Page 38 of Chasing Clouds

He quirks a grin. “All right. Yeah, I guess we really don’t know much about each other, and that makes this normal date-like conversation. Let’s see . . .” He rubs his chin as he stares across the table at me. “My favorite food is barbeque ribs, but I don’t eat them very often because they’re slathered in brown sugar. My favorite color is green. Growing up in the Bronx, sure we had grass and trees, but not like you see everywhere else. For that reason, I’ve always been enamored by it.”

And here I am thinking green could become my favorite color, too, but because of his eyes.

“I hate the snow. I didn’t even know I hated it until after I moved here and got to experience a winter without it. I’ve never been skiing, so it’s not like I miss the sport side of it, but last year I went home for Christmas and it was miserable. There was dirty slop everywhere. So, unless I change teams and end up back up north, I’m never living in snow again.”

“A Yankee turned Southerner.” I smile at him and watch as the breeze sends the trim around the umbrella waving back and forth. Shadows play across his face, a face I could stare at all day.

“Call me what you want, but I understand now why people move south.” He picks up his drink and takes a sip. His hands are so large they cover the entire glass.

“I didn’t mind the snow so much, maybe because I had never lived in it before, so it was a novelty, but I thought it was pretty.”

Setting the glass back down, he leans back in his chair. “Pretty to look at on my phone while I’m sitting next to the pool.” He grins. “I am a Yankees fan, and there’s nothing quite like Yankee Stadium in the summer, but now that you mention it, I don’t think I could ever fit the mold of a Southerner. There is always Phoenix, though.”

“What mold is that?”

“People who drive slow, talk slow, eat fried food, and drink sweet tea.”

“That’s a terribly cliché description of Southerners,” I reply, balking at his words.

“You know what I mean.” He smiles. “I’ll never sound the part—darlin’ just isn’t in my vocabulary—and can you imagine the looks on the faces of the stiffs at your father’s country club if I rolled up wearing a bowtie and tried to fit in? It’s never going to happen.”

That’s funny, because I think he’d look quite handsome in a bowtie, and whether he’s in New York or Georgia, I don’t think he’d fit in anywhere. He’s meant to be noticed, and I admire that about him.

“Well, in all fairness, I could never be a true New Yorker, even if most of them are transplants. I never could understand the subway system, my manners ensure that I allow everyone to rush past me, so I’m always late, and I’ll never eat a hotdog or falafel from a street vendor.”

He narrows his eyes. “You never ate a hotdog while wandering through Central Park?”

“Absolutely not. And listen”—I lean forward—“How you doin’? It just doesn’t sound right coming from me.”

He laughs. “No, it sure doesn’t.”

“As for Phoenix, I could never live there—I like living near the water too much.” I look past his shoulder at the marina dock. Lined up on every post is a pelican. Granted, they’re waiting for handouts from the fishermen, but still, pelicans are really cool birds.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, drawing my attention back to him. Lifting his beer to his mouth again, he takes a drink and watches me over the rim of his glass.

“Take your sunglasses off. I don’t like not being able to see what you’re looking at.”

“Only if you take yours off,” he challenges.

We both toss them on the table, his eyes find mine, and my stomach bottoms out. There should be rules against how potent a person’s eyes are. It’s not fair. He could turn me into putty if he wanted to—forest green putty.

“Okay, last one,” he says, shifting in his chair to cross his ankle over his knee. “The first time I ever flew on a plane was my freshman year at Syracuse when we had an away game at Clemson. Of course, I didn’t tell anyone this at the time, but I sat by the window and gave the poor armrests the death grip.”

“You didn’t fly on a plane until college?”

“Nope. Never needed to, but now, with the team, sponsorships, and seeing my mom, Nate, and Tally, I’m on a plane probably two dozen times a year.”

“We have a family plane. I don’t even remember a time when we weren’t flying somewhere.”

“Of course you do.” His lips press together and he shakes his head just as the waitress comes by to clear our plates.

“Would either of you like dessert?” she asks.

He looks at me, and I tell her no. I already know he doesn’t like to eat sugar, so there’s no point in asking him to share.

“Okay, that’s several things about me. Now it’s your turn, and I already know your favorite candy is gummy bears, so don’t start there.”

“I do love gummy bears. Let’s see . . .” I pick up my paper napkin and start messing with it. “I don’t really have one favorite food per se, because I love all breakfast foods: biscuits and gravy, cheesy grits, corned beef hash, pecan waffles—I could go on and on.”