40
Robyn
I rinse my dinner plate under hot water and put it on the rack to dry. The leftovers go into a glass container, the lid snapped on tight, and I push it to the back of the middle shelf in the fridge.
I knew I was being silly when I cooked for Ridge as well.
Apart from that one time he ate that pizza in my bed, he has never eaten at my place. We don’t do anything that resembles a date.
I wipe the counter down twice. I straighten the dish towel on the oven handle.
I’m pathetic.
I turn off the kitchen light and go through to the living room. My phone sits face-down on the coffee table, exactly where I left it twenty minutes ago. I have not checked it. I am absolutely not going to check it. I would have heard if it rang or beeped with an incoming message. It hasn’t.
I grab the remote and drop onto the sofa, pulling a throw blanket over my legs. I flick through to one of those realitycooking shows I usually love. A woman is yelling at a man about under-seasoned scallops. He looks like he might cry.
My eyes slide to my phone.
No.
I’m not calling him. I refuse.
I change the channel to a nature documentary. A voice that sounds very British is talking about beetles. I change it again. A reality show about people buying houses they can’t afford. Then a movie I’m sure I watched before but start watching anyway. Pretending to watch is a more apt description.
Is he coming?
Should I call him?
No!
I watch for another five minutes and then change the channel back to the cooking show, when there’s a knock at the door.
Yes!
It’s him. I know it.
I sit up so fast the throw blanket falls in a heap. My head turns toward the entrance. My pulse does a small, stupid leap.
I smooth the front of my T-shirt down over the waistband of my sleep shorts. The shirt is new and smaller than normal. It hugs my chest in a way I know he’ll like. I suddenly feel a little stupid, but I don’t care. I run my fingers through my hair.
Then I drag in a slow breath to center myself.
Play it cool, Robyn.
I am going to open that door and act like I wasn’t sitting here pining like an idiot. We’ll have really good sex first. Then I’ll spill my guts about my feelings.
That is the plan.
He will probably run a mile when I tell him. But I’m doing it anyway.
I draw in one more breath and walk to the door.
I undo the chain. I turn the deadbolt. I open the door.
He’s in dark jeans and a charcoal T-shirt that pulls across his chest, his hair loose around his shoulders. His eyes find mine.
Before he can say a word, I throw my arms around his neck and pull him inside. I reach up onto the balls of my feet, and I kiss him.
