In the Cards(26)
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.”