Page 21 of Forever Fallen

“A nice, plump, comfy bean bag… you know? A cozy one with the cushy puckers and dimples that fits just right, because it’s all broken down and ready to be thrown out.”

“I hate you…”she heaved in a heavy whisper of disgust, her fists tight like she wanted to throttle him, and he could have sworn there were flames dancing in her golden-brown eyes. “I do not have dimples or puckers on my butt cheeks!”

“Felt like it…” he shrugged – and winced as she let out a shriek of unholy outrage, before running up the stairs and slamming a door loudly.

That was obviously a practiced move,he realized, grinning widely.

That was Sophie’s room where she grew up.

He returned to the kitchen, filled the sink, and washed the dishes to hide any evidence of her loss… before heating up a saucepan full of milk. Apparently, Sophie’s grandmother thought the same way his mother had – and kept cocoa powder waiting on the counter.

Opening the fridge, he threw out some of the molded food, and took out the trash bag. There was a small door on the side of the kitchen that had two steps going down, and a large plastic trash barrel right beside the house.

He winced as he opened it, the contents reeking, and realized he would need to call to find out when to put it at the curb. It had obviously been a while since it was picked up.

Walking back inside, he drained the sink, refilled it with hot soapy water and a capful of bleach, before quickly wiping down the counters… only to look up and see Sophie standing there.

“A bean bag,” she repeated flatly, looking perturbed.

“A very nice one,” he smirked softly, looking away. “If it makes you feel any better? I’m partial to bean bags.”

Sophie stared at him in disbelief and kept watching him as he moved about the kitchen, cleaning up, organizing, and putting things away. Was she trying to figure him out – or watching to make sure he didn’t break anything?

“Were you doing that to get me to stop crying?” she asked quietly, unmoving from the doorway.

“It worked,” he said evasively, not answering the question.

“It was rude,” she countered, crossing her arms over her chest pointedly.

“I’m not the greatest guy,” he admitted openly, looking up at her before rinsing the dishrag he’d been using. He twisted it to wring out the water and then wiped his hands and forearms before hanging it on a wooden dowel rod above the sink to dry. “But you only have to put up with me for a little while.”

“Thank you for doing the dishes.”

“Of course. Husbandly duties and all…” he replied amicably. “I made some hot cocoa. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes.”

Sophie hesitated, unfolded her arms, and relaxed her defensive stance.

He glanced up momentarily and resisted the urge to smile as she watched him again. The woman was looking for a reason he was being nice to her, and it was written all over her face. He didn’t know why she was so guarded, but it was intriguing.

“You made cocoa… for me?” she asked quietly.

“From scratch,” he replied softly, not looking in her direction, but rather getting out two identical coffee mugs from the cabinet. “Nutmeg or cinnamon?”

“I’ve never had it with either…” she began, “What do you normally put in there?”

“Nutmeg. I like a little bit of spice. Cinnamon can get plain or boring after a while, and there’s just something to it.”

“Nutmeg it is…” she replied, and hesitated.

“What?”

“You’re going to think I’m stupid.”

“No stupid thoughts or questions between make-believe spouses,” he said easily, sprinkling the nutmeg in the saucepan before whisking it. “What’s on your mind?”

Sophie stood there silently, as if she was debating whether or not to say what was on her mind aloud. He found himself fascinated, curious as to what she was thinking.

---