“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.