The Next Best Thing: Part II

Three

"You can eat anything and everything you want. Don't be shy," he encouraged, making more pancakes and throwing them on my plate. I shook my head.

"I've had more than five of those and besides, you are out of blueberries and syrup."

"Have ice-cream then," he suggested, pointing towards the fridge. "You'll feel much, much better. Trust me."

He winked at me before grabbing a tub of dark Belgian chocolate gelato, placing it in front of me.

Opening the tub deliberately slow to make me yearn for it, he took a spoon from the cutlery rack on the other side of him and scooped out a large spoonful of the tempting, enticing goodness. He licked it off in a not trying to be seductive but failing horribly way, making me giggle for the first time in a long while.

"It's gorgeous, Zoe. Try some, please?" He handed me another spoon, urging me on to engorge myself in early morning dessert.

I gave in and I indulged myself, although I was very ashamed of myself weak at the knees at how ice cream managed to fill a few holes in my damaged soul. I closed my eyes to savour the taste - I was letting the beautiful feeling warm me up on the inside. I was desperate.

"Yeah, this is amazing. Just make sure I don't eat the whole tub or else you'll have another problem on your hands."

"And risk not seeing your face light up because of how good it feels? I'll buy you a dozen more of those if they will make you feel better. I'll still like you if you're an obese pig."

He smiled at me, the look on his face honest and very genuine. He came to sit next to me, finally allowing himself to have his own breakfast. Apparently picking food off my plate did not make him the least bit full; in fact, he seemed hungrier.

I laughed at him stuffing his face, shedding his poised gentleman persona for a starved construction worker image. He still used a fork and knife though - he was still a Macken and his mother had taught him better than anything else.

I took to clearing the dishes to help him out, the least I could do to thank him for preparing a delicious meal for me.

"Zoe, you don't have to do that. I'll clear them away when I'm done. You're still grieving, remember? Just relax. I'll take care of it."

I protested but he convinced me that he was competent enough to do his own dishes. "Besides, I do own a dishwasher," he grinned. I was encouraged to take a warm shower and properly get settled.

I left the kitchen, taking the stairs back to the room I had claimed as mine. It was the first room to the left of the landing, or at least I thought it was.

I hadn't been downstairs before that day, even though I had been at his home for more than a week - I did not really have time to check out my surroundings earlier, apart from the scenic view from the huge windows.

I walked straight into the bathroom and I stripped out of my almost three-day old clothes. The room was as cool as the bedroom: the shower was made out of glass, with intricate tiles and a large shower head allowing for an incredible sauna experience. Forget steam rooms when you had this bad boy, fully equipped with the trademark wooden benches.

Unable to bath with a few ballads to sing along to, I cranked up the volume on my iPod and lost myself in the music. Mitchell advised me to always listen to something great to uplift myself in the morning, to feel special, beautiful. Happy.

"You're fearfully and wonderfully made. You need to remember that. You need to appreciate that. Your mood can affect the way you go about your day and being unhappy isn't a such a good look on you," he preached to me in bed each morning we woke up together. "Or just pretend you can actually sing and make as much horrible noise without impairing the next person's hearing."