Page 88 of Tomorrow Belongs to Us
“They can look like Ivy League grads all they want. You’re smart, you just didn’t have the chances, and what makes you think they’re college grads? Why does it matter?”
“Because it does. Maybe not to you. You’ll never know these struggles.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got a chip on your shoulder.”
“A chip on my shoulder?” She takes a big sip of her wine.
I try to suppress my smile. I knew this would rile her up. “You’re a smart girl. You always have been. Just because you didn’t get to go to college it doesn’t make you not smart. You’re still applying for the same jobs, as those Ivy League guys, that’s even if they are Ivy League people. You just did things your way, without a helping hand, without your parents giving you a hands up, and that makes you a fighter. I’d pick you any day over those candidates, simply because you’ve worked hard to prove yourself while they’ve just glided along on Daddy’s coattails … not unlike my ex-wife.”
This makes her smile. “You can’t stop thinking about her, can you?”
I raise an eyebrow. The tension has melted away and it feels like we’re back to where we were before the spin class guy showed up. I clear my throat. “I was jealous. The other day at the art exhibition.”
“Of what?”
“Of that younger, fitter, sexier guy. The one from your spin class.”
“Why?”
“Because of those things I just said. He's younger, fitter and sexier. He's your age—”
“Age is just a number. Are you being serious?”
“I am.”
“But I don't care about anyone else. I don't want anyone else, and you look way younger, fitter and sexier than him.”
“Areyoubeing serious?”
“I’m being serious.” My lips form a slow smile at her words. She empties her wine glass and I refill it again.
“Are you trying to get me drunk so that you can have your wicked way with me?”
“I'm hoping it will relax you—”
“Enough for you to have your way with me?”
There she goes again. Being suggestive. I back away a few steps in case she reaches for me and runs her hands all over me, like she is prone to doing.
“I don’t want to do anything hasty. I want to get to take things slowly, Megan, now that we can, now that we have a chance. I want to get to know you.”
She stirs the sauce while I check the vegetables. She turns to look at me, and her lips are parted, juicy, tempting. I force myself to focus on the vegetables again, fighting the urge to kiss her. Because one kiss won’t be enough.
The timer for the salmon filets goes off, momentarily stealing my attention, and I start to take them out of the oven.
“Thanks for coming over, and cooking for me,” she says, after a while. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me.”
Her words make me sad and angry. If that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s done for her, I hate to think of the bozos she’s been with. All I can do is force a smile, but what I really want to do is take her in my arms, hug her close to my chest and hold her. I will do many sweet things for her, because she is so deserving of them. She looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to make a move.
I swallow. “Shall we eat, before it all gets overcooked?”
She presses her lips together in a pout, and I start plating the food. Maybe tonight, I’ll kiss her, and leave her wanting more.
Just one kiss.
I need, I would like, just one kiss.
I’m about to pour the sauce when I hear a ringing noise and it sounds like my ringtone. I rush over to my jacket and retrieve it.
