Famished by Meghan O'Flynn (most popular novels txt) 📖

I rolled my eyes. Only Dominic would refer to a workout room that way. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I just don’t have anything to wear to the symphony.”

“That is not a problem. We’ll go shopping first. Maybe hit the salon. On me.”

Shopping? The salon? I usually trimmed my dead ends in the sink. “That’s… I mean, I don’t want you to have to pay to dress me.” Even as I said it, my uncertainty dissolved.

“Trust me, dressing you would be my pleasure.”

I’m sure you’d enjoy undressing me more.

“Do we have a date?” he asked.

I had a choice. I had control. And he cared about me. Maybe. Probably. My heart was as full as those jelly donuts. “It’s a date,” I said.

“Good. And I’ll meet you out front at five-thirty. I’m making dinner tonight, so don’t be late. You’ve done enough cooking this week.”

I smiled into the phone. “I don’t mind.”

“Neither do I. And, I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself.”

He wasn’t lying about being able to cook. The smell of warm butter and garlic permeated the air as I entered the kitchen later that evening. Dominic was putting the finishing touches on two plates.

“What’s all this?”

“Pan-seared duck with rosemary, roasted potatoes, and caramelized beets with green salad.”

I watched, high on endorphins from an hour on the treadmill, my hair still wet from my shower. A spark of apprehension twittered in my chest. I was falling too fast. We had not known each other long enough. But I couldn’t help it; I was completely and totally smitten, and all he was doing at that moment was spooning potatoes onto a plate. He hadn’t even minded when I set up Romeo, my new philodendron, in the kitchen and accidentally smashed his crystal vase. “These things happen,” he had said.

“It looks amazing,” I told him.

He put a sprig of parsley on top of the potatoes. “I hope it tastes amazing. I spent an hour on it.”

“Sounds like someone needs a hobby.”

He abandoned the plates and wrapped his arms around me. “I have one now.”

We ate by candlelight in the dining room, each bite more delicious than the last. When I could eat no more, I sat back and stretched, yawning.

“You sure you’re okay?” He laid his fork beside his plate.

“Just a little tired.”

“I’ll make sure you sleep well tonight.”

“I bet you say that to all the ladies.”

“I am an expert in putting women to sleep. It’s my electric wit.” He smiled around his glass of sparkling water.

“Or…this.” I raised my foot under the table and rubbed my bare toes against his crotch.

“Just what every man wants to hear. ‘Darling, your penis puts me right to sleep.’”

“The sleep is just a happy byproduct. And what woman doesn’t love a nap?”

“I think we can do better than napping. And I don’t need to use my penis to relax you.” He stood. “I want to show you something.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“No, not that, though I’m sure I could be persuaded later.” He led me through the living room, past the right archway, and opened a large wooden door that I had assumed was a closet.

I followed him inside the room and gasped. It was humongous, like every other room in the house, but it felt like another planet: cozy in spite of its size, and rich and majestic like an old library. Wait…it was a library, the entire back wall covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The other walls were paneled with deep wooden planks each about a foot across, their rough surfaces dull despite the stain. I ran my hand over the surface, and feathery splinters pricked my palm.

“The wood came from a turn of the century barn that was on my father’s property,” he said. “The people who wanted to buy the house after he died were going to demolish it.”

“It’s…beautiful. All of it.” I glanced to our right at two perpendicular leather couches. Between them sat a coffee table fashioned from an enormous piece of driftwood topped with a carved chess set, the pieces arranged haphazardly on the top.

“You play chess?” I asked.

“No.”

“But—”

“It was my mother’s.”

“Sorry. It looked like you were in the middle of a game.”

“We were. That was the last move she made.” He touched a pawn. “I was six. Cancer. My father died of cancer also; just a few years ago. He went quickly, in line with his wishes. He believed that pain was not an acceptable end to a life well-lived.”

“Dominic, I’m so—”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “My mother loved chess because it was full of possibilities. The plays themselves may not fall the way you think they will, but they always work out the way they should, especially if you’re paying attention.” He straightened. “I’ve always thought that this still board is like a version of the end in and of itself. No one else will ever play on it, but all the pieces are where they should be if you just accept them.”

Acceptance. Healing. His parents had taught him well. And now he was teaching me.

He walked to the bookcases that covered the back wall and pulled a book off a shelf. “How do you feel about Rabindranath Tagore?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Who the what now?”

He smiled and sat with me on the couch. I relaxed into his chest, feeling his heart as if it were mine, matching his breath, inhaling the earthy scent of good leather and wood.

His voice vibrated through me as he read: