Making Love

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

I took a deep, calming breath as I stood outside his door, which did absolutely nothing for my nerves! I should have brought a hip flask.

I rang the bell anyway and we both smiled when he answered. There was a beat of awkwardness, while I debated whether it would be good form to throw my arms around him and claim a passionate kiss, but as soon as the madness fled, he invited me in.

Once in the hallway, he stopped me from progressing and raised a hand to my face, gently caressing my cheekbone with his thumb.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his expression tender and sexy as hell. Then he kissed me, no longer or harder than our first kiss a few weeks ago, but definitely welcome.

It helped to relax me, proving to me that he really did want me here and when he pulled away, I wondered how I could feel this at home in someone else’s house.

“I missed you,” he told me.

“Me too,” I agreed. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to get your number sooner.”

“No harm done,” he assured me. “Drink?”

“Please.”

He led me through to the kitchen and I unpacked my Tupperware boxes and fresh (though I hasten to add, shop bought) pasta, and I watched him as he opened a beer for us both.

He had dark shadows under his eyes and his smiles didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic as they normally were.

“You look tired,” I told him. For some reason, probably the experiment we did, I didn’t have the same inhibitions that I’d usually have in such a new relationship. Normally, I’d be worried that such a sentence would be interpreted as ‘you don’t look good’.

“I am,” he admitted. “LA can be frantic at the best of times. I don’t mind going out there to film or even for a round of auditions but promotions are pretty hellish.”

“Then the jetlag,” I added. I was sure I hadn’t travelled anywhere near as much as him, but I’d been to America twice in my life, for holidays.

He nodded his agreement with my sentiment and we headed through to his lounge. His home had a natural, almost country feel to it. The doors were unfinished, natural pine, the floors were stone or tiled and it was more something I’d expect to find in a village, rather than in the middle of London. It was lovely, definitely a home rather than a show house.

He led me through to the living room, where the couches were big and comfortable, the kind you sink into, and I realised that his home was a reflection of him, warm, open, welcoming and unpretentious. I loved it.

“Do you want to put a film on he asked?” Since we had been talking twice a day, we didn’t exactly have a lot to catch up on, so I agreed and as we settled back, he put his arm around me and pulled me into him.

I can't even remember what the film was now, but I vividly remember that we kissed a bit at intervals, nothing too heavy (which I couldn’t blame him for, the poor guy looked knackered). After I’d cooked the pasta and garlic bread, then reheated the sauce, we ate, the conversation flowing freely. I told him that I expected an answer about illustrating the children’s book on Monday, and that I was hopeful. He told me of the scripts he had to look through and what he looked for when choosing projects.

With an embarrassed blush, I suggested he try a comedy, or a romcom, and his smile widened at that. I’m sure he could guess why I wanted those things, and that I only threw comedy in to distract from the fact I’d like to see him in a romance.