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It definitely wasn’t Chris, but who else could it have been? One of his gang?
“Come on,” Marcus says, rising to his feet. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll pick up some food and get back, alright?”
“Yea, that sounds good.” I stand and he picks up both our empty cups, tossing them into the bin on his way to the door.
He holds it open for me, and I step outside, the cold air brushing my skin as we walk hand in hand back to his car.
A storm of emotions swirls within me, the fear and uncertainty having risen to the forefront again, tangling with the dizzying rush of hearing Marcus say he wished he’d asked me out sooner.
He said seeing me makes his day.
The memory of his words sends a warm flush through me, spreading like sunlight under my skin. I can still see the look in his eyes when he said it – steady, unguarded. Like he meant every word.
Angela’s never going to believe me!
Marcus sets the sat nav to the local supermarket, and as we drive down the street, I notice that the Range Rover isn’t there anymore in the spot it had been. I look around but don’t see it on the street.
Letting out another deep breath, I relax a bit more, convincing myself I was just being paranoid.
By the time we’re strolling through the supermarket, the fear has settled back down to a distant niggle.
Something about walking around the aisles together with a trolley puts a silly grin on my face that I can’t seem to move. This is something couples do – couples who live together and do the shopping together. Couples who aren’t on the run from a murderer. It’s cosy, and comfortable, and I keep glancing at Marcus by my side, a giggle rising to my throat every time I see him, still unable to believe that this is truly happening. That this gorgeous, incredible, perfect man, is here, with me, and that this morning wasn’t a dream, and that he did actually make me come what must have been at least five fucking times.
Winding up and down the aisles, I’m surprised to see how much someone’s shopping habits tell you about them. I learn that Marcus’s favourite meal is a steak sandwich, and that he doesn’t eat pudding or chocolate much, which makes sense given the fact that he probably has no more than about two percent body fat on him. Meanwhile, Marcusfinds it mad that I start almost every day with a kale-banana smoothie. Neither of us remembers seeing a blender in the cottage, and buying one just for a few days seems excessive, so I pick up some corn flakes instead.
Marcus tells me he enjoys cooking and says he often cooks just for himself, but will also often have his friend Mike and his wife over for a meal. Meanwhile, my extent of cooking consists of chopping up a salad, boiling some pasta or putting a pizza in the oven. And even that doesn’t always go according to plan.
We both like apples, but Marcus likes the tart green ones and I like the sweet pink ones. I love avocado, and I laugh when Marcus says he doesn’t really “get it.”
I like browsing the aisles to see what there is, whereas Marcus prefers to start with the meat and then get what he needs for specific meals to go with it.
We agree on white wine, although Marcus prefers red with red meat, so we buy both.
And of course, we stop in the pharmacy aisle to get shampoo, conditioner, and condoms. Marcus picks up one box of twelve, holding it up for approval, and I grab it, throwing it in the trolley before adding a second box off the shelf and adding it in as well, laughing when his eyes grow wide and he pulls me in and kisses me in the middle of the aisle.
It's hard not to imagine doing a weekly shop together for years to come, and I try to tell my heart to stop jumping to conclusions, but it’s already in far too deep.
Although Marcus offers to pay, I insist he lets me cover it. Not wanting to make a scene, he agrees with the condition that he cooks the meals.
Obviously. As if I’d risk burning the place down.
Back at the cottage, Marcus cooks his favourite steak sandwiches for lunch. The aroma fills the air and the sizzle of the meat on the pan makes my stomach rumble. I watch with rapt fascination as he mixes a few ingredients in a bowl to make a sauce which he spreads over two ciabatta slices and serves the thin cut steak onto them.
“Mmm,” I moan, taking my first bite, and Marcus laughs, not taking his eyes off me as he perches on the stool beside me. The steak is perfect and delicious and juicy.
“That - is amazing,” I mumble between mouthfuls.
“See, I told you,” he says with a wink, biting down into his own sandwich. “Oh, God, yes,thatis what I’m talking about!” he exclaims, and I can’t help but laugh.
I love watching him eat, learning his mannerisms, getting to know the kinds of things he likes.
We seem so removed from the real world suddenly, as if this crazy insane thing happened, and now we’re somehow in a secluded cottage in the middle of the woods, with the man of my dreams who iscooking for me, and who is by far the best sex of my life. How is thisnota dream?
My insides tighten again as I think back to this morning.
Watching his tongue run along his bottom lip as it catches a drop of sauce, I have to cross my legs tightly in response to the arousal that is quickly re-emerging despite my entire downstairs area feeling sore as hell.
“What?” he asks, suddenly looking up as he notices I’ve stopped eating. “What’s wrong?”