“What did you tell them? That you switched to a more pleasurable sport?”
“Ah, I should have,” she realizes with a small pout.
We finish our plates, and when I offer her another serving, she shakes her head. “I’ll have some again later—when we’re in need of sustenance to keep going.”
That is actually a great plan, so I dismiss my own desire for more. I’ll perform better if I feel lighter. I take out the individual pavlovas I ordered for the occasion, passion fruit and mango, and set them on their own plates before I return to the table. The sun is now low under the horizon, and the fairy lights I worked on earlier give the place an enchanting aura.
“Jesus Christ, Jake. Did you bake this as well?” she asks when I put the dessert before her.
“I didn’t, but I can bake a mean pavlova. Just didn’t have time for it today.”
“Of course you can. I’ll eventually find out whatever flaw you’re hiding from me, you know.”
We dig right in, and the fact that she doesn’t downright moan at the first bite kind of makes me proud. That’s only formyfood.
“You know you never showed me your work?” she points out halfway into it.
“Really?”
“I saw some of your sketches lying around, and I went on The Parlour’s Instagram and found a couple of tattoos done by you. But you never actually showed me your drawings.”
“That’s an omission on my part, then. I have my tablet here, so we can settle somewhere, and I’ll show you some of my latest stuff.”
“I would love that, wombat.”
The way my heart melts every time she uses that fucking pet name is ridiculous. I dread the day she lets it slip in front of Eli or Kill because they’ll have a field day with it. But I enjoy it too much to ask her to stop.
We finish the desserts—I finish hers too—and while I clean up in the kitchen, she returns to the lounge area with our glasses and the rest of the wine. I do the bare minimum, just enough to avoid spoiling food, and join her there with my tablet. She’s settled on the round day bed, looking at the few stars we vaguely see from here.
“Alright, time to woo you with my artistry,” I say as I join her.
We arrange ourselves in a cuddling position, with our backs to the many cushions, and I unlock the screen to open my drawing app. Since I was using it earlier as I cooked, it’s already opened on a full back piece, my latest artwork.
“Oh, is this for the soccer guy?”
“Yeah, he wants something with a Coleoptera native to Brazil.”
“What kind of bug is that?”
“A beetle. I’ve been working on something that would work with what he has and the style he wants,” I explain, opening a first draft.
We go through a few of those, and her little exclamations of surprise and admiration nearly do me in. Part of me wants to end this now and carry her downstairs like a caveman, but another part feeds on her approval with pride.
“You told me you did insects, but there’s so much more than that, Jake. There’s a whole masterpiece around it.”
“Yeah, this is a big one, and I can’t cover all of him in beetles. I reckon I can tattoo pretty much anything—I’m shit at the watercolor stuff, though.”
“This is amazing. I’m so sorry I didn’t ask to see it sooner.”
“It’s alright, we were busy with other things.”
As if my teasing reminds her of those other things, she wriggles closer to me, her warmth seeping through our clothes. Now that it’s dark out here, the temperature is dropping, so I ask, “Are you cold, red?”
“No, you’re like a furnace. Keep going; I want to see more. What’s your favorite one you’ve ever tattooed?”
For that, I have to go back to the other folders. I do that, scroll down, and realize I’ve made a terrible mistake when she tenses and says, “Wait, what was that?”
Shit.
