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Chapter Five
Emery settles onto the sofa cross-legged, in the corner, relaxing into the cushions while angled toward me. She seems vaguely amused, but she's been like that ever since I asked her what the words on her shirt mean. At least she's not angry anymore. Maybe she had been hurt, not angry. That's worse, I suppose. But I can't worry about that. If she decides she doesn't like the everyday version of me, as opposed to the way I behaved last night, then she can walk out the door.
I suspect her amusement stems from the way I'm sitting. I sit straight, of course, positioned at the opposite end of the sofa from her and facing forward with the soles of my loafers planted on the rug. How else is a man meant to sit? Younger lads these days seem to think slouching is appropriate. Not me. I never slouch or slump or "hang loose."
Maybe I had been looser last night, but that is not what I'm like the rest of the time. I wouldn't blame the lass for being confused, but instead, she seems entertained by my behavior. Other women have never reacted that way.
I'm holding a plate of praline pancakes in one hand, while with my other hand I brandish a fork. I can't seem to keep the plate solidly placed while also holding a knife, so I'm calculating the best method for eating this meal without getting syrup on my trousers.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the sofa, Emery wolfs down her pancakes without worrying about making a sticky mess of herself. Never have I seen a woman eat with the sort of enthusiasm she displays. I don't think she gives a toss if she gets herself covered in maple syrup and butter and pancake crumbs. I observe her progress, fascinated by her method of hacking up her short stack into bite-size pieces, drowning the lot in syrup, and stuffing multiple chunks into her mouth at once. The whipped cream on top smears on her lips, but she swipes it away with long, sensuous glides of her tongue.
Bod an Donais. Is she trying to drive me insane? Not sure how long I can stop myself from dragging her down onto the cushions and fucking her. No, I won't do that. We will have sex again when and if I decide we should, and only in the manner that I decide is appropriate.
Aye, women call me uptight. Everyone does, in fact. My brothers and sisters especially.
Syrup dribbles down Emery's chin.
"Why do you eat this way?" I ask, unable to keep the humor out of my voice.
"Because I'm starving," she replies while chewing. The lass swallows her mouthful of food and wipes away the syrup on her chin with a cloth napkin. "Never got around to eating dinner last night. My flight was delayed, and after checking in at my motel and taking a cab to Pat O'Brien's, I barely had time to taste my first Hurricane before a certain foreigner seduced me."
I wince. Aye, that presumptuous foreigner would be me. I didn't ask if she'd eaten yet before I whisked her away to my hotel, and I failed to offer her any food after we, ah, enjoyed each other in my suite. But something else she said confuses me. "What is a Hurricane?"
"The signature drink at Pat O'Brien's. It was invented there. Didn't anybody tell you?"
"I wasn't interested in the bar's history." I fidget at my end of the sofa, and the plate of pancakes I haven't touched yet wobbles as if it might fall off my lap. I steady it with one hand. "I walked into the main bar at Pat O'Brien's ten minutes before I approached you. I was looking for company, not a strange red cocktail."
"The Hurricane is yummy. You missed out."
Emery wolfs down another mouthful of pancakes and syrup, then swigs from her glass of whole milk. Maybe I like that she drinks whole milk when most women worry about the fat content of everything they consume. She doesn't seem to care about that rubbish at all. I shouldn't be surprised by her passion for food since she showed me her passion for sex last night.
"By company," she says, "you mean you were on the hunt for a professional woman to screw."
"Uh, yes." I fidget again, though I have no idea why, and my plate almost tumbles off my lap. I catch it before the pancakes can spill onto the sofa cushion. "I saw no one who interested me. Then, as I was stepping out into the carriageway, I caught sight of a bonnie lass in the piano bar."
"What happened to her? Did she turn you down?"
The cheeky lass is teasing me, and I suddenly realize I like that. Since I seem to have forgotten how to smile lately—except for carnal expressions—I'm stunned when I feel my lips twitching upward at the corners, though only for a second. "Once I saw you, I lost interest in every other woman."
"Mm, I get it." Spearing a bite of pancake, she points her fork at me. "You've got a fetish for geeks wearing ComicCon T-shirts and worn jeans, and who haven't showered or brushed their hair."
"I have a fetish for beautiful women with stunning smiles and even more stunning eyes." I survey her from head to toe, remembering what every inch of her looks and feels like naked. "And a breathtaking body I couldnae wait to plunder."
"Plunder? You sound like a pirate."
Does she think what I said is barmy? Or that I sound like a numpty? Whether she thinks I'm crazy or stupid doesn't matter. I'm spending time with her strictly to expand my horizons—and get a few more good shags.
"Seriously, why pick me?" she asks. "You could've hooked up with any one of the hot little numbers strutting their stuff in that bar. I'm confused about why you'd pick me, the girl who'd just stumbled off an airliner. I hadn't even shaved my stubbly legs."
I shrug one shoulder. "Your legs seemed fine to me when I was fondling you from head to toe."
Oh, aye, the memory of running my hands over that body will stay with me for the rest of my life. Not because I like her. Because it was the best sex I've ever enjoyed. Her body truly is a masterpiece of sensual beauty. She must've thought I was lying, saying anything to seduce her, when I told her that last night. I might have many flaws, but lying isn't one of them.
I start to eat the plate of pancakes that I still have balanced on my thigh. With precise movements, I slice the stack into pieces that are exactly square and of equal size, then I stack them on one side of the plate and pour a small pool of syrup onto the other side of the plate. I proceed to consume my meal one bite at a time, dipping each piece into the syrup without dripping any of it. After each dip, I tap my fork on the plate to make sure no excess syrup dribbles off and slide the tines between my lips, withdrawing them cleanly. No mess. That's the way I eat.
Emery watches me the entire time, once again seeming highly entertained. She pulls out her mobile and aims it at me.
"Are you taking my picture?" I ask.
