Page 32 of Cillian

“Mmmhmm.” But I was just surprised she was considering it. She was the epitome of virtue. And here I was corrupting her. “If you ever go dark with me, it’ll be because you wanted me to, and not something I asked of you, okay?”

She nodded, as the sound of my growling tummy changed the mood in the room. “Hungry?” she softly smiled.

“I haven’t eaten much.” Managing to wrestle on her back. “Unless I count you.”

“Would you like me to make you something?”

“You can cook?” We didn’t exactly marry the good old fashion way, so never had time to confirm anything about Queenie until we started getting along.

“You can be the judge,” she said, slipping out of bed, gracing me with the sight of her glorious bum, before it disappeared under one of my dress shirts.

“Look at you. Getting familiar, laying claim to all my shirts.” Joining her not long after, pulling her to me.

“It’s not like I have much clean. Even if I never leave the house, the only stuff to change into most of the time is your stuff,” she flirted.

“They look better on your anyway,” I confessed, as she managed to gallop away from me, prompting me to grab a pair of pants and trousers to change into. Pinching myself to make sure this was my life, I finally made it out the room, following the sounds and smells that came from the kitchen.

“Surprised you found something edible,” I said, creeping behind her to wrap my arms around her waist. She was doing her best attempt at mixing whatever was in the bowl and being distracted by me, and sadly being distracted by me was winning.

“Someone who loves you made sure there was food in your pantry and refrigerator.” She tilted her cheek just enough to catch the kiss I laid to it before I lightly smacked her bum and gave her space.

“Smells good,” patiently waiting, watching her work in the kitchen. Having never thought about being married before prison, I had always pictured this image featuring someone far less pretty, or far less good for me than Queenie.

I wasn’t bad looking, but Paddy and Bellamy were considered the handsome ones. Pa always said that because we were gingers, Tadhg and I would have it harder to get good looking wives, so to just be content with a girl who can cook, raise your children and empty your balls into every now and then. Didn’t matter if you liked them, just could count on them not to step out on you and embarrass them.

Now that I was married, that was horrible advice. I thought the world of Queenie. She didn’t judge me for my bad choices and past. The fear of sharing why I’m fucked up now was surely the nail in the coffin I’d need to put her in the category I’d always put other women.

But I wanted her life to be easy. The things my father subjected our house to made it feel like living in a warzone. Paddy got it the worst, but the person who suffered most of all, was Mum.

When you actually liked your wife, you couldn’t imagine putting them through all that. They must have really hated each other, because I couldn’t imagine lifting anything but a loving hand to this woman. Unless she asked me to go dark with me. That would change everything.

“You like pancakes, right?”

“I reckon I've never had them way you make them,” recognizing our different palates.

“There’s a difference?” she asked after dressing each plate.

“I think American pancakes are fluffier, but I ain’t never had one to compare. Irish pancakes are more like what Americans consider crepes.”

“I hope you like mine. Didn’t know I’d have competition.” The sizzling of eggs and sausage made my mouth water a little more than usual.

“I’m sure you were never asked to cook. But if you had been, what types of things would you make if you could on your own?”

“You’re right, I’m not much of a cook. But back in Ireland, when you grow up poor, you made due with what you have. My brother Tadhg taught me a few things. I hear Paddy’s learned a lot since serving. But I can make a mean crisp sandwich.”

Arguably, it was the easiest thing to prepare for a man with no cooking skills, but it tasted like home.

“And a crisp is?”

“I reckon you call them potato chips. But essentially, you butter two slices of bread and load it with crisps. Crisp sandwich.” Tying it all together. Queenie didn’t seem to be impressed by it, but who would be when whatever you made smelled like what she was cooking now.

Before long, Queenie placed a full plate of an American breakfast in front of me. Sunnyside up eggs, a stack of pancakes, sausage and a type of scone I wasn’t used to adorned my plate. The sight was fucking glorious.

“You look so nervous,” she beamed standing across from me, offering condiments if I needed them.

“It’s not that. I just don’t know where to start.” Deciding no one could fuck up eggs, I took my chances starting with that. Seconds away from thanking her for cooking, I nearly fell out my chair, as my mouth submitted to the myriad of flavors.

“My god,” I spoke through a full mouth. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” The concoction of cake, meat, porridge and sweet were all at war with each other and I was fine with every single one of them winning.

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