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Chapter Eight
Ryan
The week crawled by at a snail’s pace, but it’s finally Saturday. Date night with Jaime.
I’ve been looking forward to this night all week. I spent Thursday night cleaning the entire condo, top to bottom, and last night shopping for dinner supplies. I’m not exactly chef material, but I can grill a mean slab of meat. Hell, it’s practically written in my male DNA: Must be able to master the barbecue.
I’m expecting Jaime any minute, and if I told you I wasn’t nervous to have her here, I’d be a damned liar. I’m very nervous. Jaime is edgy and jumpy when it comes to dating and relationships, this I figured out practically the first time I met her. But I don’t give up that easily. As long as I remember to take it slow and not scare her off, I’ll be fine. She’ll come around when she realizes there’s something real brewing between us. I know it–feel it.
A soft knock sounds at the front door and my entire body suddenly takes notice. Jaime’s here. Hell, even my dick knows when she’s close by. He’s standing up, ready to greet her too. And if I’m not careful, he’s liable to claw his way through my pants just to get to her.
Adjusting myself and willing my hard-on into submission, I step to the door. Jaime is standing on my porch wearing a light pink dress that hits just above her knees. Her arms are covered in a sweater, giving her a wholesome look. But I know the fire that breathes to life when I kiss her. It’s a fierceness I wouldn’t mind revisiting later this evening.
“Welcome,” I tell her, opening the screen door and dropping a light kiss on her cheek.
“Hi,” she says shyly. “I brought a bottle of wine.”
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the bottle from her extended hand. “Come on into the kitchen with me. You can sit at the counter while I finish getting the meat ready for the grill.”
Jaime’s hot on my heels as I make my way into the adjacent kitchen. She takes off a sexy librarian sweater and sets it aside as I point to a barstool and grab a wine glass from the cabinet. Thank God my sister got me a set when I moved into this place, otherwise she’d be liable to drink white wine from a plastic Star Wars cup.
“This place is great,” Jaime states while glancing around my space.
Like the rest of the place, the kitchen is small but practical. “Thanks,” I reply as I add sliced onions and carrots to the potato mixture. “My neighbor, Mrs. Hanson owns it. She tried to hire me right after I moved in to fix the place up, but I wouldn’t hear it. I couldn’t take any money from her, you know? She bought the supplies and I installed them. I did it at night and on weekends so that I didn’t have to run it through the company. She’s the sweetest old lady and I enjoy spending time with her. She makes me dinner and brownies and stuff; it’s the least I could do.”
When I’m greeted with silence, I turn towards Jaime. She’s staring at me with a small smile. Our gazes lock for several moments. My heart rate kicks up a few hundred beats per second with one look. Jaime has a shine about her, a lightness that breathes happiness and serenity. The crazy part is that when I’m around her–hell, when she’s in my mere thoughts–I feel that shine spilling over on me. I smile more than I have in God knows how long, and it’s all because of her.
And I just met her.
That’s terrifying and exciting all at the same time. Like diving headfirst into the blind water without having a single clue as to what dangers really lurk just below the murky surface.
“That’s very sweet of you to do. I’ve known Mrs. Hanson most of my life. She’s friends with my grandma. She’s the kindest woman. She used to always bring over homemade angel food cake with fresh, sliced strawberries. My sisters and I used to fight over the last piece.”
“Her angel food cakes are amazing. She made one for me a few weeks ago for taking her garbage out to the curb,” I say as I gather up my grilling supplies. “I think I’m ready to step outside. Care to join me?”
Jaime stands up, grabs her glass and the pan of potatoes, and follows me towards the back door. Holding open the door, Jaime slides beneath my arm, careful not to knock into the platter of meat, seasonings, and grilling tongs in my other hand. I can’t help dipping down and catching the briefest hint of vanilla coming from her hair. Her smell is intoxicating and, as always, causes things to happen in my pants.
Outside, the air is brisk filtering off the Bay. I’m several blocks inland, but it doesn’t matter what part of town you’re in, you can still smell the salt in the air and feel the cool breeze swept from the sea.
Sitting down on a lawn chair, Jaime sips her wine while watching me throw the foil packet containing the potato mixture and the pork loin on the grill. The gas is set to a low heat as I spread a honey glaze over the top of the loin. I can’t help but notice that she’s watching me intently. When I’m finished, I grab a can of beer from the fridge and join Jaime on the deck.
“You seemed very interested in my cooking skills. I promise you I’ve done this before.”
“Actually, I was making mental notes,” she says. “I’ve never really been able to master the grill. Everything I cook is either charred to a crisp or is still clucking when I pull it off.”
I try not to chuckle at her admission, but it slips out. “Grilling is an art. It’s not to be taken lightly.”
“It’s on my list of things to learn. Maybe, someday, you can help teach me.”
“I’d be honored,” I tell her honestly. We stare at each other for several heart-pounding moments before she breaks eye contact, looking around.
“This is a nice area,” she says, the sun’s just starting to drop below the trees.
“It is. Mrs. Hanson plants and maintains the flowers around the trees and I mow.”
“Do you always call her Mrs. Hanson?” she asks, a smile playing on the corners of her lips.
“Not always. Sometimes I call her Mrs. H.” I take a drink of my beer, fighting the smile that threatens to spread across my own lips.
