I intentionally modernized some names in this story. I apologize if this bugs anyone.

Part 10: link


    Gwen is puttering in the kitchen: setting the table, keeping an eye on the chicken, putting water on to boil for the rice noodles, chopping vegetables, preparing the dessert so she can pop it in the oven when they start eating.
    Morgana wanders in. “How do I look?” She spins. She is wearing a flattering emerald green spaghetti strap sundress with a handkerchief hemline. Her hair is in loose waves and she looks spectacular.
    “Fabulous. He’s going to faint at the sight of you.”
    “Not quite the reaction I have in mind, but thank you,” she looks at Gwen. “Aren’t you going to dress up for Arthur?”
    “No. I don’t think I am, actually.” She is wearing khaki shorts and a black halter top that is cut low in the back, exposing a great deal of her caramel-skinned back. I know he’ll at like this one, she had thought when she pulled it from the wardrobe. She has an apron on as well, and is barefoot.
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t think he expects me to. Plus I just don’t want to,” she says, frowning slightly.
    “Well, I suppose, if your clothes are just going to end up in a heap on the floor after ten minutes…”
    “Morgana!”
    The door buzzes. “Saved by the bell,” Gwen says.
    “You go get the door. I want to make an entrance,” Morgana says and trots away.
    “’Course you do,” Gwen mutters as she goes to the door, spoon in hand.
    She opens the door. “Merlin, so good to see you.”
    “Hello, Gwen,” he leans down and gives her a friendly kiss on the cheek. She steps to the side to allow him in.
    “Morgana,” she calls, and then tells Merlin, “She won’t be a minute. Have a seat.”
    He sits. “What are you cooking?”
    “Thai peanut chicken. Arthur’s not allergic to peanuts, is he?” she asks, suddenly remembering a question she should have asked at lunch.
    “Nah, he loves them. It’s shellfish he has to watch out for.”
    “No shellfish,” she repeats, making a mental note with a nod. Just then Morgana comes sweeping into the room. Merlin stands, eyes wide.
    “Hello Merlin,” she says, walking over to him for a hug.
    “You look beautiful, Morgana,” Merlin tells her, giving her the hug she has come looking for. “Ready?”
    “Yes, let’s go.” She takes his arm, saying, “Have a good time, Gwen,” as they walk out the door.
    Gwen sighs and walks back to the kitchen. Five minutes later the door buzzes again. Five-forty. She rolls her eyes but she is smiling as she goes to the door.

    “You have a serious punctuality problem, you know that?” she grins at him as she opens the door.
    “Next time I’ll be late, then,” he threatens, grinning back. He is wearing cargo shorts, a blue striped t-shirt, and brown leather flip-flops. She closes the door, smiling at the fact that he also went casual. He has a bottle in his hand. She peers at it, puzzling.     “Non-alcoholic,” Arthur says, brandishing it for her to inspect the label. He takes his shoes off out of habit, sets the bottle on a side table and grabs her around the waist.
    “So, were you just parked out there waiting for them to leave?”
    “Maybe.” He leans down and kisses her. She smells like chicken and peanut butter. He smiles into the kiss, then probes in with his tongue, and she parts her lips, meeting his tongue with her own. His hands find her bare back and he groans as he caresses the expanse of skin he has discovered.
    Gwen is tempted to let another of Morgana’s predictions come true and start peeling off garments, but dinner will burn if they do. She pulls away, saying, “I have to finish making our dinner.”
    He reluctantly lets her go and follows her to the kitchen. “Can I help?” he offers.
    “No.”
    “Good,” he answers, sitting at the table. She laughs.
    He watches her, eyes roving over her bare shoulder blades moving beneath her gorgeous skin as she works, her round backside hiding beneath her shorts, down her legs, long and slender but not skinny, down to her bare feet. Will I ever get tired of just looking at her? he wonders. God, I hope not.

    He finds some matches and lights the candles she has put on the table as she removes her apron and brings the food. He is very impressed. Like many who cannot cook, he loves to eat and loves that Gwen apparently knows her way around the kitchen quite well.
    “This is really good,” he compliments her, mouth full of noodles.
    “Thank you. It’s actually really easy.”
    “I’m sure I’d find a way to mess it up,” he laughs.
    “You never know. But probably,” she smirks at him. She reaches out with her foot and slides it up his calf under the table. His eyes fly to her, wide with surprise, but she just smiles down at her plate, stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork.
    They eat and chat, Gwen’s small feet teasing his under the table from time to time. When they are almost finished, a timer dings.
    “Ah. Dessert,” Gwen says, standing.
    “I was thinking I’d have you for dessert, Guinevere,” Arthur tells her, turning in his seat to see what she’s pulling from the oven. Mostly he’s just watching her bend over.
    “Maybe later,” she flirts, setting the tray on the stove returning to the table.
    “Maybe?”
    She laughs.
    “So what is dessert, then?” He can’t quite make out what is cooling on the stovetop.
    “Warm chocolate pudding cakes with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce,” she says casually.
    “Wow. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble for me,” he puts his hand on hers.
    “I wanted to. I like to. It really was nothing, honest,” she says, and he picks up her hand and kisses it.
    “Well, then, let’s have it. If I stop eating this now I’ll still have room,” he leans back and rubs his belly. She stands and whacks him playfully on the shoulder as she goes back to prepare the dessert.

