“That wasn’t what I was asking.”
She pulled two knives from the silverware drawer. “I’m pretty sure it was,” she said as she turned toward him.
“Your sex life is none of my business.” He grasped the knife she held out for him.
She didn’t let go of the utensil. “Then why are you asking about it?”
He held her gaze for several seconds, challenging her. He didn’t want her to know how much he thought about having sex with her. “Cheddar.”
She released the knife and motioned to the cutting board. “Cut your potatoes. Thin. Like potato chips.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’d do just about anything, he realized, to stay here with her.
“And no more looking at my ass.”
His eyes widened. She’d caught him.
“I’ll just . . . ummmm”—he motioned toward the cutting board behind him—“cut these potatoes now.” He turned around, ready to get to work before she nailed him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gina watched as Landon sliced the potatoes. How adept a person was in the kitchen told a lot about how they’d been raised. Though Gina’s family was fairly well-off, she’d learned to cook from both her parents, unlike her wealthy roommate, Caitlyn, from sophomore year, who’d grown up with a housekeeper and didn’t even know how an electric can opener worked.
“You’ve done this before,” Gina said as she scooped from the margarine tub.
He chuckled. “Only a few thousand times.”
“You worked in a restaurant?”
“My aunt used to leave a note for me every day after school, telling me what I needed to do to get supper started.”
“I would have thought you had football practice.” She plopped the margarine into the skillet.
He reached for the second potato. “And basketball. And baseball.”
The rhythmic sound of the knife thwacking on the cutting board was relaxing. Homey. “So when did you have time to start dinner?”
He shrugged. “She was out even later than I was.”
“So what’s your specialty?” She loved the camaraderie with him. Their closeness. It was comfortable. Almost . . . intimate.
He turned to face her as he chuckled. “My specialty?”
“What do you like to cook?” She slid the mound of margarine around in the skillet, trying to get it to melt faster.
He turned back toward the cutting board and sliced some more. “Chili. Beef roast. Frozen pizzas.”
She laughed. “Frozen pizzas aren’t really cooking.”
“They are when your job keeps you out a lot of evenings.”
“What is it you do for the senator exactly?”
He straightened his back. “Senior statistical analyst,” he said in an official-sounding voice, but with a touch of sarcasm.
“You don’t like it?”
“The statistics part is fine. I was a math major, so it’s a pretty good gig.”
So, good looks, athleticism, and brains. The whole package. But there was something he wasn’t telling her. “What’s the part you don’t like?”
He stood motionless, no longer chopping the potatoes. It was as if he wasn’t making eye contact with her on purpose. “Never mind.” He started slicing again. “I like it all.”
She hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if what she’d sensed for a while now was really true. Finally, she decided to dive in. To test the deep, still waters known as Landon Vista. “You don’t like that there’s so much focus on your mom’s murder. That you’re their poster child for tougher sentencing guidelines.”
His shoulders rose and fell in an exaggerated shrug.
She turned down the burner and set the spatula on the counter. Dare she comfort him? Dare she try to get beneath his facade?
She walked up behind him and placed her hand on his back. He stiffened, then slowly relaxed.
“You don’t have to work there,” she said. A shoulder muscle rippled underneath his shirt.
He set the knife the counter, finished with his task. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
She paused, thinking about that TED Talk she’d watched on her computer—the presentation about how everyone felt vulnerable. But should she share her own fears with him? She swallowed. “I hate going into the prisons.”
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“I love knowing that I’m helping innocent people get out, but I hate going in there. It’s scary and claustrophobic and . . . without hope.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
So maybe you’ll open up to me.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess everyone hates something about their job.” She reached around him and took the cutting board full of potatoes from him and slid them into the skillet. They sizzled in the melted margarine.
“Seems like a tough career for someone whose clients are, by definition, in prison.”
She had to agree, but she’d promised herself she’d do it. It was her way to make amends.
But Landon didn’t need to know that. She’d never told anybody how strongly she felt about why she had to do it.
“Can you get another skillet from there?” She pointed to a lower cabinet with her toe. “And then get the eggs out of the fridge?”
They worked steadily beside each other until the huge breakfast was ready. “If you need ketchup for your potatoes, it’s in the fridge.” She set the heaping plates on the table next to the glasses of orange juice she’d asked him to pour.
He retrieved the bottle and rushed over to the little nook to pull a chair out for her.
She smiled. “You really were raised a good Southern boy, weren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s the least I can do since you’re feeding me so well.” He pushed her chair in and sat in the other one.
She sipped her orange juice, then set her glass on the table. “Taste your omelet,” she said, eager for his opinion.
He took a bite and nodded as he chewed. “Good.”
Satisfied, she picked up her own fork and started eating. They ate silently for a long while. The hum of a car passing by on Bronough Street was the only sound in the kitchen.
“I hate being the guy everybody thinks they know,” Landon said, finally breaking the silence.
