Nwanyieze's POV~
We settle on the floor of his living room because I told him I very much prefer sitting on the rug, which is soft and fluffy. Maduka indulges me, but spreads table mats before the meal is set.
Our food smells divine, and my mouth waters at the thought of sinking my teeth into a hot, spicy chicken thigh. I contemplate on eating in a ladylike manner tonight, but push the thought aside. Nothing will stop me from filling my belly tonight.
Yes, I am a foodie.
"Oh my gosh, yes," I moan after a bite of chicken.
"It's delicious," Maduka compliments me between bites of chicken and mouthfuls of spaghetti and stew.
"Teamwork makes the dream work."
"No, you did most of the work."
"Only because you burned your fingers."
He flicks his tongue out across his lower lip and then sucks in a breath through his mouth. My eyes linger there for a moment.
"Somebody's a little distracted," Maduka drawls.
"That was how we burned some of the spaghetti," I grumble, forcing my eyes back to my place of food.
That kiss had been out of this world. The moment he'd placed me on that counter, stepped between my legs, and pulled me so close to him that out chests were touching, I thought I'd melt.
I thought I'd freaking melt.
He smelled so nice, of soap and citrus and a scent I can't describe, so masculine I'd probably be better off describing it as Man.
The thought makes me laugh out loud.
"What?"
I look up and there he is, licking his fingers one after the other, eyes boldly gazing at me.
"Not your business," I retort. I have no plans of letting him see that his effect on me runs deep.
He chuckles, a deep sound that pleases my ears.
"A girl likes a man."
I burst out laughing and he watches me. "You too? Game of Thrones?"
"Definitely."
I myself am a Game of Thrones fan, and I only watch when Adanna and Mama Uju have gone to sleep in their room with their door shut tight so the television won't bother them.
"Who is your favourite character?" I ask.
"Tyrion Lannister."
I clap my hands sticky hands excitedly. "This is the best thing I've heard all day."
"Truly I say to you, if Tyrion ever dies, Game of Thrones is over."
"The same goes for Cersei."
Maduka nods in agreement. Suddenly we go into a discussion/argument session, talking back and forth about the conspiracy theories. Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Bran is the past version of the Three-eyed Raven, The Starks have hidden powers over winter and the White Walkers...
Everything is going fine until I accidentally rub my eye with my hand...and hiss in pain.
In my haste to get up and run into the kitchen, I trip on the hem of my buba and fall onto the floor with a loud thud, hitting my shoulder and the side of my head. Confused and not knowing which pain to concentrate on, I lie there for a second, dazed. Maduka is helping me up, calling my name.
"I'm not dead, you know," I tell him as he helps me to sit up. Then he rushes into the kitchen and returns with a bowl of water, his own hands now clean.
"Stay still," he tells me before cupping a handful of water and rubbing it over my closed eye. "Does it still hurt?" he asks.
"Yes," I groan.
He repeats the motion a few more times until I tell him to stop, and then dries my face for me with a small towel. My shoulder hurts the most now, a dull, throbbing pain that spreads to my upper back.
"Are you okay? That was quite a fall."
I nod. "I've had worse falls than this."
Mummy had pushed me from the stairs over five years ago, and I had broken an arm.
"Wash your hands."
I push the bowl away. "I'm not done eating."
"Foodie much?" he laughs.
"Food makes me happy," I reply.
"You make me happy."
His statement has me smiling at him. "You don't say?"
I'm utterly happy myself, having all his attention on me. After eating, he insists on doing the dishes himself, and tells me to wait in the living room for him. I insist on being in the kitchen with him, perched on one of the stools and watching him from behind. His shoulders are broad over a straight back, his arm muscles flex from behind with every scrub.
"I used to stand on a little stool to do the dishes as a child," I muse. "I couldn't reach the tap."
"We used a huge bowl to wash plates when I was a little boy," he tells me before exhaling deeply. "I would sit on a stool, and gather the lather in my hands and blow bubbles on my...sister. She used to laugh a lot."
"She sounds like fun."
He turns to gaze at me. "Yes, she is. And beautiful, too."
I smile at him. He surely loves his family, with the way he talks about them. I did love mine once...
"I have ice cream," he tells me, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"Oh, he has pampered me with the five star treatment."
"Trust me, you deserve better," Maduka says before coming closer and enveloping me in his arms. I wince; my shoulder is still sore.
"You said it didn't hurt."
"I mustn't always tell when it's paining me."
"I'm sorry. I'll get some balm and massage your shoulder. Wait for me in the living room, okay?"
Five minutes later, I'm lying on my side on the sofa, awkwardly spooning vanilla ice cream into my mouth and trying not to complain while Maduka massages my shoulder with some Robb.
"Tell me about your parents."
"What would you like to know about them?"
"Nigerians," I muse. "Answering questions with questions."
He smiles. "They are a funny couple."
"So that's where your good sense of humour comes from."
"Both in their sixties, love to watch ZeeWorld every evening, and are generous to a fault."
"I think they should have a meet and greet with Mama Uju and watch it together. I even sing that Omeri Jaan song in my sleep these days."
We are silent for a few minutes, each thinking their own thoughts.
"There's something I want to tell you," he says after a while, when the massage has stopped and my bowl of ice cream is empty.
"I'm all ears, then."
I can tell that whatever he wants to tell me is of great importance, that it troubles him. His brows are joining together and his eyes look a bit glazed, like he has suddenly retreated to some untouched part of his mind where I can't reach him.
I wait for him to speak, curiously watching him. He hesitates, exhales, briefly closes his eyes, and opens them again.
"First of all, you're one of the best things that have happened to me."
I'm taken aback, literally reeling mentally. I blink rapidly, while my skin feels like someone is pouring cold water on me slowly, the liquid flowing from the top of my head to my feet.
"No, you have to listen, please," he says with a raised palm when I open my mouth to speak.
I nod.
"I haven't always been like this. When I was..."
He closes his eyes again, breathes deeply, excuses himself, and gets up.
What is bothering him this badly? I wonder, surprised. Maduka has always been composed, has always smiled so easily. Wait, is this the part where he tells me he's in love with me? My palms suddenly become sweaty and I rub them against my buba.
He isn't supposed to do that. You're not even supposed to be here. You're going in deeper, you're setting a trap for yourself.
I get up to search for Maduka, to tell him that whatever he has to say can wait if it makes him uncomfortable. Hopefully, he'll agree with me. His bungalow has three bedrooms, and so I follow the distant sound of his voice to stand in front of the door to his bedroom. I knock and when I get no answer, I let myself in. The room is furnished simply, in order unlike mine. The bed is immaculately made with white and black striped sheets. There is no sign of him, but his voice floats towards me from the adjoining bathroom.
"Maduka?" I call.
The door pulls back and he peers at me. He has splashed water on his face, and it drips down his neck and onto the front of his shirt. In his eyes I see sadness and something I interpret as reluctance.
But reluctance to do what?
He is clearly distressed.
"I shouldn't have left rudely," he says quietly.
"That's alright. Look, if you don't want to talk-"
"I want to. Just give me a minute."
"Okay. I'll be here waiting."
I settle on his bed. The mattress is soft, the sheets smell clean. I lie on my side, stretching an arm and slipping my hand underneath one of the pillows, the one that is more likely to be his pillow because it smells like him. My hand touches something soft, and I close my fingers around it and pull it out.
It is a pair of underwear, the red colour of the lacy fabric bold, made to be seductive. I am still holding the scrap of material in my hand, still staring at the thong while my eyes fill with tears when a sound makes me look up.
Maduka stands before me, anger written all over his face.
A/N: Suggest a song.