“Is that a documentary?”
“You like British crime drama?”
“Like Broadchurch?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he muttered, and with the skill born inherent in every being with a penis, he commandeered the remote, continuing to mutter, “You need all the good male role models you can get, even fictional ones.”
Oh boy.
He signed into his BritBox (because I sure as hell didn’t have that subscription—I allowed myself two streaming services at a time, taking in all I wanted before I canceled and subscribed to others).
We ate.
We watched Jimmy Perez be broody, astute, empathetic and an excellent stepdad through his grief, and Tosh be sharp and funny.
Between episodes one and two, I hauled my ass out of the couch to spoon some custard over fresh strawberries and brought it back.
Yes, I felt the heart-squeezing thing again when I saw Gabe’s brows go up and then his lips tip up after he put the first spoonful in his mouth.
And yes again, filled with short ribs, biscuits and custard, after episode two and a bit into episode three, I passed out.
I woke up being carried to my bedroom.
When he set me down, I was listing on my feet, so I obviously continued not bothering to fight it when Gabe handed me my nightie.
Though he left to shut down the apartment while I changed.
And lying in bed, I watched this time as he shucked his tee (that wide, hairy chest, God, those shoulders, dayum, and don’t get me started on his abs), and his jeans (those thick thighs, Lord, deliver me) and got in bed in his black boxer briefs.
Cunningly, he’d only turned on the lamp on his side of the bed before carrying me in, so he could turn out the light without disturbing me while I curled up. And then I found myself fitted into his side under his arm, and his fingers were playing with my hair.
“’Night, cupcake,” he murmured.
“’Night, Gabe,” I replied.
I stayed awake long enough to swim languidly in my amazement that he didn’t try anything. Not so much as a hint at it.
We hadn’t even been on a date. There was one of us who was in deep denial she even wanted to date.
But we went to bed like an old married couple who were so in tune with each other, they recognized they’d had trying days, they needed rest, no harm, no foul, no recriminations, just the knowledge they’d make up the nightly sex sesh in the morning.
I fell asleep thinking this.
Which brought me to now.
Beckett’s Table was not McDonald’s. It wasn’t even Shake Shack.
It was a mid-range restaurant that served excellent, award-winning comfort food at prices that would not cripple you, but for the vast majority of people, it was a special occasion place, and one I could categorically not afford. I only knew how good it was because Shanti picked it as her birthday spot a few years ago.
And Gabe swung by there to get us takeout like it had a drive thru.
No, Gabe swung there to get me takeout, so I’d have a delicious, stick-to-your-ribs dinner and then I’d pass out.
He took me there to share he thought I was worth a takeout meal for two that cost over a hundred dollars.
