Your Mark on Me

Chapter 11: Piano Four Hands

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice husky with sleep. He didn't seem that surprised to wake up with me lurking above him.

"I'm hungry."

He groggily sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, then placed a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing out the stiffness.

"What shall I make for dinner?"

I shrugged.

"Do you like lamb?"

I shook my head.

"Spaghetti Bolognese?"

To be honest, I wasn't crazy about that either, but I felt bad to say no twice in a row, so I nodded.

"Ok. I think I've got all I need."

He walked to the kitchen area, took out the meat and the vegetables out the fridge, the spaghetti out of a cupboard, and arranged them on the counter, in a neat pile.

"I can chop the mushrooms", I offered timidly.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't trust you with a knife."

I chuckled — he was obviously joking. I reached my hand to grab the knife and the chopping board, but he blocked it.

"No, seriously. Go watch some TV or something."

I gave him a confused look; in response, he simply waved me away. I had no choice but to retreat back to the sofa and to turn on the TV, not bothering to change the channel. I was mad. Did he really think I was so useless? Admittedly, on all occasions that we met I had come across as a helpless little creature, but he didn't have to be so patronizing.

I took out my phone and texted Chloe: "Can you meet me asap with the keys?" The reply was almost instant: "Can u come by?". I stared at the screen, then across the room, at his back, as he chopped the onions with a fast, continuous movement, then back at the screen. I wanted to leave, and I didn't want to leave. Plus, Jeremy's daughter was irking at my brain - I needed to find out what that was about.

He then started frying the meat and my nostrils flared. Instead of watching TV, I found myself staring at him, realizing I had never had a guy cook for me before. Only then it occurred to me that he was actually being really nice and that he had stayed up for me all night after coming to my rescue, he'd taken care of my hangover, he'd bought me clothes, he'd let me sleep in his bed and now he was cooking for me, and I never even once said thank you.

"Dinner's ready now", he called from across the room.

My plate had already been filled. I said a weak "thank you" before planting my fork in the steaming-hot spaghetti.

"Any news about your keys?"

I shook my head. How I turned into a liar so easily, I had no idea.

We ate our dinner in an awkward silence. He finished first, but didn't get up, waiting for me to finish. Feeling stared at, I suddenly became awkward and clumsy and I kept dropping my fork and the spaghetti kept unrolling before they reached my mouth and I made funny noises when swallowing and I swear he was staring at me on purpose, finding it all quite amusing.

When I was finally done, he tapped his chin with his finger; I didn't understand, until he passed me a napkin. I wiped, red with embarrassment. When I looked back at him, he was pointing to his nose. I must have pulled a really miserable expression because that inscrutable face of his suddenly lit up and he actually laughed, a genuine, light-hearted laughter. He snatched the napkin out of my hand and wiped my nose, then ruffled my hair in a short, rough motion, before starting to clear out the table. It was an innocent gesture, but I sat down dazzled for a few seconds, wondering if he had any idea of the mad flutter in my stomach that his touch had provoked.