Ryan O’Connor is in my house. I watched him play, got all excited in the crowd like a crazed teenage girl, counted all the drips of sweat that trailed his forehead. I held my breath for a full ninety minutes, spellbound by his strength and his pride. And now he’s in my house.
And I’m ready to share my pasta bake with him.
“Everything okay?” he calls, bringing me back down to Earth.
“It’s not burnt, if that’s what you were worried about.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Have you found something to watch?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m getting defensive for no reason, but it’s the only way to preserve myself from him.
I pour another glass of wine and turn to look at him.
“Maybe…”
“Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
Why is it so difficult to hold a conversation with this guy?
“I liked…the match.”
He smiles lopsidedly at me.
“It was…er…exciting.”
Great word choice, Chris.
“Exciting?”
“Well, yeah. All those…muscles.”
Oh my God, I’m making it worse.
“You like muscles?”
Bastard.Of course I fucking like them – mainly his.
“Who doesn’t?” I say, playing it down, while I grab the oven gloves and take the casserole dish out. I put it down on the counter and take another sip of my wine to keep down all the words trying to crawl up my throat.
“Where do you keep the plates?”
“Plates…right…”
“Don’t you have any?”
“Not really, no,” I say, embarrassed, turning to him. “I normally eat a pasta bake straight from the casserole dish I cooked it in.”
“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I always make it when I just want a night on the sofa, in front of the TV.”
“Do you eat it with your hands as well?” he says, teasing me.
“I imagine,Mr Perfect,that you’re not used to eating out of a Tupperware tub or a casserole dish.”
He comes closer and grabs it.