She lowered her fork slowly as her gaze met his. She could tell the conversation had taken a turn.
“It’s what I hate about my job,” he continued. “People fawning over me because I used to play football. They don’t even know me.”
She nodded. She’d gotten a taste of that from her own playing days. Groupies who wanted a piece of her, even though they knew nothing about her. And that was women’s volleyball. It had to have been a hundred times worse for a guy who won Division I football games on TV every Saturday afternoon.
“Some days I wish I could just sneak away. Go become a river guide or work for the fish and wildlife commission”—he waved his fork in the air—“or something else deep in the woods.”
“You don’t have to stay in such a public job. Or even stay in Tallahassee, for that matter.”
“Oh yeah? Where else would I live?” He reached for the ketchup bottle and twisted off the lid.
“I once read that Wyoming has the fewest people per square mile.” She wondered where—ten years from now—each of them would be.
“Sounds like the perfect spot.” He shook the ketchup bottle over his potatoes, which were the only thing remaining on his plate. Nothing came out. He shook it again. Still nothing.
“Here. Let me. I used to have to do this when I worked summers in a restaurant.” She took the bottle from him and beat it against the heel of her hand as she aimed it toward his plate.
Nothing came out.
She stood up for a better angle and leaned over the table
. Yes, she’d hated it when the male customers used to leer at her boobs when she did this as a waitress, but her shirt today wasn’t as low cut as her uniform had been at the steakhouse back home.
She shook the bottle and then raised her head. Landon looked up from her chest to her face. He held her gaze. Silent heat simmered between them.
She looked down again, fully aware that Landon’s attention would drop back to her cleavage. But she liked that he was attracted to her. That she had something he wanted. Something that would at least keep him interested.
She pounded the bottle on the heel of her hand, harder this time. A giant mass of ketchup burst out and onto his lap, spreading across his light khaki shorts. His jaw dropped open as he scooted his chair back.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry.”
“Didn’t keep your restaurant job long, did you?”
“That never happened before.” She grabbed a wad of paper towels to mop up the puddle on top of his zipper, then realized she couldn’t really . . . dab . . . there. She pulled back instinctively.
“I’ve got it.” He took the paper towels from her and scooted the red mass around on his lap. There was so much of it that sopping it up seemed like a futile effort.
She jumped up. “Let me get you some other pants to wear home.”
“No. I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.”
She motioned to his pants. “I’ll wash those for you—make sure the stain comes out.”
“You don’t have pants big enough—” He stood.
She held in a giggle as the ketchup ran down his shorts and onto his legs. “I do. I have this huge pair of sweatpants.” She glanced at his sopping-wet crotch. “Never mind. I’ll be back,” she said as she dashed into her bedroom.
Landon hoped to God no one in Tallahassee saw him in the sweatpants Gina had insisted he wear home. Could a guy look any more stupid than he did, with huge orange letters emblazoned across his ass? Especially the words Tennessee Volunteers when everyone in town was a Seminoles fan?
But he’d told Calvin he’d return his cordless drill this morning, and after all the guy had done for him—as both a coach and a friend—he didn’t want to let him down. Calvin had bought his wife a new wine rack for her birthday and he needed to put it together.
Landon knocked on the front door of Calvin’s house and turned toward the street behind him, checking again to make sure none of the neighbors were in their yards.
Calvin answered the door in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. He’d gone two-ninety in his playing days, but had slimmed down to two-thirty or so since he’d been coaching at Florida State.
“Hey.” His friend opened the door wide for Landon to enter. The ebony-colored skin on his forearms glistened in the morning sun. “Rachel’s making pancakes. You want to come in and have some?”
“I already had a big breakfast, but thanks.” He handed Calvin the drill. “I’ve . . . got to be somewhere.” Back home. Where he could change out of these ridiculous pants.
“Why you in such a hurry?” Calvin stepped out onto the front porch. “You want to at least come in for a glass of juice or something? Sweet tea?”
Landon backed down the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder to see where he was going, unwilling to turn around. “No. Thanks.” He stuck his hand in the air in a sort of half wave. “Got to go.”
When he’d gotten around to the corner of the garage, he’d turned and rushed toward his truck, thankful he heard the door close behind Calvin.
“Hey, Vista.” The deep voice of his former coach thundered from the front porch.
Landon turned to see that Calvin had closed the door, but remained on the outside.
Calvin chuckled. “Nice pants.”
Landon cringed as Calvin’s big, booming voice ricocheted off the other houses in the neighborhood.
“I guess we know where you were last night.” Calvin called, his voice even louder than before.
“Screw you.”
“Screw somebody,” Calvin called.
Landon heard Rachel on the front porch chastising Calvin for shouting across the front lawn, but Landon didn’t turn around. He liked Calvin’s wife, but he sure as hell wanted to get out of there before the entire neighborhood came outside to see what all the yelling was about. Before they saw the big orange letters across his ass.