    He helps with the dishes after dinner, enjoying standing so close to her at the sink. He washes; she dries and puts things away. They have that comfortable domestic feeling again. Wonder if she feels the same way? he thinks. He asks.
    “You know this is weird, right?”
    “What is?”
    “Us. One minute we can’t keep our hands off of each other and the next we’re behaving like an old married couple.” He is a bit nervous about bringing up the ‘M’ word on what is technically their second date. Third, if you count lunch.
    “Weird in a good way?” she asks, not quite sure where he’s going in this train of thought.
    “Oh, in the best way possible, sorry! I didn’t mean that I don’t like it. Because I do. A lot. But even Sunday morning I noticed it. Being with you is… effortless.”
    She turns from the silverware drawer, towel in hand. She flips the towel around the back of his neck, grabs an end in each hand and pulls his head down to hers with it. She kisses him again, sweetly, as if he was the most precious thing in the world to her.

    The dishes are done, and Gwen picks up her glass and walks to the living room.
    “I ate too much,” Arthur says as he follows her. He is tempted to pick her up and carry her back to her bedroom, but he decides to let his food settle a bit first. Like swimming. Best to wait a bit before diving in.
    “Well, you didn’t have to eat yourt entire cake, plus the rest of mine,” she laughs at him.
    A framed photo on a table catches his eye as he approaches the couch. He bends and picks it up. It is a family photo. There is a handsome man with brown skin and Gwen’s smile standing beside a beautiful woman with medium brown wavy hair, fair skin and the same almond-shaped eyes as Gwen. Between them are two latte-colored cherubs. He carries it with him to the couch and sits beside Gwen.
    “This you?” he points to the little girl in the photo.
    “Yes. This was our last family photo before my mother took ill. I was six.”
    “She was very pretty,” he says.
    “Yes. Inside, too.”
    “What did she die of?”
    “Bone cancer.”
    “That’s a rough one.”
    “Very.”
    “You have a brother.” Not a question.
    “Yes, that’s my younger brother Elliot. He was four when this was taken.”
    “Wait. Elliot Thomas?”
    “Obviously.”
    “The rugby player?”
    “Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes. She has been down this road many times.
    “Your brother is the ‘Bad Boy of British Rugby?’”
    “Yes,” she sighs. “He’s really a good man, though. His heart is usually in the right place, even if the rest of him isn’t.”
    Arthur laughs at this, then asks, “So what does your father do?”
    “He owns GE Die Casting.”
    “I’ve heard of them. Hey, I’ve always wondered: what does GE stand for?”
    “Guinevere and Elliot.”
    “Of course.”
    “He likes to tell people that he’s a blacksmith. Thinks it’s funny,” she smirks. “He has a weird sense of humor.”
    “Sounds like you get on well with him,” he says, setting the picture back where he found it.
    “Yes, most of the time.”
    “I look forward to meeting him one day,” he ventures.
    “I’m sure that can be arranged,” she smiles. “What about your father? What does he do?”
    “He works at a bank,” he says.
    He’s not telling me something. “At a bank? What does he do there?” she prods.
    “Well, he um… owns Camelot bank.”
    “That’s a large bank.”
    “Yes. You can imagine his joy when he learned that I was not going to be entering the family business.”
    There it is. “You’re your own man, surely you can make your own decisions, right?”
    “That’s what I said. I think what irritates him the most is the fact that I could do the job. Easily. I just don’t want it.”
    “You have to do what makes you happy. I could be something grander than a librarian, but it’s what I love to do.” She pauses, then ventures, “There’s some stress between the two of you, isn’t there?”
    “You might say that. My father loves me, I know this, but he was demanding and over-protective when I was growing up. I think when my mother died, a large part of his heart died with her. I am the only thing he has of her.”
    “You have no brothers or sisters?”
    “No, just me. My father doesn’t talk about her at all, but from what I’ve gathered, she had difficulty conceiving. So I was their first child, and since my father never remarried, his last.” He reaches for his wallet and pulls out a small, slightly worn picture that he hands to Gwen. “He burned all their photos after she died, but I managed to find this one that he missed.”
    She looks at the photo, feeling so sad for Arthur. His mother was breathtaking, with blonde hair and eyes the same curious shade of blue as Arthur’s. “She was beautiful,” she says as she looks up at Arthur and puts her hand to his cheek. “You look so like her.”
    He smiles as she hands him back his photo. He tucks it gently into his wallet.

Part 12: link