by Jamie Beck
I lean around the side of the shelving unit and spot her standing with her hand shielding her eyes. She’s straining to see what I’m doing. I feel my face pinch in disgust at her suggestion and nosy behavior.
“No, I ain’t planting flowers.” Damn, my grammar slipped. I take a deep breath before I finish my reply. “Herbs.”
“Really? Can I come see?” She starts down her steps without waiting for an invitation.
Presumptuous little thing. I’d thought a large family would make an annoying neighbor, but she might be worse. Wish she weren’t so damn cute. It’s distracting and impractical.
What’s her deal? First, she’s cool. Then she’s polite, but reticent, on the beach. Now she’s not shy at all. Of course, Lord knows people from New York are used to being up close and personal—and pushy. Too bad she’s changed out of her bikini. Then again, she also looks mighty fine in her white shorts and ponytail.
“Wow, that’s more than a dozen plants.” She hovers over me, inspecting my work, her hands on her hips. “Why so many?”
Her thighs are at eye level since I’m on my knees. A spark of awareness sneaks up along my neck. Using my body to reestablish my personal space, I sit back on my calves and glance up over my shoulder. “I crave a lot of flavor.”
“How domestic.” She smiles, and it’s genuine, because her eyes crinkle, too. A guy could get a little lost in her enormous, shining eyes and, again, I’m struck by a sense of familiarity. “You garden and cook?”
Disquieted, I return my attention to my plants. “Yes, I cook.”
“I don’t. Well, maybe I might. I haven’t really done it enough to know whether I do. We always ate out in New York.”
“We?” May as well discover more about her since she’s butting into my life. “You leave someone behind back there?”
Knowing people speak more freely when they can avoid eye contact, I focus on my plants. She hesitates, apparently uncomfortable with her slipup. From the corner of my eye, I notice her stroking her ponytail. No doubt about it, she’s hiding something.
“I left a lot of people back there. My point is I’ve never done much cooking. Where’d you learn? Are you a chef?”
A chef—that’s funny—so I chuckle. “No. Cookbooks and the Food Network are my teachers. The prep’s relaxing, and I prefer my own food to what’s served at most of the local joints.”
She bends to sniff some of the plants, then stands upright. “New York has an amazing variety of restaurants on every block. You can eat someplace different every night of the month. I’ll miss that, I think,” she muses as I finish potting my last plant.
Repressing a sarcastic quip about her ability to return to New York anytime, I’m troubled by the way she gets under my skin. It’s unlike me to be jumpy around women. I’m not particularly fond of the reaction. Her presence awakens a hankering I want to escape while I still can.
I stand and hold my hands out to her with my fingers spread widely to display the filth. “I’m moving inside to wash up.”
“Oh, sure.” She waits for an invitation to stay. I turn and use my elbow to open my slider without extending an offer. Just as I’m about to make a clean getaway, she shocks me with a proposition.
“Hey. If I bring some wine, will you teach me to cook something later?”
My eyes narrow slightly while I consider her request. I grow suspicious whenever someone pushes in on me. She’s not coy, like Elena. Her fidgeting hands reveal nervousness. Is she just lonely here without the gang of friends she left on the East Coast? My wavering causes her cheeks to turn three shades of crimson.
I rest my forearm against the doorjamb above my head. “I’m more of a beer drinker.”
She stops fidgeting and her lips break open to reveal a wide, toothy smile. “Oh, fine. I’ll bring beer, then. And don’t worry, I don’t have any food allergies.”
Food allergies? Who is this chick and how’d she rope me into cooking for her? Although somewhat surprised by her meddlesome behavior, I suppress my discomfort. I admit, I kinda admire the way she deftly manipulated me.
“What time should I come back?” She clasps her hands behind her back.
I shrug. “Seven or so, I guess.”
“Great! Looking forward to it.”
When she twirls around to leave, I observe her backless halter top. She’s got muscular shoulders. Tennis, I’d bet. I shake my head. I sense Lindsey’s dangerous to me, but I don’t know why.
