“I like that sound you make when you drink coffee,” he smirks. I shake my head and smile at him. “You did it last week when I brought coffee and muffins.”
“I don’t even think that I realize I do it.”
“Do it again.”
“I can’t force it. It just happens.” I laugh at him.
“I like when you laugh, Lindsay.” His voice becomes more serious.
“I do too.” I press the large mug to my lips again, hoping to avoid a repeat of last night’s conversation.
“So,” Jonah sets his mug down and sits on one of the stools at the island. “Tell me something about yourself. Something I don’t know about you.”
“What is this, like twenty questions or something?”
“Something like that.” He steeples his long fingers together and places them under his chin while he waits for me to answer.
“Hmm… let me think.” I tap my finger to my chin and scrunch my face as if I’m thinking really hard about how to answer.
“I’m really funny and sarcastic,” I say with a smile.
“See! That’s something I didn’t know about you. I haven’t seen that side of you.” My mood sobers a bit as I think about what he’s just said. An awkward silence settles around us when I don’t say anything in return. He pushes himself up from the stool and walks toward me, placing himself directly in front of me. It’s a bold move, but I don’t back away from him. In my bare feet, he towers over me, and I realize how small I am in comparison to him.
“I want to see the funny Lindsay,” he says quietly, brushing a piece of wet hair away from my face. I swallow hard, at a loss for words. “Have dinner with me tonight. Let me get to know you.” His fingers play with a strand of my hair; he rubs it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he says with a giant sigh of relief and a smile stretches across his golden face.
“Yes, okay,” I repeat with a smile this time.
There’s a knock at my door and I know it’s Landon and Reagan. “Doors open!” I holler from the kitchen. I’m stocking the fridge with beers and opening bags of chips. When I invited Landon over to watch the pre-season football game, I didn’t realize it was going to turn into a party. But where Landon goes, Reagan goes. Where Reagan goes, it’s a party.
“Hey, Matty,” Reagan says, leaning in and planting a quick kiss to my cheek. She’s juggling a large crockpot in her hands while a shopping bag dangles from her arm.
“Hey, Reag. Let me help you.” I pull the crockpot from her hands and plug it into the outlet on my kitchen island. I see her do a once over on the kitchen and a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips when she realizes I haven’t reverted back to my ways of caveman living since she helped me clean up the place a few weeks ago.
“Smells good. What’s in there?”
“Buffalo chicken dip. It’s amazing and for you guys, since I’m on a diet.” She pats her stomach. “Watching my weight for the wedding.”
“You’re not getting married for months. I think you’ll be fine if you have some chips and dip, Reagan.” What is it with these women and obsessing about their weight?
“You try to squeeze into that fitted wedding gown and tell me if you’d put a crockpot of melted cheese in your mouth,” she jokes with me, then starts pulling jars and packages from her shopping bag.
“Do you have a platter?” she asks as she starts flinging open cupboard doors and searching for one.
“In the cabinet above the fridge.” I reach above and pull down the large, wooden platter.
“Perfect!” She claps her hands together. “I’m putting together an amazing antipasti tray.”
“Dudes don’t eat antipasti when they watch football!” Landon bellows as he comes around the corner.
“These dudes are eating antipasti,” I say with a laugh when I see the look of death Reagan just gave him. I open a bottle of beer and take a long pull.
“Maybe some of the other guys will eat antipasti—and appreciate it,” Reagan says, glaring at Landon as she arranges cuts of meat, cheese, olives, and peppers on the tray. Landon and I both start laughing. She stands back from the tray she was just arranging and places both hands on her hips and shakes her head in disgust at us.
“This is a party! You need more than ruffle chips and onion dip.”
“Babe, we’re just giving you a hard time. We’ll eat your antipasti,” Landon says, pressing a kiss to her temple, a sign of peace. He nods his head toward the living room, and we leave Reagan in the kitchen to do what she does best when we get together—make food and force us to eat it.