I almost can’t believe it.
As I pull the garlic bread out of the oven and plate up our dinner, I can only hope that she likes it. And that I don’t look as overeager as I feel.
I’m not even a little bit ashamed when I need to take a few deep breaths before I head out of the kitchen toward the guest room. While I would have preferred to have her in my room, I figured it wouldn’t go over very well.
Not yet at least.
I knock on the door and open it after she calls out to me. She’s sitting in the middle of the bed surrounded by paper and a miniature printer of some sort along with little scraps she must have collected along the way. On her lap is a scrapbook.
She doesn’t clutch it to her chest like I’m a troll on a mission to steal it from her, but her reaction comes pretty close. It’s clearwhen she looks into my eyes that she’s wary. I don’t know why or what she’s afraid of, but I know going right at her and asking will only make her defensive.
If you were to ask me how I know, I couldn’t answer. Yet here we are.
“I made some dinner,” my words are an offering.
“Oh?” She looks down at the book on her lap before putting it to the side and climbing out of bed.
My cock goes hard as steel as I watch her. It’s dangerous being this close to a bed with her. I want her like I’ve never wanted anyone else.
“Yeah,” my voice is strained, “it’s just spaghetti, salad, and garlic bread.”
To me it doesn’t sound like much, but the way Hollyn freezes and looks up at me with awe written on her normally shuttered face tells a different story. Does it make me want to puff my chest out? You better fucking believe it, and I give into the feeling. Just a little bit.
“That sounds delicious.”
Her words feel like a gift. She might be in my home, but it’s clear she has walls around her. I don’t know why, but I want to know. As much as I want to find out, I can’t push her. I have a feeling she’ll shut down if I do.
“Good.”
With that, I force myself to walk out of her room without looking back to make sure she’s following me. I don’t stop until I’m standing behind her chair at the small table in the breakfast nook attached to the kitchen.
I grab the bottle of wine I opened and put it on the table while watching Hollyn out of the corner of my eye. The way she flits at the edge of the table reminds me of a hummingbird.
“Come on, Hollyn,” I keep my voice gentle as I pull out her chair.
When she sits, I push her chair in, and she looks up at me like she can’t quite understand if what she’s seeing is real. It is. She’ll figure it out soon enough.
“It looks good,” she murmurs without looking up at me as I sit across from her. I pour some wine and watch as emotions flit across her face. She swallows hard and forces her gaze up until it locks with mine. “Thank you for cooking, I would have helped.”
“I had it under control, Hollyn,” I assure her. “This was easy to make.” I nod toward her plate and hope she likes it. “I enjoy cooking.”
What I don’t tell her is how much I enjoyed cooking for her, specifically. It unlocked something primal in me, something I didn’t know was there. Cooking for her felt like providing, and a bit of myself clicked into place deep inside me.
As we eat, the silence settles. It doesn’t feel dangerous or charged, it feels almost normal, as if there are supposed to be moments of stillness between us. It’s what life should be. No one can maintain excitement all the time. Who you truly are shines in the moments in between, the parts of life which aren’t always glamorous, but are just as important as the big moments where cameras flash and memories are made.
“What was the book you were working on when I came to let you know about dinner?” As much as I try to keep the question inside, it’s impossible.
I’m not going to apologize for wanting to know everything about this woman. She’s intriguing and I’m on the edge of desperation for answers. I doubt she’ll give them up without me asking.
Hollyn bites her lip, and I can see her deciding whether she wants to answer my question or not. She takes a big drink from her glass of wine before she blows out a breath.
“I was working on the scrapbook for the road trip I’m on.”
I nod and keep my voice low, not wanting to scare her. “You said you were driving through when you were in the library earlier.”
She nods, the movement slow and measured. “I’m on a road trip.” She looks away from me, her eyes going unfocused like she’s living a memory. “It’s all because of a promise I made to one of my best friends.”
“A promise?” My question is whispered in the space between us, something about her story pulling me in while everything else falls away.
