But Too Well

XLVI : Words

"WHERE DID YOU go to school?" he asks, assembling ingredients from the fridge onto the counter.

I smile, letting my bare legs dangle from the bar stool, propping my head on my arms against the cool granite.

Earlier, as I slid his shirt over his head, I had whispered into his ear that he should talk to me more. That I didn't even know anything about him besides how much I love his mouth.

As he chops onions and garlic, I tell him about Emily Carr and study his dark form, curious.

"Did you go to school?"

His lips tilt up at the corners. "UBC."

"Oh."

A small chuckle. His eyes flicker to my face briefly before he turns his attention to the stove. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not!" I laugh. "I'm just trying to imagine what you studied."

I swear I notice a small tinge of red fill his cheeks, but I'm probably seeing things. It's the heat from the stove.

"You'll never guess." Ever verbose, he avoids my gaze and focuses on the pasta he's sliding into a boiling pot of water.

My curiosity fades as a part of me suddenly remembers that first time Caleb cooked for me, recalls him pouring spaghetti into a steaming pot. I swallow. Not now, not here.

He must notice my sudden change in mood because he glances up, and he realizes instantly that something has changed. He walks over, stands near, lets me look off to the side and avoid his eyes.

I vaguely and vividly recall Caleb bringing a spoon of red pasta sauce to my lips, giving me one of his sparkling grins.

Once I blink myself out of it a couple of times, I bring myself back, to Nero, wrap my arms tightly around his neck and sink my face into the crook of his shoulder. "Why do men always cook pasta?" I try to make it a joke for both our sakes, but he must understand. He presses his hands to my hips and lets me lean into him.

Eventually, he mutters into my ear. "English lit."

I must have misheard him. A strangled laugh escapes my lips and I am brought back to him, to us, here. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles. "You heard me."

"I don't think I did." I pull away to look into his face, and his confession has filled his cheeks with a pale flush. "You did not."

He purses his lips, not meeting my eyes.

"The underboss of the Vancouver mafia studied english lit at UBC? Are you serious?"

He lets me go gently to attend to his saucepan, shaking his head a little. "Don't laugh."

But I do. I laugh. And I laugh a little more. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No."

I rack my brain. I love English lit. The romance, the history. But watching the muscles ripple through his dark t-shirt, I realize that I must have him wrong.

"Okay, who wrote A Cask of Amontillado?"

A chuckle. "Poe."

Hm.

"Name three Romantic writers."

He shakes his head, now amused. "Austen, Shelley... Brontë."

I huff. "All that shows is that you've seen Fifty Shades."

He turns back to me, challenge written across his face, etched into his arched brow. "Just because I went into the family business doesn't mean that I didn't once have interests of my own."