Page 22 of Malachi
“She’s just different. I get it. So was Talia. All I can tell you, man, is that you need to go with it. Don’t be afraid of it,” Zeke advised.
“How the ever loving fuck am I supposed to do that?” I scoffed derisively.
“Just go with it. As much as you possibly can. Trust can be a powerful thing. It can bring you more joy than you ever thought imaginable,” he said with a wholesomeness that could only be described as love.
“Good morning, husband,” I heard through the phone, Talia’s voice sounding groggy and tired. I couldn’t blame her.
“And with that, dear brother, I’m going to let you get back to your own wife. Talk to you soon,” Zeke stated, and with that, the conversation ended, giving me no more peace, and ten times as many questions as I had begun it with.
I had just topped off my morning coffee when I heard her. Her soft, shuffling footsteps slowly sauntered down the staircase and towards the kitchen. I took another sip, steeling myself against whatever questions were surely coming my way.
“Good morning,” she muttered softly, her voice still grumbly with lack of use and sleep.
“Morning,” I responded with a smirk. She was a mess, and a lovely one at that. Hair mussed from sleep, her nightgown hanging off of one shoulder offering a delectable sight of her bare skin.
“May I have a cup?” she asked, eying the pot of coffee that was still half full. She leaned against the countertop, lifting on to her tip-toes with a smile on her sleepy face.
“Sure,” I answered, trying to pry my eyes away from the hint of cleavage that peeked out of her nightgown. I willed myself to look away, my eyes lifting to her face. I turned, pouring her a cup as I worked to dispel the thoughts that once again began to resurface from last night. Thoughts of her running through the trees as I chased her. The sounds of her panting breaths, her racing heartbeat beneath my skin as I pressed her into that tree.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked as I slipped the coffee pot back in place.
“I did,” she said with a yawn. “You know, I could get used to this.” I handed her the cup of coffee, noting her smile and the way one eyebrow raised with a slightly minxish look.
“Get used to what, exactly?” I asked with trepidation.
“Used to you acknowledging my existence without that scowl. Ope, wait. There it is again,” she teased, taking a slow sip of the hot java. I realized she was right. I was already scowling at her comment.
“Well, maybe if you’d stop running off every time I turned my back, I’d want to be more… hospitable,” I quipped, unapologetic for my snarky tone. It was early, and I was grumpy. That wasn’t true. It was my normal demeanor as of late and I knew it.
“Well, maybe if you’d talk to me more I wouldn’t want to run,” she snapped right back, that little eyebrow raising again, this time in an unmistakable challenge. Oh, little bird, it was on.
“Okay, well then… have lunch with me,” I offered, deciding to throw caution to the wind. It went against everything inside of me, but if the little pixie child was going to challenge me, I would rise to the occasion. Show her exactly what happened when you challenged the Beast.
Well, maybe not show herexactlywhat happened, but regardless, it would be fun.
“It’s breakfast time,” she countered, glancing at the clock on the stove behind me.
“Who cares?” I shrugged off. “Are you afraid?” I shot her a look, narrowing my eyes much like I had last night. It was foolish of me to let the Beast out to play, even this tiny bit, but Christ was it fun. I watched her, my eyes not leaving hers as she pondered my request. Finally, with a shrug, she agreed.
“Fine, let’s do lunch. At,” she paused, glancing at the clock again. “At just after six in the morning. What did you have in mind?”
She ambled her way around the counter, heading for the refrigerator, when I stopped her with my hand stretched out against her midsection. My entire hand could fit there, side to side, against her small stature.
“Ah, ah. I’ll do the cooking. You go get dressed,” I ordered, pushing her gently backwards towards the table.
“You?Youare going to do the cooking?” She gawked at me.
“What? It’s cooking. Not like it’s hard,” I scoffed.
“I’ve never known a man to cook,” she shrugged with a slightly judgmental chuckle.
“What exactly do you think I did for sustenance all these years alone?” I replied, opening the refrigerator. I grabbed a few items, setting them on the counter as I began preparing our early - extremely early — lunch.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought your mother probably made food for you and brought it over,” she answered, sipping noisily at her coffee.
“You think my mother just cooks all day, bringing food to each of my brothers and myself?” I chuckled at the thought, turning the stove on and throwing some oil down onto the pan.
“I guess, yeah,” she answered. I shook off her words, deciding that showing her I could, in fact, cook, would be better than just saying so. Words were not my strong suit. Never had been.
