Page 17 of The Neighborly Thing To Do
I don’t come here that often, and certainly not often enough to have a regular order. But I glance at the menu written on a chalkboard over the bar that hasn’t changed in my lifetime. “Steak sandwich,” I decide.
She nods, still looking at me intently. “What?” I ask, self-conscious now.
“Can you lean forward, you have…” I lean forward before she finishes her sentence, then immediately regret it when she touches my left horn.
Oh, fuck. Her touch is light as a feather, more brushing than gripping, but even so, it’s enough to set every nerve in my entire body on fire.
It gets quiet in the pub, all the people who’ve been not-so-sneakily watching us now hushing as they take in the show. And poor Cassidy is the only one who doesn’t know what she’s doing.
The skin on my horns and my wings is very,verydelicate, which makes it sensitive. Which means I’m lit up like a firework from the barest touch, and everyone here but her knows it.
Well, if we were trying to sell our marriage to people, mission-fucking-accomplished, I suppose. Only a newly married and profusely in love couple would do this in a public restaurant.
“You had a little something…” she says, leaning back, completely unaware of what she’s done to me.
I fight for control, an impossible task when I can still feel her little fingers on me and my hard-on in my jeans. “Sorry. I must’ve not cleaned up as well as I thought after work.” I’m torn between hoping she notices something else to get off of me and needing to put distance between us before I lose control completely.
“That’s fine. How’s your sculpture going, anyway?” she asks, sitting back in her chair, and I take the opportunity to do the same, seizing on the subject change like the life raft it is.
“What can I get you two?”
Donnel’s nephew, Drake, is apparently taking orders tonight. Cassidy orders us both steak sandwiches and he hustles onto the next table.
“Tell me more about the sculpture,” she says, leaning forward once more.
I tell her all about the fox I’ve been carving for weeks, how the expression has been particularly difficult, but how I think I’ve finally got it now. I monitor the conversation, trying to ensure I don’t bore her, but either she’s genuinely interested or she’s good at faking it.
“Do you like art?” I ask her.
“I did the mural in the living room. And the bedroom next to G’s, I turned it into a little craft studio at some point. Figured I’d contain my mess to one room in the house.”
“Can I see it sometime?” What kind of art makes Cassidy happy? That’s an answer I want to know far more than I expected.
She shifts in her seat, not looking directly at me. “It’s not very good. I’m not very good. It’s just for fun.”
Oh, I don’t like that. “Cassidy.” I try to sound firm but not harsh, and I’m not sure I succeed. She twitches.
“What?”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful. I’m glad it makes you happy.”
“It’s just a hobby,” she deflects.
“Hobbies are great.” She doesn’t look receptive to more, but I make a mental note to bother her about it again later. I want to see her art, and I want her not to be ashamed about it.
I want Cassidy to do things that bring her joy. I have a feeling she’s deprioritized her own pleasure so much that she forgets it exists some days.
Drake deposits two sandwiches on our table without a word. I raise an eyebrow. Donnel’s isn’t particularly known for fantastic service, but this kid is rude.
Cassidy doesn’t complain, though, biting into her sandwich. It’s so hot that steam literally comes out of it, but she eats like she doesn’t even notice. Gargoyles are relatively impervious to temperatures, but my human wife shouldn’t be. I watch her, fascinated, and forget my own food.
She gets halfway through her sandwich when she looks up. “Did we not even get water?” she asks, looking around the table like she expects it to appear.
No, we didn’t. I glance around the pub and see Drake leaning against the bar counter, clearly not busy at the moment. “Hey! Drake! My wife is looking for a drink,” I say, raising my voice.
Cassidy flushes. “Finn, you can’t—”
“I can,” I assure her, because I definitely can and will ensure that she gets a drink. And Drake is rolling his eyes and meandering his way over to our table, anyway.
