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My gaze flickered to his lips, to the day’s worth of growth along his jawline, and back to his perfectly pink pout. Slowly, I trailed back to meet his intense stare.
“I’m sure you will.”
“Hey, Landon,” a voice called from my right. “You got a moment?”
“You should go.” I patted his arm, that magnificently strong forearm. “Later.”
With a heavy shuffle, I meandered to the parking lot, turning back to take him in. He dropped the jacket at the shack as he stepped over to the guy who’d called him.
They talked, so I walked up the dock, heading back to my car, feeling changed somehow. Like I’d tackled something scary and survived. Hadn’t felt that in years.
“Libby, wait,” Landon yelled out and in a few easy strides stood before me. Barely even fighting to catch his breath. “Do you want to have dinner with me?”
My mouth responded before my brain could properly process. “I’d like that.”
The light wrinkles around the edges of his eyes deepened. “Excellent.”
“Where?”
“Give me five, or maybe ten, and you can follow me.”
I expected we’d be heading to a local diner, or a seaside takeout since Stewart Surf was filled with those. What I didn’t expect was to follow him to his house, and park in his driveway. Sometimes doing the unthinkable came with sweet perks.
Chapter Five
He unlocked his blue front door, and I stepped inside a beautifully decorated bungalow. It was seaside chic with hues of blues and greys and the occasional splash of burgundy, mainly on the decorator pillows lining the comfy-looking couch in the sunken living room.
“Please make yourself at home. I’m just going to throw dinner into the oven.” He puttered around his kitchen, stopping at his huge sink to wash his hands.
“You cook?”
“You say it like it’s a big deal.”
Which it was. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream to have a guy that cooks? Erin always complained about how it would be nice if David did, but he managed a restaurant so perhaps he got his fill at work.
Landon opened the fridge decorated with magnetic words, although no proper sentences were ready, and pulled out a glass baking pan, tossing it into a cold oven. Okay, maybe his skills needed a bit of refinement.
“Lasagna, okay?” He punched in the temperature and set a timer.
“Homemade?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“Wow.” My tummy rumbled, but this time because I was thinking about the sweet and savoury taste of a homemade lasagna – it had been a while. “Works for me, thanks.”
Opening the refrigerator, he paused and asked, “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Just a glass of water, please.”
“I have beer.” He handed me one with the cap still on.
“Ugh. Beer. No thanks. I never enjoyed the taste and was more a hard liquor type. Give me a fireball whiskey or a homemade moonshine, and I’d be your biggest fan.”
“Sorry, fresh out of fireball.”
My eyes grew ten times their size. “Shit, I said that out loud? Sorry. Sometimes the thoughts don’t stay in my head.” I smacked the heel of my hand into my forehead. “Water’s preferable, please, especially after, well, you know, emptying my stomach.”
“Gotcha.” He handed me a glass filled with cool water from the dispenser on the fridge door. “Would you be offended if I have a beer?”