Rules, Levi, stick to the rules.
While I’m washing my hands, images of her face, round eyes, and bare back all converge. I glimpse a hazy recollection of a younger Lindsey on a beach. Suddenly, I stand erect, my own eyes widening. Florida. New Year’s Eve. The audacious, spoiled little girl with a crush on me.
“I’ll be damned,” I say aloud.
I knew she seemed familiar. Hell and damnation. If I remember her after all the girls I’ve met, then she surely remembers me. Now that I recall, she never answered me earlier when I’d asked if we’d met because Elena had interrupted us.
So, what’s her dinner invitation really about? Is she plotting some kind of revenge? Granted, I didn’t pull any punches that night on the beach. She’d handled herself pretty well. Her lip barely quivered as she tossed an insult my way before storming off.
I knew my little stunt had cut her. I didn’t set out to be cruel, only wanted to teach her a lesson about being condescending to strangers. If she’d kept her judgments to herself, I wouldn’t have pushed her off her pedestal.
On the other hand, I owe her thanks for her crack about my grammar. If you sound dumb, people assume you’re dumb even when you’re not. Often being underestimated comes in handy, but I needed to be able to control it. I’ve reduced major slipups, although I still screw up, especially when I’m irked.
If my old friend Lindsey’s devising a game for me, I’ll play along. Tonight could be interesting, depending on her goal. It’d be better if I knew what she’s hoping to accomplish. Oh well, it’ll be entertaining to simply wait for her plan to unfold.
My smile deepens in anticipation of the evening. This is the most unexpected amusement I’ve had in a while, actually. Maybe Vegas isn’t the only place to achieve a thrill.
I find myself whistling for no particular reason at all.
Lindsey
At seven, I review the variety of specialty beers nestled in my small, ice-packed cooler, thankful he doesn’t truly remember me. To be fair, I’ll extend him a clean slate, too. He’s less cocky than the young guy who strutted around the resort with a bored smile on his face. If I’m being honest, I was impolite to criticize his job and his choices back then. In truth, his embittered remarks that day made me better appreciate my own good fortune.
Tonight is a chance to close that door and begin anew. To discover more about him, and maybe even something about myself.
How strange. I’m here at an emotional crossroads and he’s here, too, sure to challenge my beliefs. Is it fate? Is Levi some kind of a lightning rod for me?
Before leaving my house, I tousle my hair with my fingers, then sigh and scowl. No matter how pretty I may look, he will always look better. Even so, I’m not in the market for anything other than friends. My heart’s still tangled up with Rob. So, why’s my body buzzing before I’ve even sipped any beer?
Picking up the cooler, I journey through the sand and wind, my hair blowing in every direction. I climb up Levi’s stairs and knock on the screen doorframe.
“It’s open,” he calls from inside.
Hmm, he won’t greet me at the door? Well, it’s not a date, Lindsey! Stepping into his living room, it’s obvious he’s never sought any woman’s decorating input.
The decor is exclusively black leather and wood. Whites and dove grays color the walls. It’s minimalist—almost antiseptically stark—and very tidy. The severe style conflicts with his relaxed appearance.
I wind my way to the kitchen to find him standing at the sink rinsing salmon. His hai
r, unlike mine, looks professionally messy. Soft-looking, old jeans hang low on his hips, snug against his thighs. His gauzy white shirt, unbuttoned to midchest, exposes a hint of his well-defined pecs.
Employing yoga breathing to reduce my heart rate, I snap my gaze up to his eyes. My cheeks must be some shade of fuchsia now. A bit of guilt-tinged astonishment washes over me for being so tempted despite my lingering love for Rob.
“Hey.” His eyes narrow as he puts the fish down on a paper towel and lays his hands on the counter. “I thought you came here to cook.”
His clipped tone takes me by surprise.
“I did.” I place the cooler beside him on the counter and open the lid to display the impressive selection of beer. “Look! I chose an assortment since I didn’t know what you like.” I force a smile to ease the tension, then wave my hand above the bottles like a game show model.
