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Flowers might not be the way to her heart, but dammit, I’m going to figure out what is.
A minute later, I head back inside with the scissors, putting them away in the kitchen drawer as Briar helps Gavin slice veggies.
When he sets the knife down as she heads to the sink to wash kale, he lets his gaze linger on her too.
For a good, long time.
23
TIME TO WINE DOWN
Briar
I have two things on my mind tonight. First, the absolutely tempting offer that Hollis has made me along with the gift that I’m, admittedly, dying to use. The note put me in a giddy mood and has been playing on a loop since I found it when I returned home this afternoon.
If you want to teach me what you like, I’d like to learn. I am an excellent student. –H
I’m also totally fixated on the ten-thousand-dollar cash prize from Steven’s contest and what I could do with it. I already have plans.
But those tempting twin thoughts have oddly taken a backseat to Gavin’s absolute prowess in the kitchen.
I don’t know why it’s such a surprise. He did say he could cook. But I wasn’t expecting him to cook with so much skill and ease. Gavin moves fluidly through the kitchen, slicing carrots, seasoning squash, and boiling quinoa all while I operate as his sous chef.
I’ve been happily following his orders as he’s peppered me with questions about my day.
Did I catch any of the bands?
How did my class go?
What’s the hardest pose to do?
My answers? I’ve added some bands to my playlists. Excellent. And Shavasana.
Of course, the last one is telling—Shavasana is the relaxing pose and, well, I suck at relaxing. But that’s a matter for later.
For now, Gavin gestures to the oven as the timer beeps. “Grab the squash, ’kay?” he asks as he hands me a red pot holder with an illustration of a wine bottle on it along with the words Time to Wine Down.
“Yes, sir,” I say, giving him a saucy little smile as I take the pot holder. There’s a pause in his kitchen routine. A furrow in his brow. Like he’s replaying my words, weighing them.
When his eyes darken, I’m pretty sure he likes my yes, sir.
I like his reaction, judging from the way my pulse skitters.
Then, he closes his eyes for a flash of a second, as if he’s pushing off whatever thoughts invaded his mind.
When he opens them, he wheels around, tending to the skillet with the kale in it. That’s my cue to brush off the moment too, so I snag the baking tray with the squash on it.
Hollis already set the table, and now he’s outside shooting hoops with Rhys while Donut watches them through the window. As I set the tray down on the counter, Gavin hits me with another question. “How did you get into yoga?”
“I needed it for rehab. I actually played soccer in high school,” I explain. “But I tore my ACL my junior year.”
He winces as he snags the pot of quinoa and drains it in the sink. “Ouch. That’s one of my nightmares.”
“It usually is for athletes.”
His smile is sympathetic but also sad. “That sucks, Briar. Were you hoping to become a pro soccer player?”
I appreciate that the question is straightforward. That he asks it with no doubt that I’d have been one if that was what I’d wanted. “I did hope to at the time,” I say, moving to the stove to stir the creamy pesto sauce that goes with the “squash bowl” he’s making. “I love running and competing. And I did everything I could to rehab so I could play soccer again. Including yoga.”
