“Can I help?”
“No.”
Should have predicted that response.
I look around his house, trying to find a topic of conversation. His shelves of books pull me back toward them. What avid reader, even the shiest ones, can’t be tempted to come out of their shell when talking about books?
“I love your library, by the way.” I pitch my voice a little louder so he can hear me from the kitchen. “Do you have a favorite author or genre?”
Plates rattle in response, then the slide of a drawer opening and the tinkle of cutlery.
“I’m a pretty eclectic reader myself. I always have both a nonfiction and a fiction book going at the same time. Usually multiple ones on different platforms, if I’m honest. People ask me how I can keep up with all the different story lines, but it’s not any different than having more than one show that you’re watching.” I tip back a spine and slide the book out of its place. “Oh, this James R. Hannibal book looks good. Have you read it yet? Is it just me, or are you immediately reminded of Hannibal Lecter when you see the author’s name? He’s probably heard that a lot, although I would never say that to his face.”
Something thunks behind me, and I startle, turning. Levi clanks another dish on the table.
“Dinner’s ready.” He retreats back to the kitchen.
The table is hardly set, what with only the skillet of beef and a jar of salsa gracing the center. I follow him to help gather the rest. I don’t know what he puts in his tacos, but we still need the shells, at least, and plates to eat on. When I round theisland, he’s opening a top cabinet and fishing out two white earthenware plates.
“I can take those in,” I offer.
He spins slowly, as if he’s hoping when he gets all the way turned around, I won’t actually be standing here.
It’s getting harder and harder not to take these little rebuffs personally. Each time he flinches or scowls or grunts, I try to tell myself that it’s not me, it’s the situation, and he’d act the same with anyone. But it’s getting harder to grit my teeth and keep my smile in place and my voice chipper. Because he’s not the only one having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day here.
I’ve miscalculated. I’m standing too close. Levi’s finished his slow-motion rotation, and there isn’t even any room for him to hand me the plates he’s holding near his chest. My chin tilts up as my head tips back, Levi towering above me as still as a statue.
At this proximity, I can see that his eyes aren’t actually liquid gold but the lightest shade of amber that I’ve ever seen. With as hard as the rest of him is and as unapproachable as he makes himself, his eyes betray him. They aren’t hard at all but soft and nearly entreating, juxtaposing beneath the strict slashes of his thick brows and the coarse hair beneath the ridge of his cheekbones.
I’m not sure why I’m still standing here when I should be taking a step back. For that matter, I’m not sure why he hasn’t barked at me to move. It’s almost as if we’re caught in some sort ofTwilight Zonevortex and I can’t look away, break away.
Levi’s lips part, and his eyes slam shut. He makes a sound that, if it were a word, would only consist of four letters. “You have freckles,” he says by way of an accusation. Like, how dare I, a redhead, have freckles dotting my otherwise porcelain-doll skin.
Like I had a say in the matter, buddy.
“And you smell...” That sound again.
Hey, if he doesn’t like that I smell like him then he should have let me stop by the general store to pick up something else.
His eyes and the muscle in his jaw bulge. “And you’re wearing...” The air around him practically vibrates as he makes the sound a third time, the reverberations pinging around my chest cavity like a trapped pinball.
He sounds pained. Angry. At himself or me?
Wait. Is he angry because helikesmy freckles and the fact I smell like him and I’m wearing his shirt? Mr. I-Can’t-Wait-to-Get-Away-from-You? That can’t be right, can it?
“You should never wear makeup,” he says as he barrels past me, grabbing a box of hard taco shells and a dish of toppings all chopped and ready to go on his way to the dining table.
I should never...
Okay, I’m going to skip right over the initial reaction ofa man isn’t going to tell mewhatI should or shouldn’t do or what Ican or can’t wearand get straight to the heart of what IthinkLevi Redding just said. Or tried to say, rather. Which is that he thinks I’m more attractive naturally and don’t need to cover up or enhance anything with beauty products.
Why, Mr. Redding, I do declare. You have such a way with words.
He’s taken everything to the dining room already, so I follow behind empty-handed. There’s a plate set on the table, but Levi’s holding the other in his hand. Not sure what’s up with that but nothing has been easy to figure out with this man so why would I think that would change now?
I pull out the chair with the place setting and lower myself into the seat. Instead of taking the seat next to me or even across from me like one would expect, Levi goes to the opposite end of the table, the seat farthest away, then sits.
I hold back my snort. So much for that half of a second when I’d deliriously thought he might actually tolerate my presence,much less more than tolerate it. This seating arrangement snuffed that idea out in a jiffy.
