Page 152 of The Unwilling Bride
I love the way 'my wife' rolls off my tongue.
And the way her cheeks heat, apparently, she likes it too. And the fact that she likes it makes me like it a whole lot more. That coldness in my heart melts further. I hastily look away, busy myself with popping slices of bread from the toaster. I plate out the omelet, the bacon, and the toast, and carry them to the island.
She begins to slip off the stool.
"Where are you going?"
"To get the cutlery.”
"Sit and enjoy your coffee. I’ll do it." I touch her shoulder for emphasis. Instantly, goosebumps zip up my skin. A small shiver grips her.
I pull my hand back slowly, not unhappy to see the effect I have on her. It felt natural to touch her. Natural to have her in my space. I thought I’d be resentful to have someone else share the living space with me and Malice. To have them infringe on my routine. But on thecontrary, I’ve enjoyed having her here. Enjoy doing small things for her, like making her morning coffee and seeing her eyes light up with pleasure.
There’s a meow, then Malice prowls into the kitchen. She walks past me, without even sparing a glance. Instead, she jumps onto her lap.
"Hey, baby, did you sleep well?" she croons and tickles her under her chin.
Malice purrs and licks her hand.
A stab of something like jealousy squeezes my guts. Am I jealous of my own cat? Surely, not. It must be hunger. Yeah, time for breakfast.
I grab my cup of coffee and place it next to my plate on the counter. Then slide the requisite cutlery next to her plate, before taking my seat.
Malice jumps onto the table. She sniffs at the bacon on her plate.
"No, Malice." I reach for the cat at the same time as Ember. Our fingers brush each other on the cat.
Her gaze flashes to mine and holds. My fingertips tingle. My heart stutters. I want to catch her wrist, but instead, I grab Malice by the scruff and set her on the floor. She meows, tosses her head, and flounces off.
I cut into my omelet, then chew and swallow.
For a few seconds, the only sound is cutlery against the plate. I clear my throat. “I want your input on renaming a dish on the menu.”
"You want my opinion?" She stops with her forkful of food halfway to her mouth.
"Why does that surprise you?’
She hesitates. "Because in all the time I’ve worked with you, you’ve never let anyone else weigh in on this."
I think over what she said as I continue to eat. Is she right? Am I that autocratic? Only because I’m clear-headed in what I want. That was until she came along. I feel the need to involve her more in the day-to-day happenings of the restaurant. I want to share it with her. I want her input, knowing she’s capable. Knowing she’ll give me perspective. Knowing that I trust her enough to use her as a sounding board.
"Maybe it’s time I do." I take another sip of my coffee.
She eats a few more bites, setting down her fork, she asks, "Does this mean you think I'm more than adequate?"
I allow myself a small smile. "You’re getting there."
"Come on. Admit it. Tell me I’m good. You can do it. It’s not that difficult."
I chuckle. "You’re…not bad."
She laughs. "That’s a start, eh?"
We look at each other, our eyes meeting in that way they seem to do more every day. The air between us heats in a way that doesn’t surprise me anymore. I want to reach over and touch her. Instead, I pick up my fork and finish off the rest of the food on my plate.
Once I’m done eating, I observe her over the rim of my coffee cup. I get vicarious pleasure from watching her eat the food I cooked for her. It’s different from how it feels to cook for strangers. This… Making food for her heals something in me. Is it because she’s my wife?
She pats her mouth with her napkin and sighs. "That was so good, thank you."
