Aoife Goldman awoke to something soft but firm poking into the small of her back. After her dream, it was enough to get her excited. A moment later, unfortunately, she heard movement further in the house, and remembered the damn cat. Two weeks beforehand, on a very pleasant night, they'd left the window open to allow in a cool breeze. The stray that had torn through the screen had refused to leave since, and her soft-hearted husband was only too eager to please their new master.
The furry beast was purring as it massaged her lower spine into a proper pillow, but she wasn't having it. If her people had pushed back the English, she sure as hell could throw an invading cat of her bed. Whisking the comforter off, she buried the annoying bastard. It was purring even louder now that it had a cocoon or nest or whatever the things liked to hibernate in. She sat there staring at the shifting lump in the covers, wishing looks really could kill. Then again, if so, she'd have died the first time she tried to pry the beast off her hubby's lap. Apparently, it was female, and had claimed Rick for her own.
A ringing echoed outside. Aoife glanced up at the uncovered windows to find two neighbor boys out on the sidewalk. The window was on the side, but the angle was just right for them to see in as they rode by on their way to school. Denny had purposely chirped the bell as a warning, while his friend, Billy, gaped at her. Looking down, she finally awakened enough to remember not having put on a shirt last night. He waved, as if unsure if he should just now be respectful or gloat at his peeping victory. She waved back, albeit with only one finger extended from her fist. The boys took off.
Aoife found a t-shirt and wrinkled jeans, then left the bedroom. She found her charming geek of a husband in the kitchen, fixing up a simple meal of breakfast burritos. Despite using leftovers from the last few days, they always tasted like he'd spent hours preparing them. If he hadn't gone into the game industry, he'd have made a great cook. Yet if he'd done that, they never would have met.
"Hey, beautiful," he greeted. "Did you sleep with a bomb in your hair?"
She reached a hand up through the tangled mass of bright golden hair. "Is it that bad?"
"No, of course not! You look like any other lovely Irish lass... that had stuck her head out a car window, on the highway, during a hurricane."
"Piss off." She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling too broadly. After all this time, it still threw her off to hear him mimic her accent perfectly, then revert back to his own flat American drawl. Thankfully, she believed it helped her keep from losing her own accent after nearly a decade away from Ireland. That, and the frequent trips back home, of course.
He served her a plate at the bar in the kitchen. The guy looked exhausted, but was already dressed for work. "When does the project go gold?" she asked.
"The boss says it's looking like the second Monday of next month. But I think the crunch is slowing down, so I shouldn't be gone all day." He glanced up, worry flashing across his face. "I promise, the anniversary is still on. I already have the two days off"
"I'm not worried. About that, anyway. What are they blackmailing ya to do?"
"Ugh, lap dances, stealing a donkey, listening to Bieber for five hours straight. Pure torture."
"I got these really cool invisible ear plugs for the music. And don't worry about the dancing. I've seen your moves, you'll do fine."
"And the donkey?"
"Do it after our weekend in case you get arrested."
The smile reached his tired brown eyes, bringing back some of his energy. Just seeing that forced her to lean over and kiss him for as long as she could. He was the first to pull away, grabbing his own burrito to go.
"I'll try everything to get off at eight tonight," he said as he hurried to the door. "Love you!"
"Damn right you do!" she shouted back. The door closed a second later. After a moment, the cat hopped up on the bar, watching her with cold, taunting blue eyes that matched her own. "I was here first, bitch."
The cat turned to its own bowl of milk, ignoring her. So now she was alone for ten hours, with nothing to do but watch movies and play games. Even her friends were at work. She wanted to go back to the office, but her producer forbade her, all because she got a little sick during the last assignment.
Okay, so it was just shy of body-horror at the biggest video game convention in the world. She'd never experienced anything that could be considered projectile until that moment. Everyone claimed it was due to working herself ragged, which admittedly she did. It was too boring when Rick had to practically - and occasionally literally - live at his company. So she volunteered to do any interview, narrate every Youtube video, and go on every travel assignment that came up. No one believed it was just due to eating some bad Chinese food from a stall, followed by some normal Irish weekend drinking.
"Every one calls it stress," she moaned to the cat. "I wasn't stressed. I was pissed for that prick grabbing my arse! And the bad food. And for nearly breaking my hand on his blocky face." That punch had really hurt.
By the time she'd finished her breakfast, the racket had started up again. For three days now, it started up shortly after dawn, and wouldn't cease until midday, then continue again for a few more hours until dusk. Curiosity finally compelled her to follow the noise like a moth to a light bulb. Aoife needed any excuse she could to get out on such a sunny day, and this was the best one she could find. Without work, she was left stir crazy. All the noise only brought her closer to going full Jack Nicholson. One of these nights, her husband was going to come home and find Redrum written all over the walls and her with an ax.
She smiled as she remembered their third Halloween together.
