Chapter 22: Her Bed

He cooked, because that was the deal.

He stood at my stove at six o'clock with the sleeves of his blue shirt pushed up.

He made eggs and toast and the lemon thing he had made the first day.

I sat on the counter and watched.

"You're staring," he said, without turning around.

"I'm allowed. It's my kitchen."

"You're staring at my forearms."

"I'm staring at the eggs."

"The eggs are behind me."

I said nothing.

He turned off the burner, wiped his hands on a towel and faced me.

Neither of us had touched the plates.

"I want to say something blunt," I said. "I'd like to say it before I lose my nerve."

"Say it."

"I want you upstairs. I want you in my bed with the door shut."

"Audrey."

"And I want to find out what you look like with your shirt off."

His chest rose once and fell.

"That's very blunt," he said.

"I have been thinking about it for eleven days."

"I've been thinking about it for longer."

"How long?"

"The day you put a bandage on my thumb."

I slid off the counter.

I walked to him, took the towel out of his hand and dropped it on the floor.

"Lunch," I said. "I owe you for lunch."

"You said no favors."

"This isn't a favor."

"What is it?"

"It's what I want."

He kissed me then, hard, with both hands in my hair.

We did not make it up the stairs quickly.

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