stood at the stove she never used, stirring a pot of fragrant…she sniffed the air…Thai curry, with coconut. Yum, another favourite.
“You cook?” Silly question considering what he was doing. Why hadn’t she asked the more obvious question of what are you doing here? Or better yet: how did you get in?
He grinned, and as if reading her thoughts, “Your landlady let me in.”
So much for that privacy she’d been promised when she signed the short-term lease.
“Well at least you’ve saved me a trip.” She kicked off her shoes and threw her purse and a large manila envelope onto the white melamine coffee table. “Those are the divorce papers.”
Turns out Khara’s brother was a divorce lawyer. She’d almost suspected a set-up but her friend had seemed truly contrite.
I can’t believe you don’t remember she’d said. It was as if you were under some sort of spell. I was so sure this was it: Love with a capital L.
That was the champagne, she’d replied.
“You shouldn’t have.” Max’s tone was dry. “Have a bath and I’ll pour you some wine.”
Too tired to argue, she headed for the bathroom which wasn’t much bigger than the closet in his fancy hotel suite. She ground to a halt in the bedroom doorway. A large designer label suitcase lay on the bed. It certainly wasn’t hers.
“What the hell is this?” she demanded.
“I told you, I really want us to give this marriage thing a shot and show you that we belong together. Since you don’t want to stay with me in my hotel, I checked out and came here.”
This was verging on stalkerish. She was sure she should care more but all she could think of was…“There’s only one bed.”
And he would never fit on the two-seater sofa.
“There was only one bed in my hotel room but that didn’t seem to matter.”
She wetted her lips. A sane and sensible young woman was not supposed to go weak at the knees at the thought of sharing a bed with her stalker. Nor was she supposed to have fantasies that involved him, her and that same bed.
She pressed her eyes shut.
“You might want to hurry with that bath. Dinner’s nearly ready.”
She shucked off her clothes as she headed to the bathroom. Another surprise awaited her there. Steam clung to the walls and frosted the mirror. He’d already run her a bath. Complete with scented oil, rose petals and candles.
All he had to do was throw in the champagne and she’d be screwed. Literally.
She submerged herself in the rose-scented warmth and closed her eyes. Baths, dinner, wine. She could get used to this. If being married meant being waited on hand and foot, then perhaps it wasn’t so bad.
Who was she kidding? Everyone she’d ever known who’d married had ended up divorced. Those that made it through, like her parents, and Max’s, just landed up with unbearable pain when their partner died. She’d been through that pain twice already and that was more than enough for one lifetime, thank you very much.
When her skin grew wrinkled she finally clambered out the bath. If Max wanted to stick around, then he was about to experience Phoenix as he’d never experienced her before. She grinned as she pulled on her rattiest t-shirt (her father’s souvenir of a Megadeth concert a lifetime ago) and her least flattering pair of drawstring sweat pants.
Max had a glass of crisp white wine ready and waiting for her. She took it straight to the couch in front of the television, flopped down, and began to channel surf, deliberately ignoring the table set out ready and waiting. Complete with the crystal vase of yellow roses she’d left in his hotel room.
If she’d hoped to annoy him, it didn’t work. He brought his own glass of wine to the sofa and sat beside her. Since it wasn’t the largest sofa in the world, his arm slung across the back was as good as slung around her shoulders. She could lean right back into the solid comfort of him…
She shifted as far away as she could.
“If you prefer, we can have dinner on TV trays,” he suggested.
She sighed. It was pointless trying to push him away. He invaded her space, her senses, no matter what she did, and an increasingly large part of her enjoyed it.
“The table will be fine.” She gulped down a mouthful of wine. “Hey, this is good. Another one of yours?”
His mouth quirked. “Not quite, but it’s from my homeland … my father’s homeland.”
“Where is that?”
He shook his head. “You won’t have heard of it. It’s a small independent nation called Westerwald.”
She hadn’t heard of it. “You were born there?”
The television’s flicker reflected in his deep azure eyes. “I was raised there.”
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