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“Just about anything. What’s your favourite?”
I hand my phone over, already logged into the app. “The ones at the top are where I usually buy from, but I’m fairly confident if it can deliver, I’ve tried it, so don’t feel hemmed in by those.”
For a minute, I think that’s the wrong tactic. That the choices will overwhelm her just like my drink offer earlier.
But whatever had her in a panic on my arrival is fading. Her face is animated as she clicks through into the different menus, licking her lips at some, wrinkling her nose at others. Speeding through the choices with far more dexterity than I could manage, she clicks into each one, then hands the phone back. “I like this place.”
“Looks good.” It’s an Italian menu with a few kiwiana twists thrown in. “One of everything?”
She stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “What? Too much?”
“You’re insane,” she announces with confidence, stealing my phone again. “There. That’s what I’d like. I have cash if you need—”
“Please don’t insult my earnings capability by suggesting I can’t afford to buy you a meal.”
“But you don’t have to pay for me, and I know that teachers’ wages are on the low side.”
I chase her out of the room, closing the door so I’m not tempted to drag her straight to bed. “So now you think I can afford a private chef but not a meal delivery?”
“You did say you were cash poor.”
She stops walking and frowns at the floor, perhaps trying to place the memory. I don’t have any such problem. “What I said was Iunderstoodbeing cash poor. It’s not the same thing at all.”
We sit and talk while waiting for the food to arrive. When they text they’re at the door, I leave the room to fetch it from the delivery boy, bringing it back through to the lounge. “Do you want to eat here or in the dining room?”
Paisley’s by the sideboard, staring at the wedding photo, and jumps like she’s been caught doing something wrong.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, dumping the bags of food onto the table and walking over to stand behind her, taking the photo from her hands. “If I wanted to hide them, they’d be in a shoebox in the closet rather than on display.”
“You look happy.”
I pass the photo back to her, dropping a kiss on the nape of her neck, leaving my mouth there, breath warming her, before I can tear myself away. “We were happy on the day. I’ll just fetch some plates.”
In the kitchen, I pause, wondering if I should have cut off the conversation. The photos are on display to help me process the loss but it could be time I moved past that.
With a shake of my head, I gather plates, cutlery, and the tampered wine, bringing everything back through to the lounge. “If you want to ask me about her, that’s okay, too.”
She stares at the back of the photograph with a frown, then replaces it in position. “Were you married long?”
“Just a bit shy of four years. Although the last two were spent waiting for our divorce, so they probably don’t count.”
“Did something happen?”
The temptation exists to just tell her the same story I trot out for everyone else. That we grew apart, that we weren’t the people we thought we married.
I top up her glass from the medicated wine, then add another finger of whiskey to my glass to balance us out.
“My upbringing was weird,” I say, then shovel food into my mouth to assure a pause while half my brain clamours at the other half to shut it right now. “The family business isn’t exactly legitimate.”
She stares at me, a gentle crease between her brows, the cute little frown so adorable I’m sad to see it overtaken by a smile. “You mean you’re real criminals or something more like you cheat on your taxes?”
My heartbeat is loud in my ears, and I quickly knock back my drink, standing to fetch another.
“Is this why you’re at school under an assumed name?”
A wave of dizziness spins through my head and I grab the sideboard to keep myself steady. For a panicked moment I wonder who’s drugging who. “Why do you—”
“The photograph says your name’s Conner, but you told me to call you Ivan.”