But he’s still frowning, not peering in the cooler. “Are you wearing a silk shirt?”
I glance down at my top. “Yes, so?”
He rolls his eyes at my apparent ignorance and pats the fish dry. “As long as you don’t get your panties in a bunch if you get oil, water, or whatever on it, then I don’t care.”
“Oh.” My eyes widen and I grimace, embarrassed by my ineptitude. “I didn’t think about it. I told you, I don’t cook.”
He cocks his head to the left and stares intently at me. A few times today he’s watched me this way, as if he’s able to hear my thoughts. Sighing, he bends over to open a drawer, pulls out an apron, and tosses it at me. “Here, this should help.”
As I tie the apron, he picks through the beer bottles. I know he’s impressed when he nods and raises his brows before opting for one of the Belgian beers.
“What’s your preference?” He finally smiles and, I admit, I love those dimples.
“Anything light.” I take what he hands me.
“Okay. Let’s get started. This’ll take about forty minutes or so, depending on how quickly we work.”
Levi’s organized his counter into prep stations, each with special containers and kitchen tools, including a large variety of high-quality knives and All-Clad cookware. During the next several minutes, he demonstrates all the steps, from cleaning the salmon to timing the other items. I notice his elegant-looking fingers move effortlessly from task to task, while mine fumble and mishandle nearly everything. Genuinely frustrated by my inability to properly chop anything from the cilantro to the avocado for the salad, he maintains a polite, if slightly impatient, attitude.
Folding parchment paper into pouches to wrap around the prepared salmon sends me over the edge. Naturally, he finds humor in my frustration. I suspect he purposely made this difficult to discourage me from imposing on him again.
Determined not to let him enjoy my floundering, I refocus. I rejoice once we put the fish in the oven and I’m left to dry the cleaned lettuce. Levi pours chicken broth, rice, and butter into a pot.
“So, you actually find this relaxing?” My inflection’s self-mocking.
“Yeah, it’s methodical, rhythmic, and the end product’s mighty satisfying.”
Levi’s phrasing and arched brow suggest he intends the double entendre. He leans against the refrigerator, his arms crossed casually in front of his chest, watching for my response.
I shrug. “Seems frustrating to me, but I guess the more you do it, the easier it gets.”
The unintentional innuendo of my own reply causes me to blush, so I glance away for a moment. His stillness unnerves me.
“So, do you like music?” I pray he won’t play heavy metal for the next two hours.
“What would you like to hear?” He picks up his iPhone and begins scrolling through his playlists.
“Whatever you enjoy.” I aim to be conciliatory, to loosen his demeanor. “Your house, your music.”
“Huh, so now you don’t want to tell me what I’m supposed to do?” His intonation’s half-joking, half-serious, and he’s grinning.
Since I’ve barged my way into his home tonight, I guess I had that one coming, so I play the good sport. “Yes, I’ll allow you a little discretion once in a while, but don’t get used to it.”
Heat reaches my face when he pins me with his bedroom eyes. Levi’s very quiet, but I can tell his mind never rests. He attaches his phone to the Bose speakers, surprising me completely by playing David Gray’s ultracool White Ladder before cracking open his second beer and sitting beside me.
“So, Lindsey, what brings you to the West Coast? You mentioned leaving a lot of people behind. Why?”
Even if he doesn’t recall rejecting me years ago, I’m not about to admit my fiancé cheated on me.
“I need to make some changes.”
“Obviously.” He raises one brow. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
Sitting back against a kitchen stool, he folds his arms in front of his chest again and watches me, waiting. Finally, he speaks.
“Yeah, it matters. You’ll make different changes if you’re searching than you will if you’re running.”
Wincing in response to his surprising commentary, I look off to the side. I know I’m running, and now he probably knows it, too. Bothered, I steer the conversation around on him.
“You sound pretty sure of yourself, like you have personal experience.”
“With change?”
“Yes, or running.”
