Chapter 14
“I have an idea. Let me drive.” Mark got out to switch sides before Meri could mount an argument. All the fight had drained from her, anyway. In fact, she was feeling supremely serene. While he circled the car, she scooted over to the passenger seat. He had satisfied her two—three?—more times. And he claims my hands are talented?
She pulled a pack of tissues from her bag.
“What don’t you have in that thing?” he asked, rapidly acquainting himself with the unfamiliar switches and graphics on the dash.
She smiled. Her limbs were as heavy as if she’d had a good workout. In fact, she had. Though it was still early, she thought she could fall asleep at the touch of her head on a pillow. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace nice. Not that your studio isn’t,” he hastened to add, obviously leery of making her skittish again.
He pushed the ignition button, bringing the car to life.
“My studio isn’t ‘nice,’ ” she admitted, dabbing at her nose. It was a relief to be able to laugh over Mark’s impression of her humble atelier. Earlier, she’d been so anxious he wouldn’t find it good enough, professional enough.
She flipped down the sun visor to check the damage. “I’m a disaster,” she said into the mirror. Mascara was everywhere. “I really ought to clean up a bit.”
Not that she really cared. She felt as mellow as the wine she’d been named for. She sank back into her seat as Mark maneuvered her car away from the curb.
Since adolescence, sex had been a panacea to Meri. A way to forget. To feel wanted, to connect. Sex was something two—or more—people did to relieve chronic loneliness, or because of peer pressure, or just . . . well, did there have to be a reason?
Yet when had sex ever felt like this? A tiny sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh burst from her lips.
“What’s so funny?”
She shook her head. Despite her distress over Mark’s urging her to use Papa’s name on her work, no amount of concealer could hide her fulfillment at connecting with Mark on a deep, personal level. But she should keep that hidden. If she told him how she was feeling inside, he’d bring the car to a screeching halt in the middle of the road, jump out, and run for his life. Guys didn’t want to talk about feelings after sex—and they surely didn’t want to hear about hers.
For now, she’d sit back and hope he’d stick to his word not to mention her business decision concerning her label.
“Where are we going?” she asked idly.
“You said you wanted to clean up. I’m taking you home, to my house.”
She glanced over at his profile.
“And then I’m going to make you a sandwich.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“How do you know I even like sandwiches?”
“Ever have a Cubano?”
“A Cu-what-o?”
He grinned with such self-assurance it was evident, even in the dimness. “Trust me. You’ll like it.”
Meri leaned back in Mark’s kitchen chair, hands spanning her full-to-bursting stomach. She stared with glazed eyes at the leftover roast pork, sliced Virginia ham, open jar of pickles, and half-eaten loaf of bread. Of the five senses, there wasn’t one he hadn’t satisfied tonight. Thank goodness for the elastic waistband on the pajama bottoms he’d lent her—even though blue wasn’t her best color.
“I never ate so much in my life. Did you forget we already had dinner?”
“Worked up an appetite.” Munching a pickle, he nodded toward her clean plate. “You didn’t have to finish it. No one was holding a gun to your head.”
“But it was so good! Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
“Pretty much by default,” he said, voice muffled by pickle. She waited until he swallowed. “Grew up with a working mom. Not that she didn’t cook, too, when she could. She liked to cook—had a whole shelf full of cookbooks—but she didn’t have time. Retail has weird hours. In sixth grade, I renounced the sitter and started taking care of myself. I’d get a craving for pho, or meatballs. Didn’t feel like waiting for Mom to come home. So, I’d get out one of her books.”
“You make your own Vietnamese soup?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s all about the broth. Mom loved my pho.” He shrugged. “Liked almost everything I made. Pretty soon, I was making dinner every night. She really appreciated coming home to a meal already on the table, and it made me feel like I was contributing something. As I got older, I started branching out. Let’s see,” he said, gazing at the ceiling. “There was my taco phase.” He counted down on his fingers. “My spaghetti phase. Of course, no one will ever forget my infamous bacon phase—put it on anything that would hold still long enough.”
“You and your mom must be very close. Does she live here, in the city?”
A cloud crossed his features. He set his pickle down unfinished and rose, gathering up the used knives and plates.
“She got sick with a fast-spreading cancer. Died my junior year in high school.”
Meri recognized it as a default answer, to be dragged out whenever the subject of Mom came up. She relied on some of those, herself.
He carried the dishes to the sink, setting them down with a muted clatter. “At least by then, I was pretty self-sufficient.”
She watched the lean muscles in his upper back work as he scraped and rinsed the plates. If anyone knew what it was like to be abandoned, she did. But she didn’t want to visit that painful place right now. She stood. Over the running water, he didn’t hear her walk over to him. While he squeezed dish soap into the sink, she slid her arms around his waist. “Someday we’ll swap horror stories, all right? But not tonight. Let’s not ruin tonight.”
With the heel of his palm Mark shut off the water. Then he turned and returned the hug. “Sounds like a plan.”
She pulled back to give him a sleepy smile.
“I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically.”
“You wore me out, too.”
“Let’s go to bed. I’ll help you clean up in the morning.”