Neat (Becker Brothers, #2)(58)
I finished up dinner with Mallory sitting at one of the bar stools at my kitchen island, sipping on her wine and snacking on the dippers and tzatziki as we talked. She asked me about every single picture in sight, begging for stories when I offered short explanations, and I asked her about her childhood and family, too. It was crazy to me that we grew up in the same town, with nearly the same tie to the same whiskey distillery, and yet, we’d had drastically different upbringings. Where my home was filled with laughter and love, with memories being made, hers was filled with business and agenda, with parties and reputation. She had so much expected of her at such a young age, whereas I was free to be a kid.
We ate the salad and main course at my small dining room table — the table that had only served me before that night. Mallory marveled at my skills in the kitchen with every bite she took, making unnecessary moans and asking for seconds, and I watched her laugh and sip her wine with my heart pounding in my rib cage, with words I was still too afraid to say dancing in my head.
The baklava came out of the oven right as I was putting our dishes from dinner in the sink, and Mallory poured the last of the bottle of wine in each of our glasses as I poured the honey over the fresh pastry. I knew it was best to leave that honey to set for hours before eating, so that it soaked down into the flaky dough, but I served it hot, anyway, and Mallory devoured every single bite. She even ran her finger over the plate to get the last bit of crumbs and honey.
“You’re a god,” she said on a final moan, dabbing her lips with her napkin and kicking back in her chair like a king would after a feast. “Seriously. You should open a Greek restaurant so I can have this type of food more often.”
I chuckled, taking a long sip of my wine before I swirled what was left of it around the glass, watching the red liquid splash up the sides.
I could cook for you, I wanted to offer. Every night. If we were together.
“You’ve been so quiet tonight,” Mallory observed, kicking those thoughts out of my head before they could materialize.
I peered up at her, offering a smile and a half-hearted shrug. “Just listening to you, enjoying the evening.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, lips pursed. “You’ve got something on your mind. Spill, Chef.”
I spun my glass again, eyes on the wine, before I abandoned the glass altogether and gathered my napkin off my lap, depositing it on the table. I stood, heart in my throat and voice a little shaky as I extended my hand for hers. “Dance with me.”
One eyebrow arched high into her hair line. “Uh… I don’t… I can’t dance.”
I beckoned her with my hand, smirking. “I’ll lead. Come on.”
Mallory looked at my hand like it was a spider that I’d swore wouldn’t bite her, her face screwing up in a mixture of uneasiness and fear. But, to her credit, she took one last sip of her wine, and then she slipped her small hand into mine and stood.
I led her a few feet away from the table, in the space between my small dining area and the kitchen, and then I pulled her into me — one hand at her waist, the other still holding her hand — and to the soft, melodic voice of Leon Bridges, we began to sway.
She was nervous, at first, looking down at her feet and cringing, apologizing when she misstepped. But I guided her with my hand at the small of her back, encouraging her to keep her eyes on mine, and by the first chorus, we’d found a rhythm.
“My mom and dad used to dance after dinner,” I said, spinning her out gently before I spun her back into my arms. “Every single night. My brothers and I would clear the table, do the dishes, and Dad would pull Mom into the living room, turn up the music, and dance with her.”
Mallory’s eyes sparkled, a smile tugging at the right side of her mouth. “That’s so romantic.”
“Dad always was,” I said, laughing a little. “He always taught us to be vulnerable, to be emotional, to share what we were feeling even if we felt ashamed or embarrassed. And he taught us how to respect a woman, how to care for her, make her feel good.” I swallowed, searching her eyes. “Make her feel loved.”
Mallory swallowed then, too, and she pulled her eyes from mine, resting her head against my chest, instead. “My family was the exact opposite,” she said, voice low. “We didn’t talk about anything, least of all how we were feeling. I have no idea who my parents are, outside of the entertainer and business owner fa?ade they present to everyone in town. And my brother?” She shook her head against my chest. “I don’t know a single thing about him, other than that he likes to golf. And I don’t even know if he really likes it, or if he just does it to do business with Dad.”
“And they know nothing about you, either, do they?”
A soft laugh left her lips. “Not a thing.”
I sighed, swaying to the music, holding her close. “That’s a shame. Because if they knew you the way I do, if they could see what I see, they’d be the proudest family in this whole town.”
She smirked, lifting her head from my chest and reaching up to thread her arms around my neck. We slowed to a two-step sway, back and forth. “Oh, yeah? And what is it that you see, exactly?”
It was my shot.
And I was taking it.
“I see a woman who isn’t afraid of anything,” I said, searching her eyes with my own. “I see an artist with heart and passion, and talent that she’s so modest about that it somehow makes it even more impressive. I see a business owner with hustle and drive, with a dream that has no other option but to come true with her in the driver seat.”