Before she made it out the door, however, she decided it best to have a better excuse to go bothering the workers than, I'm bored and need to watch sweaty guys writhe around. While that was usually the plan once she couldn't bother with games or Netflix, it might make a wrong impression. She already had the ingredients for a mixed berry pie recipe she had been trying out, so she got to work. An hour later, it was done, her hair was mostly straightened, and she was off.
Hammering, yelling, laughter, and three small dogs barking away all emanated from the same cookie-cutter house down the block. Carrying the pie like a trophy - it was only her third success in three years of trying to cook - she made her way along the sidewalk. Her fair blonde hair was nearly blinding to any passerby, a few of which stopped to stare at her giant heart-shaped sunglasses. She smiled and waved at the boys on their skateboards, then again at her neighbor as the older woman tended a flower garden. When she arrived at the house from whence all the racket came, she found herself staring up at a shapely derrière in tight jeans, raised atop a ladder. Rick rarely wore jeans, preferring khakis or slacks. Typical computer nerd. This man, however, was definitely one who preferred the outdoors.
Leaning back dangerously, she was able to study the broad shoulders threatening to rip the white t-shirt soaked in sweat. She recognized his thick auburn hair. As if sensing her gaze, Dixon Murphy turned to smile down at her.
"Aoife! Hey there, good-lookin'!" The idiot still pronounced her name like he was saying, "Owie," with an F at the end. She really needed to correct him one day.
Missus Samson came outside, greeting her warmly. Aoife smiled back and said, "I managed not to turn it into charcoal. If you want, you can share it with the roofers, who are no doubt charging you double for every nail they waste."
"That's so cold!" said the man above her. "We only charge her half-again the cost."
As he came down the ladder, she said, "Mornin', Dixon. Haven't fallen off yet, I see."
"You didn't? Thank god. I had hoped nobody caught that."
She rolled her eyes and handed the pie over to the homeowner, who thanked her and congratulated her on making it look edible this time. Dixon was staring and not ashamed in the slightest. He'd commented on her pale blue eyes more than once, and complimented her choice in lipstick. Today, she forewent any obvious makeup for a little blush and lip gloss.
"You look fancy as always," he said. "Trying to torment us poor construction boys." His Welsh accent - normally hidden behind a rather effective southern drawl - came out whenever he spoke to her. She originally assumed he was simply happy to meet another soul from across the pond. Now, however, she knew he was trying to impress her. As if any true Irish girl would swoon at some haughty southern tune.
"I like your poor attempts at whistling. Can't even catcall like a real man."
"Hey, I'm Welsh, not Irish. We are proper gentlemen."
He couldn't even say it with a straight face. She heard his friend still on the roof asking what's the holdup, but Dixon made no move to return to work. Missus Samson had already disappeared inside. The old woman wasn't very good in the heat. No doubt she was whipping up some tea for them all. Aoife felt a trickle of sweat tumble down her neck. Dixon's eyes followed it. She purposely ignored the rippled muscles highlighted by the tight shirt. Her own husband had thought himself cursed for not being able to form a six-pack, but she noted that he actually had more muscle than the chiseled Welshman before her.
"So when do you go back to work?" he asked.
"Next Tuesday. It's so boring playing videogames alone."
"You know, I could swing by during my lunch break. I've got a few games we could play."
She felt her cheeks reddening as a few of those games popped into her head. She smirked to hide her embarrassment, but her accent thickened, betraying her excitement. "I think your wife would frown upon that."
It was his turn to smirk. He leaned a little closer. She was too flustered to pull back as he said, "She may have a few ideas of her own."
"Tea, dears?" asked Missus Samson.
They both turned toward her and said in unison, "Yes, please!"
*****
She felt a bit overheated - and not just because of the weather - by the time she returned home. Though she had complained about playing games alone, she found the distraction very welcomed. It also gave her some ideas for a good article. Playing through an open world game, she took notes on the possible rendering techniques used. She'd need something to start with once back at work, where she wrote up internet features about new software and programs for a popular gaming website. Rick was good at helping flesh out her stories, at least when it came to game design.
He returned home before the sun was setting as promised. Rick wasn't what most people thought of as a computer nerd. While he sat at a desk most of the day, working on creating videogame levels, his appearance was more like a man who spent his days doing physical labor. He looked more like a former soldier than her own father and uncle, both of whom did serve, with a barrel chest, strong arms, and a determined gait that made him almost imposing to those that didn't know him. Especially his eyes. They were dark, deep set, and made him seem brooding most of the time, even if he was usually concentrating on a work assignment, listening to his favorite music, or fantasizing about her. He did that a lot, too. She had changed into short denim cutoffs and a sweater so large and thin it hung off one shoulder, and outlined her small chest perfectly. And as she greeted him, he didn't act like a man who had been married for seven years, but like a college kid being surprised by his girlfriend in his apartment. His eyes lingered on her legs, then on her exposed shoulder and collarbone, then finally her face. He strolled forward with a polite greeting, only to quickly lean down and kiss her with as much passion as on their wedding night. She returned in kind, not even letting him catch a breath until she was exhausted.
