Foreman left the bedroom, not without a look back at Amber, and stepped jauntily into the kitchen. He felt good, and not just about the kiss. Comfortable. He already knew where Amber kept the wine glasses, and he snagged two between his fingers. He headed into the living room and set the glasses on the coffee table. A quick glance around the room didn't show any coasters, but Amber would bring them out if she wanted them. "News, mostly," he said. He'd barely even had a chance to pick up a newspaper and keep an eye on his stocks. It was too early for the 11 o'clock broadcast, and they'd missed the 6 o'clock, so that wouldn't be on tonight's agenda. From the sound of it, Amber wanted to know more broadly than that, anyway. "Documentaries--I like history. And movies, if there's something interesting."
When he was a kid, he'd mostly liked shoot-'em-ups with plenty of explosions. In college, he'd cultivated better tastes, watching whatever promised some sort of interesting plot and character development. He wasn't interested in romantic comedies, but Amber didn't seem the type for them either, so he should be safe on that account. He still loved the Die Hards, and movies about boxing. He wasn't going to admit to loving pretty much any underdog sports movie ever made, especially if it was about football. He did not cry when he watched Rudy, and there was no one who could prove otherwise who was a free man today.
Foreman eyed the couch, and then looked back toward the kitchen--he could just see Amber's back, where she'd gone to get the wine after dealing with the laundry. With a cocky grin, he sat down lengthwise, his socked feet reaching the farthest cushion, and his back propped up against the arm. The invitation, for Amber to settle between his legs like she had when they'd shared a bath, would be obvious, but if she slapped his feet and told him to move over, Foreman would concede. Hell, she might want to go slow, but he'd still offer a few suggestions along the way.
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When he was a kid, he'd mostly liked shoot-'em-ups with plenty of explosions. In college, he'd cultivated better tastes, watching whatever promised some sort of interesting plot and character development. He wasn't interested in romantic comedies, but Amber didn't seem the type for them either, so he should be safe on that account. He still loved the Die Hards, and movies about boxing. He wasn't going to admit to loving pretty much any underdog sports movie ever made, especially if it was about football. He did not cry when he watched Rudy, and there was no one who could prove otherwise who was a free man today.
Foreman eyed the couch, and then looked back toward the kitchen--he could just see Amber's back, where she'd gone to get the wine after dealing with the laundry. With a cocky grin, he sat down lengthwise, his socked feet reaching the farthest cushion, and his back propped up against the arm. The invitation, for Amber to settle between his legs like she had when they'd shared a bath, would be obvious, but if she slapped his feet and told him to move over, Foreman would concede. Hell, she might want to go slow, but he'd still offer a few suggestions along the way.