I wasn’t sure how I felt about his words but it didn’t matter. I was his boss and I had more baggage than anyone needed to even offer to help carry.
“Yes. Maybe.” I turned to face him. “The last time I went bowling I was married. I won. He didn’t like that.”
“Then he was a dick. And you know that so I don’t need to explain why.” His words came fast and without hesitation.
“I know. I get all that. He thought I’d humiliated him on purpose.”
“And when you got home he hurt you?”
I saw his eyes blaze.
I shook my head. “He never lifted a finger. It was emotional. And financial. Then I found out he was sleeping with someone else and it turned out that was my line. I could take the name calling and making me cry, scaring me. But fucking someone else was a hard limit. I walked out and spent the night in a women’s shelter before heading to my first husband’s house.”
“What happened to him?”
“He’s in jail for murder. Serving life. I’d appreciate you not sharing that nugget.” I hadn’t told anyone this besides Vanessa and Sophie, and only the after several tequila-based cocktails.
“Who did he kill?”
“His mistress. He blamed her for me leaving him. Turned out she was more of an arguer than me so he resorted to a kitchen knife when she came home from work. Pre-planned, or so the jury agreed. His name’s Eliot Mount-Grey. Google him later; it makes for interesting reading.” And an interesting past. Vanessa had several plans if word got out about my salacious past. So far, I was too low key in terms of my clientele and media courting for anyone to be bothered about anything other than my food, which suited me.
“Let’s head to the store over there.” He gestured to the small supermarket that was open all night, serving those who didn’t work or live nine ‘til five. “I need to stock your cupboards up.”
His face was all kinds of concerned, but his words were practical.
“You’re making me breakfast tomorrow?”
“I lost. I’m paying my dues. And you have fuck knows how many spare rooms?”
“Lauren?”
“She stays at a friend’s every Wednesday. They have a late night ballet class and then catch a show somewhere with her friend’s mum. What do you like?”
“For breakfast?”
His eyes danced and I couldn’t mistake the flirting in them. “I’m open to suggestions for what else you like.”
“Stop it!’ I laughed, half-embarrassed because I had no clue how to react or what to say.
He side-eyed me, grinning.
* * *
I wokeup the following morning to the smell of bacon. It didn’t matter how much gourmet food I’d cooked or sampled, or what blend of flavours had been concocted in a kitchen, nothing smelled better than bacon.
Bed was warm and safe and my nest of all things good, but the idea of being made breakfast in my own home was a fairy-tale. Jack had taken me home, I’d made us both a milky coffee and then he’d stayed in one of the spare rooms, no doubt leaving rumours about us behind at the bar.
The biggest part of me didn’t care. Jack’s reaction to what I’d said, or rather his non-reaction, had melted some of the ice inside. He was a good man. And it wasn’t as if I’d known him two minutes.
“Bacon.” It was the only word I could get out before coffee, which I could also smell.
“Indeed. Your kitchen is wet-dream worthy.”
Pangs of longing and regret hit me like hunger pains. I never cooked here. “The idea was I could entertain here.”
“I take it that hasn’t happened?”
“Correct.”
