does everything else.
“Thanks, but this is all we can afford,” I respond tartly. Being criticized about my financial decisions when I'm doing the absolute best I can makes me irritable.
“What about Malcolm?”
“We have a complicated relationship.”
His gaze sharpens. “Tell me about it.”
Oh, what the hell. It’s not like it’s a big bad secret. I take another bite of my food. “His mom hates us because her husband, Malcolm’s dad, had an affair with my mom. But she didn’t know he was married!” I defend my mother. “So Malcolm’s dad moved in with my mom and they spent four years together, half of which apparently Mitch Hedder spent finding a new woman.”
“Sounds like a real winner.”
“My mom was lonely,” I say defensively.
“No judgment from me,” he says holding up his hands. “Like I said earlier, your mother is lovely. Why don't we eat? I didn't order all this food only to ruin the meal with nosy questions.” His smile is a bit lopsided. “I'm intensely curious about you.”
The statement embarrasses me, so I hide my face in my food. Despite our lunch I'm actually so hungry I want to eat it all and not save any of it for tomorrow, but I force myself to stop. And it’s like my cessation of eating signals an end to the meal. I’m a little sorry as we begin to wrap up the leftovers and then stick them in the refrigerator. The detritus of our meal is all gone but for the glasses of wine. Mine is low until Ian reaches over and empties out the bottle.
I can hardly believe I’ve helped him drink a whole bottle. Fatigue sets in and I stumble when I rise from the table. Ian is by my side, instantly leading me over to the sofa. He settles into the corner and draws me down right next to him and—maybe because I’m full of food and feeling sleepy from the long day and the wine—I lean into him, curling my legs up on the sofa cushion.
“We're a lot alike, you know,” he says. His arm is around me, and his hand is threading through my hair. It’s relaxing and arousing at the same time which seems impossible, but it’s Ian so I guess everything is possible. He could find gravity in space.
“How so?”
“Your mother’s illness has turned you into the care provider.” I make a sound to protest, but he shushes me. “It doesn’t mean she loves you less or she isn’t a wonderful mother; it means that you’re taking on a responsibility sooner than you expected.” He takes a large swallow of his wine, and I’m mesmerized by how the light catches on the silver links of the band encasing his strong wrist and by the muscles of his forearm, which flex as he lifts and then lowers his glass. “But you’re a lot braver than I think I would be in your situation. My mother was sick, and I didn’t realize it. If I had taken better care of her . . .” his voice trails off and then picks back up. “She died, so I understand your grief.”
I place my hand on his heart and my head finds a nesting place in the hollow of his shoulder. His heart beats soundly and regularly. It’s strong and I feel in this place, within the circle of his arms, no harm could come to me.