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The Lunatic Cafe :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 152 из 234I stood in front of my closet and didn't have a thing to wear. Since I consider clothes something you wear so you won't be naked, that was pretty sad.
I put on an oversize T-shirt with a caricature of Mary Shelley on it, a pair of grey sweatpants—not the fancy ones, either, the kind with a drawstring in them. The way God intended sweatpants to be. A pair of white jogging socks, the closest thing I owned to slippers, and I was ready to go.
I looked at myself in the mirror and wasn't happy. I was comfortable, but it wasn't very flattering. But it was honest. I've never understood those women who wear makeup, do their hair, and dress wonderfully until after they're married. Suddenly, they forget what makeup is and lose all their thin clothes. If we did marry, he should see what he'd be sleeping beside every night. I shrugged and walked out.
He'd combed his hair out. It foamed around his face, soft and inviting. The candles were gone. So was the apron. He stood in the entryway between kitchen and living room. His arms were crossed over his chest, shoulder leaning against the doorjamb. He smiled. He looked so scrumptious, I wanted to go back in and change, but I didn't.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What about?"
"I'm not completely sure, but I think for presuming I could take over your kitchen."
"I think it's the first meal that's ever been cooked in it."
His smile widened, and he pushed away from the door. He walked towards me. He moved in the circle of his own energy. Not that otherworldly power, but just Richard. Or was it? Maybe a lot of his drive was from his beast.
He stood staring down at me, close enough to touch but not doing it. "I was going crazy waiting for you. I got this idea to cook a fancy meal. It was stupid. You don't have to eat it, but it kept me from running down to Guilty Pleasures and defending your honor."
It made me smile. "Damn you, I can't even pout around you. You always jolly me out of it."
"And this is a bad thing?"
I laughed. "Yes. I enjoy my bad moods, thank you very much."
He traced fingers down my shoulders, kneading the muscles in my upper arms. I pulled away from him. "Please, don't." Just like that, the cozy domestic scene was ruined. All my fault.
His hands dropped to his sides. "I'm sorry." I didn't think he meant the meal. He took a deep breath and nodded. "You don't have to eat a bite." I guess we were going to pretend he had meant the meal. Fine with me.
"If I said I wasn't hungry at all, you wouldn't be mad at me?"
"I fixed the meal to make me feel better. If it bothers you, don't eat it.
I put on an oversize T-shirt with a caricature of Mary Shelley on it, a pair of grey sweatpants—not the fancy ones, either, the kind with a drawstring in them. The way God intended sweatpants to be. A pair of white jogging socks, the closest thing I owned to slippers, and I was ready to go.
I looked at myself in the mirror and wasn't happy. I was comfortable, but it wasn't very flattering. But it was honest. I've never understood those women who wear makeup, do their hair, and dress wonderfully until after they're married. Suddenly, they forget what makeup is and lose all their thin clothes. If we did marry, he should see what he'd be sleeping beside every night. I shrugged and walked out.
He'd combed his hair out. It foamed around his face, soft and inviting. The candles were gone. So was the apron. He stood in the entryway between kitchen and living room. His arms were crossed over his chest, shoulder leaning against the doorjamb. He smiled. He looked so scrumptious, I wanted to go back in and change, but I didn't.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What about?"
"I'm not completely sure, but I think for presuming I could take over your kitchen."
"I think it's the first meal that's ever been cooked in it."
His smile widened, and he pushed away from the door. He walked towards me. He moved in the circle of his own energy. Not that otherworldly power, but just Richard. Or was it? Maybe a lot of his drive was from his beast.
He stood staring down at me, close enough to touch but not doing it. "I was going crazy waiting for you. I got this idea to cook a fancy meal. It was stupid. You don't have to eat it, but it kept me from running down to Guilty Pleasures and defending your honor."
It made me smile. "Damn you, I can't even pout around you. You always jolly me out of it."
"And this is a bad thing?"
I laughed. "Yes. I enjoy my bad moods, thank you very much."
He traced fingers down my shoulders, kneading the muscles in my upper arms. I pulled away from him. "Please, don't." Just like that, the cozy domestic scene was ruined. All my fault.
His hands dropped to his sides. "I'm sorry." I didn't think he meant the meal. He took a deep breath and nodded. "You don't have to eat a bite." I guess we were going to pretend he had meant the meal. Fine with me.
"If I said I wasn't hungry at all, you wouldn't be mad at me?"
"I fixed the meal to make me feel better. If it bothers you, don't eat it.