He shrugs out of his black wool coat, the one I clocked earlier at the market, and mentally debated whether it is cashmere-blend or all wool; whatever it is, it looks amazing on him.
“I brought food,” he says, like that explains everything, as he passes me, unclenches my hand that’s still gripping the door, allows it to shut and then leads me over to the small table.
He opens the box.
Inside are two paper trays wrapped in butcher paper. One with grilled bratwurst sliced on a bias, mustard packed separately. The other with a warm stack of potato pancakes, still crisp, applesauce on the side. There’s also a soft pretzel, which he tears in half and offers to share. “You were eyeballing these, too.”
“That’s a lot of carbs,” I hesitate.
He shakes his head. “The fact I’m attracted to a woman who looks like you blows my mind.”
I cross my arms, “Um, offensive.”
“You’re a waif. I like a stronger-looking woman.”
“You did not just?—”
“Eat the pretzel and allow me to explain myself,” he pauses, and almost chokes as he says, “Please.”
I snatch the pretzel from his hand and take a giant bite, and purposely speak with my mouth full, “Is this sexy?”
“Fuck no,” he laughs, “But it is cute as hell.”
Well, there he goes, feeding one of my kinks,praise.
“You’re too perfect.” He says as I sit, “and fragile looking.”
I just blink.
So, he explains, “I like to be the pretty one, standing next to you,” he shakes his head. “And your body is small, I’d be afraid to break you in bed.”
Now I nearly choke.
“But you Sofie-fucking-Fairfax, are possibly the strongest female I’ve ever met.” He taps his chest, “Where it counts.” He narrows his eyes at me and sighs. “If anything ever becomes of us, we’ll go to the gym.”
“You do all this?” I wave my hand in front of me. “The ornament? And then you follow up with we’ll go to the gym?”
He nods once. “And you’ll need to learn to skate.”
I hide my face in the sweatshirt and laugh.
“What so funny?”
“You’re a romance killer. You can’t be all?—”
“Romance is an illusion.”
“I beg your pardon?” I gasp.
“I like the whole idea of you begging, but we’re going slow, because?—”
I laugh out, “I’m so fragile?”
“I could break you so yes, you’re fragile. That is the truth, that is what’s real. I don’t want to break you, so slow is the best option.”
“You’re talking sex again? Flip flopping?”
He studies me, like actually, and then, “Are sex and a possible relationship not one and the same between a man and a woman? Do you not show affection with lips and tongues and teeth and your whole body, or thoughtful gestures, and not for any reason except you can’t turn off the need to want them to feel full, and warm, and see them possibly smile?”