He turned on his truck and slammed it into reverse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Rachel stood toe-to-toe with Calvin, leaning toward him as she waved a finger in his face and did all the talking. At least Calvin was getting what he deserved. Good.
Landon pressed the gas pedal to get out of there and . . .
Crunch.
Metal crashed against metal.
His body jarred forward.
Shit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A high-pitched alarm screamed in Landon’s ears. His heart raced. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw nothing but the black metal of the F150 he’d seen parked on the other side of Calvin’s street.
He’d backed into a truck that wasn’t even moving. He pounded his steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” The hassle of fixing both vehicles was a bother he didn’t need right now, not to mention the deductible he’d have to pay. Could this day get any worse?
Calvin ripped open the driver-side door and thrust his face down next to Landon’s. “You okay, man?” The smell of maple syrup tinged his breath. Rachel was right behind him, her brows knit with worry.
“Peachy.” He was more embarrassed than anything. Like some sixteen-year-old learning how to drive. What kind of an idiot backs into a parked car?
Both men and Rachel walked to the back of the truck to look at the damage, the ugly sweatpants forgotten for now. A dent the size of a bathtub marred the side panel of the pickup truck. Landon’s bumper had buckled. The end of it punctured through the metal of the other vehicle.
An old couple in a Camry turned the corner and inched toward them, unable to get by.
Landon returned to the open door of his truck. “I guess I should get it out of the middle of the road.” He sat down and shifted into gear. The grating sound of metal filled the air as he inched forward.
“Hey, my truck!” A pajama-clad neighbor ran out of the house behind them.
Calvin held a hand in the air like a superhero ready to stop the man in his tracks. “Give it a rest, Phillip. It’s just a truck.”
Phillip continued, picking his way through the yard as if he’d never walked outside barefoot before. “He’s fleeing the scene of an accident.”
Calvin rolled his eyes. “He’s getting his truck out of the street.” He stood aside and motioned to let the Camry pass.
The neighbor approached the open door of Landon’s truck. “What kind of an idiot—” His eyebrows rose. “Landon Vista?”
Calvin’s big hands each grasped one of the man’s scrawny shoulders from behind and straightened him up. He turned the man toward his own house. “Nothing to see here. Now go inside and call the police so they can file a report.”
“But my truck.” Phillip squirmed. He tried to turn around, but Calvin’s grip was solid. The bigger man marched Phillip to his front door and opened it for him, guiding him until he was inside.
Calvin shut the door and returned to where Landon sat inside his truck. “Remember the guy I told you started a petition to keep the ice cream man off our street?”
Landon jabbed a thumb toward Phillip’s house. “That guy?”
Calvin nodded. “What kind of a guy doesn’t like ice cream? Now pull it into my driveway and we’ll wait inside until the police come.” He nodded toward the pants Landon was wearing. “I don’t want any of my neighbors seeing you wearing those bad pants.”
Thirty minutes later they were back in Calvin’s driveway as a middle-aged policeman wrote
Landon a ticket. Calvin had loaned Landon a pair of nylon shorts to wear.
Phillip sat on his own front porch in a faded wicker chair. Each time he stood up and started down the stairs, Calvin glared at him and Phillip scurried back to his seat like a scared puppy.
The cop handed Landon the ticket. “Some guys at the station were talkin’ the other day. Said they might let Cyrus Alexander out of jail.”
Calvin cleared his throat and frowned at the policeman.
“What?” The cop held his hands out in a questioning pose. “The kid should know if they’re gonna let his mom’s killer out of prison.”
Landon crumpled the ticket in his hand and tried to get a grip on his anger.
The policeman squared himself in front of Calvin. “Don’t be glaring at me like that. I got nothin’ to do with this.”
“I know they’re trying to get him out of prison.” Landon stepped between his coach and the officer. I live it every goddamn day.
“So if the DNA shows Cyrus Alexander is innocent”—the policeman turned his attention to Landon—“they open the case back up. Find the real killer.”
Landon glared at him. “Yes. I know.” This is why he hated living here—so many people in his business. So many people thinking they could talk about his private life as if it were part of the public domain.
The police officer took off his hat and scratched the top of his head. “I hate like hell that there are scumbags out there, holding down a job, having a family . . . and all the time they know they killed someone or raped some little girl or . . .”
“Is that all you need from us, Officer?” Calvin asked.
The cop glanced from Landon to Calvin and back again. Finally, he jabbed a thumb toward Phillip, who still sat on his front porch. “That guy do everything you tell him to?”
Calvin’s dark eyes stayed on the policeman. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
The policeman tipped his hat. “I’m just going to be in my car over there, finishing up my paperwork.” He held his hand out to Landon. “Good luck to you, son.”
Landon shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“Thank you, sir,” Calvin said as he, too, shook the officer’s hand.
The Truth About Love Page 9