The ECT was a bad decision. One I only made because…I wanted to forget my fuck ups. Naturally, I remember all my painful secrets clearly, and what I don’t remember is my way around the kitchen.
I season the patties while an uncomfortable silence fills the space. I steal glances at her hands to see the moment when she’s finished cutting tomatoes. When she is, I say, “There’s a TV over there by the table. Why don’t you turn it on and find something to watch? I’ll finish this.”
If she thinks anything of my suggestion, she doesn’t say so. She just sits the knife down on the edge of the chopping block and gives me a neutral-looking sort-of-smile before walking over to the small TV stand beside my dining table and turning on the TV. She sits down in that way she does things: elegant and smooth, like, I guess, the kind of girl she is. She flips channels while I finish seasoning the burgers and walk outside to my waiting grill.
18
SURI
I’m pretty decent at being discreet with my emotions, and that’s a good thing. Because I feel pretty uncomfortable sitting at Marchant’s table watching “House Hunters.”
I’m not sure what’s going on with him, but I’m worried I got in over my head. I mean, let’s be honest: I have no experience. The only addict I know is Lizzy’s mother, who battled various addictions for years before the long stretch of sobriety she’s enjoying now. Yes, Adam had/has a drinking problem, but I have a feeling that may be the minor leagues compared to what Marchant is going through.
Is it withdrawal? He said he’d been to rehab. Would they really send him home if he wasn’t ready? Maybe he left early. Lizzy’s mom used to do that. She also slit her wrists and one time jumped off the second level balcony inside their house when her dealer went on an extended visit to France.
Maybe I should go to the hotel.
But I don’t want to.
I think I need to get some more data before I consider my options, so I turn up the volume and try to focus on a house hunt in Atlanta.
But my mind whirls. I definitely don’t get the impression that he’s dangerous. Not to me. But is that foolish? I remember how I met him, inside that atrium at the Wynn. Is he dangerous? Obviously to someone who jumps him when he’s drunk.
But to me?
I hear the front door open and turn to see him step into the kitchen doorway. His arms are folded, and the sleeves of his white shirt, rolled up to the elbows, strain around his biceps. He’s unbuttoned it at his throat, so I can see a hint of his chest. My gaze drags down his slacks, touching his hips, his legs, even his shoes, before returning to his handsome face.
He’s smirking.
Great.
“You haven’t honed your powers of discretion, have you, Miss Dalton?”
“I guess not.” I’m blushing too boot.
“Do you like the way I look?”
“You know I do.”
He takes a few steps closer. I feel sweat prickle between my breasts. “I hope you will excuse me for my rudeness earlier. It won’t happen. But if you want to go to a hotel, I’ll understand.” He sticks his hands into his pockets, then winces.
“What’s wrong?”
He holds his right hand out and frowns at it. “Oh yeah, I burned myself.”
“Really? Is there anything I can do?”
He smirks again. “I can handle this one by myself.”
I stay seated and feeling slightly silly as he grabs a small Tupperware box from one of the cabinets and slides a pan of sweet potato fries into the oven. Then he walks around the table. He pulls out the chair across from mine and sinks down into it.
I watch as he props his right hand on the table and bends it at the wrist. “Wasn’t paying attention,” he murmurs as he examines it.
I’m considering whether or not to offer my assistance a second time—he did burn his right hand, after all—when he smiles a little, like he can see just what I’m thinking. “I’m a leftie,” he says, “so I’m good.”
I nod, prepared for more painful silence. Instead, as he opens the box and pulls out a little square package, he says, “You’re one of those goody two-shoes types, huh?”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re a goody two-shoes.”
“Again: What does that mean? Or, what do you mean? If you think about that expression, it doesn’t make any sense. Even bad guys wear two shoes.” I notice I’m sitting straight up, so I sink back a little, trying not to look offended.
He stretches out the fingers of his right hand, ticking off his points as he gives them. “For one, you don’t use dirty language. Unless prompted.” He smirks and I know he’s referring to our time together in bed.
“And?”
“You came here, to the ranch, a place you probably dislike, because your buddy Carlson was laid up here. Even though you and he weren't on the best of terms.”
I nod.
“Because you tried to make a play for him. Am I right?”
“That’s not your business.”
“So I thought.” He looks smug, and I bite my cheek so I don’t give anything more away. “Point three: You haven’t seen many dicks.” My jaw drops as I wonder how the heck he knows that, but he continues. “Four: You jumped into the pool to help a stranger and then conned your way into my ambulance. Plus—” he gives me a sudden, catlike grin— “you’ve just got that angelic glow thing going.”
I drop my head into my hand in mock exasperation. “I am not an angel. Maybe I just seem like one compared to your usual women.”
“I have women?”
I humph. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Okay.” He holds his left arm out in a surrender gesture. “But I’m not pretending.”
“That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows you have a bunch of different women.”
“Have them?” He shoots a pointed look at me. “As in, they’re mine?”
“As in you sleep around. You’re a man whore.”
He smiles, closed-lipped. “Why can’t I just be a whore? Why do you have to distinguish me as a man-whore?”
I snort. “So you’re a feminist now?”
“Surely you’ve heard.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, allow me to enlighten you.” He holds up his hand to tick points again. “Women own at this point about thirty-two percent of my company. If any of them get pregnant and want to be pregnant, they get six months maternity leave. They make more money than the men. Plus my dear friend Rachelle, who you may have noticed is a woman, runs the place. A woman who is married to a woman. Also, I think it’s kind of hot when women don’t shave their legs. So yeah, I’m a fucking feminist.” He looks at me, dead pan, and I laugh.
He laughs, too, but as soon as his eyes meet mine again, he looks back down at the wrist he’s taping a bandage onto. Like he remembered he’s not supposed to talk to me.
But I’m not going to give up. “I took a course women’s studies course in college. And while a lot of those things are good, I, uh—”
He snorts. “You don’t think I’ll be invited to any bra burnings?”
“I don’t think that’s even been a thing since seventies.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes. “But what about your feminist credentials?”
Hmmmmm… “I think men should manicures and pedicures, just the same as women.”
He laughs at that, his face alight. “You’re a trailblazer.”
“Toenails are the most important. I like a man with well-trimmed toenails.”
His shoulders are shaking with his quiet laughter now. As he settles down, his eyes tug up to mine. “I’ll be sure to keep my toenails away from you.”
I smile, big and slightly silly. “I didn’t say all men have gross toe-nails. Just that there’s something nice about groomed hands and feet.” My gaze zips over him, from his neatly tousled hair to his crisp white shirt, to his big hands, spread out on the table. “Have you ever gotten your nails done?”