FIC: Love Wins Every Time 2/?
This is it for today, I promise :) The next parts will be longer. This is getting a little epic on me and may go on for some time :)
Part 1
Now, on with the next bit...
She follows him in her own car, and it does not occur to him to suppose that she is using the solitude to wallow, or to steel herself in preparation for his company. He is a supremely practical man, and he would take his own car too. Of course, he would take his own car.
She gasps a little when she sees his apartment, and he can't help but smirk. "You like it?"
She pirouettes, somehow a little punchy, even though he has yet to open the wine. "Well, it's…what can I say? Elegant?"
"Thank you, I think."
"I mean, it's…clean, you know? I expected that from you. But it's got personality too."
"That surprises you?"
"Of course it doesn't surprise me."
But the question, or her answer, has somehow made her skittish again. She tries again, falling easily into a polite, innocuous script.
"So, can I help?" she says.
"Hmmm?"
"The dinner. Can I help?"
"Oh. Right. I was going to sauté some chicken. Perhaps in a bit of the wine."
She looks alarmed at the prospect of boiling off his fancy wine in a potful of food scraps. He chuckles, enjoying the novelty of having visitors. It is Cristina who has the friends. It is not his kind who comes over.
"All right," he says, putting her out of her misery. He gingerly uncorks the wine, pours her a modest glassful. "Drink the wine. I suppose, for the chicken, a dash of olive oil will do quite nicely. Shall I slice some tomatoes?"
"Why don't I do that?" she says, falling into step behind him. "Unless you’re one of those people who are freakishly territorial about their kitchen stuff. Derek has a sister who's…"
She trails off again, so easily spooked back to discomfort that it pains him. "You can slice," he tells her firmly. "As long as you don't mangle my beautiful tomatoes. Straight slices, Addison. Thin ones."
"I am a surgeon too, you know. I know how to slice things."
He grins. "I'll just bet you do."
--
They get the chicken simmering. He stews the tomato with parsley and basil, simmering in some wild rice for a neat, rich risotto.
"This isn't from a package," she says, pulling a few grains between her fingers, squinting. "Preston, this looks fresh."
He nods. "I know a farmer's market…"
"With your schedule? When do you shop?"
He wraps her outfit in an appraising glance, taking in the tailored cut, the designer shoes, the understated, but exquisite accessories. "When do you?"
She sips her wine with the first genuine laugh of the evening. "Touché, Preston. One point for you."
One point for him indeed. He compliments himself for finally pushing her into relaxing. God knows, she looks like she needs to.
--
to be continued...
Part 1
Now, on with the next bit...
She follows him in her own car, and it does not occur to him to suppose that she is using the solitude to wallow, or to steel herself in preparation for his company. He is a supremely practical man, and he would take his own car too. Of course, he would take his own car.
She gasps a little when she sees his apartment, and he can't help but smirk. "You like it?"
She pirouettes, somehow a little punchy, even though he has yet to open the wine. "Well, it's…what can I say? Elegant?"
"Thank you, I think."
"I mean, it's…clean, you know? I expected that from you. But it's got personality too."
"That surprises you?"
"Of course it doesn't surprise me."
But the question, or her answer, has somehow made her skittish again. She tries again, falling easily into a polite, innocuous script.
"So, can I help?" she says.
"Hmmm?"
"The dinner. Can I help?"
"Oh. Right. I was going to sauté some chicken. Perhaps in a bit of the wine."
She looks alarmed at the prospect of boiling off his fancy wine in a potful of food scraps. He chuckles, enjoying the novelty of having visitors. It is Cristina who has the friends. It is not his kind who comes over.
"All right," he says, putting her out of her misery. He gingerly uncorks the wine, pours her a modest glassful. "Drink the wine. I suppose, for the chicken, a dash of olive oil will do quite nicely. Shall I slice some tomatoes?"
"Why don't I do that?" she says, falling into step behind him. "Unless you’re one of those people who are freakishly territorial about their kitchen stuff. Derek has a sister who's…"
She trails off again, so easily spooked back to discomfort that it pains him. "You can slice," he tells her firmly. "As long as you don't mangle my beautiful tomatoes. Straight slices, Addison. Thin ones."
"I am a surgeon too, you know. I know how to slice things."
He grins. "I'll just bet you do."
--
They get the chicken simmering. He stews the tomato with parsley and basil, simmering in some wild rice for a neat, rich risotto.
"This isn't from a package," she says, pulling a few grains between her fingers, squinting. "Preston, this looks fresh."
He nods. "I know a farmer's market…"
"With your schedule? When do you shop?"
He wraps her outfit in an appraising glance, taking in the tailored cut, the designer shoes, the understated, but exquisite accessories. "When do you?"
She sips her wine with the first genuine laugh of the evening. "Touché, Preston. One point for you."
One point for him indeed. He compliments himself for finally pushing her into relaxing. God knows, she looks like she needs to.
--
to be continued...