I rest my lips on the top of her head, thinking. “I don’t know how it can happen when you’re in a relationship.”
He glances at me, but he doesn’t reply, and he concentrates on buttering the bread.
“I saw Jude as I was leaving,” I tell him, then wonder whether he resents me mentioning my ex. “Do you mind me talking about him?”
“Of course not.”
“It was weird, just saying hi as if he was any other colleague.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. When I picked Queenie up, we chatted for a bit. But if we’re all going to work in the same place, we’ve got to get on with our lives.”
He’s stir-fried some chicken and vegetables, and now he drains the pasta and tips it into the wok, then adds grated cheese and cream and stirs it all together. It’s nice, watching him moving around. I like how neat and clean he is. Jude did cook sometimes, but afterwards the kitchen was always filled with a hundred bowls and utensils, and food was scattered all over the counter that I inevitably cleaned up. Archer rinses the equipment as he finishes with it and places it in the dishwasher, and lastly he wipes down the counter, removing the cheese he scattered across it. He’s always so competent at everything he does. I like that.
He scoops the pasta into two dishes and retrieves a bowl of green salad from the fridge, and places a couple of slices of his newly baked bread on a plate. “White wine?” he asks.
“Please.”
“Let’s eat on the deck.”
We take it all outside, and pull up two chairs around the table. The sun is sinking behind the hills to the west, and the lagoon is turning a deep blue.
Queenie navigates the steps down to the lawn, and she ambles about, sniffing the flowerbeds and investigating the base of the jacaranda tree while we eat.
“This is lovely,” I say, enjoying the smooth, creamy, cheesy sauce along with the crunch of the vegetables, and he’s right—the bread is fantastic.
“Thanks.” He winks at me.
It’s impossible not to compare him to Jude, and I give myself permission to do so, tired of wrestling with my brain. They’re very different men. Inwardly, Jude is chaotic, complicated, and messy. Just when you think you’ve got him figured out, he reacts in a completely different way than you thought, which is exhausting at times. Outwardly, though, he’s very particular, because appearances matter a lot to him. He doesn’t like wearing shorts, and tends to favor dark jeans and black tops because he knows they complement his dark, carefully styled hair. He likes it when people compare him to Jensen Ackles or a young Brad Pitt. He knows he’s charismatic, and he uses it to get what he wants.
In contrast, Archer’s personality is organized, tidy, and calm. He thinks before he speaks, and he considers how his actions are going to impinge on others. But he doesn’t care how he looks. I doubt he’s glanced once at the mirror today other than maybe when he got out of the shower. He doesn’t realize how gorgeous he is with his well-worn tee, shorts, and bare feet. I adore the way his hair is ruffled, and his beard could do with a trim.
I adore it when he gets up to lend me one of his sweaters when the evening breeze turns cool, and how, when we finish our pasta, I discover he’s bought mint-choc-chip ice cream because he knows it’s my favorite. He doesn’t fuss or fawn, but he makes me feel like a princess, and I’m ashamed to say that I really, really like that.
Conversation is easy with him too. I’ve always known that, but as we sit and chat, it reminds me of the way I said Jude was like a plastic mold, and I was a piece of plasticine and had to reshape myself when I was with him to make sure we fit together. I’d grown used to watching mostly sports and documentaries in the evening because Jude liked them, but Archer’s like me and loves movies of all kinds. We spend ages discussing some of our favorites, and going through the series we’ve seen. Jude reads non-fiction like biographies, but Archer loves fiction, especially sci-fi and fantasy, and we talk for a long time about the best books we’ve read and our favorite authors.
Queenie eventually gets bored with exploring the garden, and she comes up to Archer and puts her feet up on his chair, so he lifts her onto his lap. She leans against him, clearly in seventh heaven as he strokes her while we talk, and it occurs to me that my version of heaven could well be something like this too—sitting outside watching the skyturn from orange to purple, with no sounds except the singing of cicadas in the bush and the odd hoot of a morepork, pleasantly full from good food, and talking to a guy who looks as me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I’m almost disappointed when he says, “Shall we go in?” But it’s growing cool, so I help him carry the dishes back into the house, and we rinse everything off and stack it in the dishwasher while Queenie lies on the tiles by the door, watching us.
He dries his hands, then tosses the tea towel aside and leans back on the counter. I’m standing opposite, leaning against the hob.
“I should go,” I say. “So I get back before it’s dark.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t sigh or sulk; he just smiles, his eyes full of warmth. And that, more than anything, wins me over.
Without another word, I cover the distance between us in a few strides, lift up onto my tiptoes, and crush my lips to his.
He groans and slides his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him, and I wrap my arms around his neck, wanting to show him how much I like him, and how much I want to be with him. I want to be one with him, I want to feel our bodies intertwining and merging, I want to give him pleasure and receive it in turn.
I tilt my head to the side to change the angle of the kiss, moaning as he delves his tongue into my mouth, and sink my hands into his hair. “I want you,” I mumble, kissing him fervently. Am I being too open? Saying too much?
But he says, “Ahhh, me too… more than anything…”
I lower both hands to the base of the sweater he leant me and take it off, then remove my top as well. After that, I do the same with his tee, tugging it up his body and over his head before tossing it away. He undoes my bra and draws the straps down my arms, then fills his palms with my breasts, and I groan as he squeezes them gently.
I feel as if this whole day, this whole week, maybe the last two years, has been leading up to this, to us working out how to be together. Why did it take so long? Why was I so slow to realize? I’ve wasted so much time, and I don’t want to waste a second more.
Without thinking, without worrying about whether he’ll reject me, because I’m sure that’s not going to happen, I push down my shorts and underwear, and he does the same with his. Now we’re naked, our bodies pressed together from chest to thigh, and I can feel him hardagainst my stomach, and it almost makes me cry to know how much he wants me.
