Page 56 of Storm in a Teacup
I give myself a little tour with his approval, poking my head into his bedroom and flipping on the light. He has a bedframe—thank god—as well as several cardboard boxes piled in the corner of the room. I’m about to switch off the light when I spot something that piques my interest. I wander closer to confirm what I already know it to be. The crystals I gave him sit on his nightstand in what looks like the lid to a jar of marinara sauce. I pick up the rose quartz, running my thumb over the smooth surface before dropping it back in his makeshift dish.
When I return to the kitchen, he asks, “Done going through mydrawers?”
“I opened zero drawers, but yes. I like your place.”
He shrugs as he turns on the tap, sticking his hand under the water to test the temperature. “It’s a roof over my head.”
“Need any help?”
“Naw.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Keep me company.”
So, I do just that, leaning against the counter and nursing the glass of wine he poured me as we chat and I watch him cook. I find his speaker and connect my phone so I can play music.
“What in the hell is this playlist?” he asks after the fifth song.
“Just my liked songs,” I say defensively.
“We just went classic rock to showtunes to alt rock to Noah Kahan to 90s hip hop.”
“And? Isn’t everyone’s general playlist like that?”
“Aye, but who just listens to their general playlist on shuffle? That’s chaotic.”
I laugh. “I thought you liked a little chaos.” I boost myself up onto the counter behind me so I can sit.
Ben’s lips purse. “Your arse on my counter is not very sanitary.”
“You’re not using this counter and your chairs are too far away.” I drink my wine and keep my eyes on him to watch his smile grow as he shakes his head.
“Fine.”
He keeps cooking, but eventually comes to stand in front of me.
“What?” I ask.
“Spread your legs.”
“Excuseme?”
He chuckles. “I need a spoon. You’re sitting over the utensildrawer.”
I bite my lip. “There were other ways to say that, you know.”
But I do as requested and open my legs wide enough for him to reach between them and pull open the drawer. Even with that, my long skirt falls over the open drawer. With a delicate hand, he lifts it, retrieving the spoon. He pushes the drawer closed, and I close my legs, feeling the need to squeeze them shut now. I cross my legs instead, hoping it a more natural gesture. Ben goes to stir his finished couscous, moving it off the burner.
“Let that sit,” he mutters to himself, moving on to the chicken in the oven, peeking inside. “Few more minutes.”
He turns back to me and says, “Drawer.”
I uncross my legs and spread them again so he can open it. He pulls out another spoon, but accidentally brushes it against my bare leg. The sudden coolness sends a shiver up my spine. He notices, eyeing where the spoon touched me.
His voice low, he asks, “What was that?”
“It was cold,” I explain.