His face wrinkles like he’s laughing at a private joke. Rather than volley with me, he lifts his cute butt off the stool and returns to the stove to sprinkle something green in the rice.
“I know we chopped that up. What is it again?” I ask.
“Tarragon,” he replies, before turning off the flame.
I watch him dress the salad, retrieve the wrapped salmon from the oven, and plate everything. Mesmerized by his graceful movements, I eventually realize I’ve sat there observing without helping.
“Oh, sorry.” I stand up to help. “What can I do?”
“Just sit down at the table. Somehow you got me to cook and serve you dinner tonight.” His grin reveals something akin to respect, as if I did it on purpose. “That’s a first for me.”
“I honestly didn’t intend to do so.”
“Sure you didn’t.” His voice is laced with playful sarcasm.
“Well, at any rate, it smells great—citrusy.”
“Thanks.”
Pride emanates from behind his hard-to-read eyes, and I’m glad I complimented him. We begin eating. Foolishly, I pick up the conversation where it had ended before he’d returned his attention to the kitchen.
“So, running or searching?” I ask.
“I’ve been at both ends of that spectrum, but never for long. Mostly I’m just living.”
“What’s that even mean? We’re all living.” Before he replies, I stop midbite to utter, “Yum, this is delicious, Levi.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Why, you don’t like it?” I frown in disbelief.
“No, not about the fish. About living. Most people aren’t living. They’re planning, remembering, or regretting.”
“Not you? No plans, no regrets?”
“Some, but not many.” He gulps down a healthy swallow of beer. “But I’m not the one who up and ran away from everyone I know.”
I avert my eyes. “No, I guess you aren’t.”
He falls silent and finishes his dinner, waiting for me to say more. I pick at what’s left on my plate, contemplating how to ease the friction without divulging the shameful details of my flight from New York.
Perhaps switching to a neutral topic is my best option. “So, what do you do here? I mean, where do you work?” I quickly learn my mistake.
“You mean, what’s my real job, since I’m not a chef and all?” Now he’s definitely expecting a specific reaction from me, which makes me a bit uneasy.
“Yes, what’s your profession?”
Another of his secretive smirks flickers over his face. He pauses for a b
eat and then leans very close. In a whisper reminiscent of the one on the beach years ago, he asks, “Lindsey, do you want to play games all night?” His warm breath brushes against my ear and I shiver. Is it possible to feel turned-on and afraid at the same time?
“What games?” I sit on my hands to conceal my nerves. Does he think I’m trying to get him into bed?
He pulls away and tilts his head. “What games? You invite yourself over to learn to cook, but you don’t really want to cook. You refuse to answer any direct questions about yourself, yet try to get me to admit personal things. Those games,” he accuses.
“I’m not playing games.” I feel a scowl seize my face. “It’s called conversing.”
“Really?” He inclines nearer to me, clearly disbelieving.
“Yes, really.” I’m openly defiant now, confused by his accusation.
“Let’s see about that.” He locks on my eyes, trapping me. “Have we met before?”
I consider lying, but in the context of his odd expressions all evening and the directness of his question, I realize I can’t escape the truth. I sit in silence—my mind absolutely blank—as I consider explaining why I didn’t mention it sooner.
“You don’t have to answer. I’ve remembered where we met.” He stands and collects our plates. “So, cooking class is over. I don’t know if you got what you came for tonight, but thanks for the beer.”
“Got what I came for? Levi, I just wanted some company. I thought it would be better not to dredge up unpleasant history.”
“Lindsey, you’ve refused to be honest with me all day. Your reasons are irrelevant.” He gestures toward the back door. “You know your way home, right?”
His stony face and dismissal erode my already limited filter. “Still dismissive and condescending, I see.”
“Still a confused little girl, I see,” he spits acidly before turning his back to me.
I watch him scrape the excess food into the garbage before he places the plates in the sink. When he refuses to face me, I sigh.
“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
I move to collect my cooler. As I reach for the handle, his hand firmly clamps on top of mine. He rubs his thumb across the top of my hand, sending a shiver up my arm.