I Think I Love You
Sam
She hasn’t actually answered me yet. About moving in. She’s evaded the question several times. And now that we’re sitting on the deck enjoying the new set of outdoor furniture, well, I’m going to get her to answer me one way or another.
“Hungry?” I ask as I pour her a glass of white.
“Always.” She snickers.
“I’ve got something called a sharcutie board or some such thing in the garage fridge.”
She stares at me for a long moment. “You mean a charcuterie board?”
I feel my face scrunch up a little bit. Who the fuck knows how to pronounce it? All I know is Brian said his wife is ga-ga—his words—for the damn things. He said she took a class on how to make them. Me? I just called the fancy deli on Perkins Avenue, and they made me one. Not cheap, let me tell you. I shrug. “Sure. If that’s what you want to call it.”
“This I’ve got to see.”
She follows me out to the garage. Opening the double fridge doors, I point at the wooden board filled with meats, cheeses, fruits, fresh vegetables, crackers, and several dips, including jams and jellies. “Wow,” she says with a bit of awe in her voice.
I stare at the thing right along with her.
“I think I love you.”
The thing is, I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or the food. She’s gazing lovingly at the platter. She must not have meant it the way I’d hoped. I watch as she reaches into the fridge, removes the plastic wrap that’s covering the board, picks up a slice of cheese, then brings it to her lips and bites. Her eyes close slowly as she makes the sexiest fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
“Mm. Sam. Smoked Gouda.” She says those words slowly, in a husky voice. She must really like cheese.
I’m instantly hard.
Not about cheese, but from her voice.
Looking up at me, she adds, “Delicious.”
“Uh-huh.” Whatever it is, I’m going to buy a truckload of that shit.
She leans in again, snagging a grape. “Dinner is served.”
Getting myself under control, I carefully remove the board from the fridge. “You want to shut the doors?”
As soon as I’ve cleared the opening, she shuts the doors, then leads the way back through the house to the deck. I set the board on the outdoor table that sits between a large sectional sofa and two chairs, and we sit next to each other and dig in.
Crunching on a cracker topped with meat and cheese, Colette looks at me with a very serious expression. “Promise me something.”
“Okay.” This sounds important.
“For my birthday and every national holiday”—she nods to the board—“just get me one of those.”
My woman is funny. I throw my head back and close my eyes and laugh. She’s so fucking perfect. “You got it.” Which reminds me. “Whenisyour birthday?”
“August 28. When is yours?”
“December 17.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Good to know.”
Yes, it is.
After we eat, I wrap the board up and set it back in the fridge. There’s still plenty left over, so I’ll be sure to take it back to her place. My plan for this evening was for us to sleep here, in the new bedroom. I’m a little hesitant to ask her to stay, since I haven’t been able to get a read on her since before the excitement about the board filled with food.
