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“Are you asking me out?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I'm asking you to come over to my cabin and eat the steak I just grilled you. You eat meat?”
She laughs. “Yeah. I love to eat meat.”
“You want to eat my meat?” I ask her. My eyes, they're locked on hers.
She gives me a deadpan look that turns me on in ways I was not prepared for. “You really asking me to come over to eat your meat?”
“Yeah, Lemon, I am. I want you to come over to my house in that tiny little bikini. And I want you to sit down and eat my meat.”
“All right.” She stands. “I mean, it is my birthday week.”
I smile. “Good answer.”
She looks down at herself. “Should I change?”
I shake my head. “Not unless you want to.”
She slides her feet into a pair of flip-flops and then reaches for the sheer white kaftan on the back of her chair, slipping her arms into it. It hangs to her mid-thigh, and I can’t help but marvel at the curves of her body. She knows I am staring, but the truth is, she is staring at my eight-pack, at my biceps, and I want her to keep on looking if it is giving her ideas of where this night might go.
She walks down her back steps and crosses into my yard.
“I'm glad you can make it,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, I’ve been drooling for the last hour while you’ve been cooking.”
“Good,” I admit. “I was hoping to tempt you with my prowess in the kitchen.”
“Really?” She stops, resting a hand on my elbow. “Were you really doing that? Trying to woo me over here?”
I nod. “Yeah, to be fair, there are a lot of things I’m not great at. But I can grill steak. I can fillet a fish. I can make a good Caesar salad. Baked potatoes? I'm your man.”
She twists her lips. Pressing a finger to her chin, testing me. “How are you with dessert?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I have a few specialties.”
“And they are?” she asks, dead serious.
“I can do a mean skillet chocolate chip cookie.”
“Enough said. You should lead with that, Anchor.”
“Really?” I laugh.
“That's wildly impressive. My mom, she would be all over you.”
“Is that a compliment or…?”
Lemon nods. “Oh yeah, that's a compliment. My mom is a total foodie. She hosts Sunday dinner every week. And no one's allowed to miss. And every week it's like a whole thing—what she's gonna make. She takes her dinner menu very seriously.” Lemon gives me a big smile as we walk into the house.
“Sunday dinner, huh? Sounds pretty old-school. Who comes?”
“Oh, the whole family,” Lemon says nonchalantly. “My brothers and sister and, well, my brothers’ wives now. Two of them just got married this year. My parents, sometimes my grandparents, just whoever.”
“Wow, a big family.”
“Yeah, and everyone lives in Home,” she says, looking around. “Wow. You don't have any pictures or anything in here yet. It's just as we left it after I did the redecorating.”
“I just moved in four days ago,” I tell her, chuckling.
“I did this job three months ago. I didn’t even know the house was listed already. I remember talking with the realtor only a month ago. Was it on the market long?”
I lead Lemon to the table, pouring her another glass of white wine. “No, only twenty-four hours. I bought it sight unseen.”
“You must have really loved the photos. Our family lake house was built on land our family had for a hundred years. But this...” Her sentence ends out of politeness.
The lake house I bought was $3mil and we both know it—but she is tactful enough not to say as much.
I shrug. “I needed a change. Any waterfront property in the state has gone through the roof. It’s an investment.”
Bringing her over a plate of food, I set one in front of my chair as well. Her eyes widen. “Wow. This is gourmet! I’m impressed, Anchor. I feel like I should have dressed up more for this date,” she says, looking down at herself.
“I think you look incredible.”
“Well, thanks.” She laughs nervously. “I just don't go on many dates.”
“Really? I find that hard to believe.”
Lemon cringes.
“I feel like there's a story there,” I tell her.
“Do you go on many dates?” she asks, turning my question back to me.
Now it's my turn to backpedal. “I never go on dates.”
“I'm sure there's a story there as well.” She sips her wine.
“Do we want to get into stories right now?” I ask her.
She exhales, swirling her wine around, looking out the big bay window to the lake.
The sun has begun to set. It's a beautiful night. Pine trees everywhere. The mountain range behind us. The lake is still, so quiet.
“I don't want to get into anything,” she says. “I came to the lake to relax.”
