This time she stops moving altogether, snapping a cautious glance at my face. “I don’t need a doctor.”
No. She doesn’t.
Nor do I, now there’s no status update on Crimson’s virginity to rub in her father’s face.
Since he’s coming anyway, I shrug, finding him a new assignment as I speak. “He’ll sort out a prescription to help prevent your migraines and give you something to treat them. You responded well to the rizatriptan, so he’ll probably give you that.”
There’s a long pause, then she softly says, “Okay.”
“How long’s it been since you last saw your GP?”
She shrugs and turns away, fiddling with the temperature control on the press. “Not sure. A few years.” She opens the machine, cuts the sandwiches in half, and serves them with tight, almost angry movements. “And yes, I’ll take a large whatever you’re pouring.”
I oblige, then pull the glass out of reach when she tries to take it. “How much experience do you have with drinking?”
“A glass of champagne earlier,” she admits. “And a few weak shandies over the years. I’ve only been of legal drinking age for one day.”
“And that stopped you?”
“I’ll have you know I’m a good girl, Mr Webb. The worst thing I’ve ever done is let a strange man talk me into taking drugs in a sick room and look how that turned out.”
“Spectacularly?”
She pushes the plate of food towards me and snatches the glass. “Only if it’s followed by the word bad.”
Her face when she takes the first swallow is adorable. I suddenly understand the urge to document everything on social media because I’d pay a high price to see that expression again. The splutter, the cough, the scrunching nose.
“I’m cutting you off after this one.”
“You can cut me off right now,” she says, shoving the glass back to me. “Why would you drink something that tastes so…”
“Disgusting?”
“Like liquid fire. Bleh.”
“One night when you’re not on drugs, I’ll teach you how to appreciate it properly.”
“Please don’t feel obligated to do that.” She takes a large bite of her toasted sandwich, tossing her head back and opening her mouth to wave a hand. “Hot.”
“What? The food you just spent ten minutes heating?”
I polish mine off quickly, then eat the second half of hers when she struggles. Since she made the meal, the least I can do is clean up, and I carry the plates to the dishwasher, wiping the press down with some paper towels before putting it away.
Crimson’s standing so close, I pull her into a hug, surreptitiously sniffing at her hair. It smells sweet and floral.
“Why do you even want to marry me?” she asks and my thinking’s so muddy I can’t think of what to say. That I don’t. That I’m sending you home. That when I talk to an attractive woman in a dark room for too long, I can’t be trusted to make good decisions.
She’ll think it’s because you don’t like her.
The thought snaps in and out of my head in an instant, leaving behind trace elements of guilt. Like it’s my fault if she has future issues with her self-esteem.
You made her undress, then you made her feel guilty about her boyfriend, and next you’ll send her home.
And life’s tough. The last person who got under my skin ended up in a barrel buried underneath a new road extension and landed me in jail for four months courtesy of my baby brother.
Compared to that, Crimson’s getting off lightly.
But my thoughts stutter, throwing me into a daydream. I imagine this is real. That I keep my promise to make her my wife. That the next time I take her to bed, I do it properly. Introducing her to every sexual position known to man while prying away all her inhibitions.
