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Landon nodded, and suddenly, I felt the age gap widening between us. I was college-aged, and he was well-established in his career field.
“Do you like baking?”
“The only baking I do is at home, never at Sylvia’s. She’s way too amazing to intrude upon that. I just sell the pastries and chat with the customers, something I enjoy doing. A happy customer is a returning customer.”
“There’s no shame in working in the service industry.”
“Did I sound ashamed?” Because I was more than grateful for the steady employment, for it put a roof over my head and food on my table. Plus, it gave me skills I hadn’t managed to acquire, like using a computer. It was hard to have an ounce of shame over that.
“Not really.” He took another sip and relaxed back into the cushions.
“This is a great couch.” I stretched my arm along the top and snuggled further into the softness.
“Right? I shopped forever for this and tried many out until I found the perfect one in both comfort and colour.”
Oh god, had we really reduced ourselves to chatter about furniture? Was I really that inept at carrying conversations beyond small talk? But I was at a loss of what to say. Or do. Instead, I watched as he tipped his head back, taking a swig of beer, and as he set it down, he gave his lips a quick lick.
I wanted to inch closer and run my lips across his cheek, pick up where I felt we were heading at the marina. The kissing and sexy stuff? That’s what I was good at, and that’s where my talent was. I’d learned young enough to have perfected the sport by this age. Landon being older, likely was quite perfect in the sack too, and I hoped he was as interested in trying it as I was.
I sat up and moved a little closer, studying his face to see if there was any hesitation.
His hand on the back of the couch stretched out and touched my fingers, lightly stoking from the knuckle to the fingertip.
Inhaling sharply, I lowered my gaze to look at him seductively.
He shuffled closer and teased his fingers up my arm. The colour of his eyes deepened, and there was a subtle hitch to his breath.
I uncrossed my legs, draping them over his legs. Slowly, I leaned in, gazing into his face as it lowered closer to mine. It would be so easy to thread my fingers through his hair and pull him in, but did I dare? What would he think of me? Or maybe he already thought it, and that was why he brought me here? We’d been teasing enough foreplay over our many encounters, maybe it was time to seal the deal?
Pushing myself to him with my eyes closing and my lips parting, a ghost of kiss seductively brushed over them and a hand snaked around my shoulders.
The timer on the oven beeped, splitting us apart like we’d be struck by lightning.
“Already?” I asked, disappointment coursing through my veins.
“Not quite,” his voice cracked, “but it is time for me to make the salad and garlic bread.” He rose, quickly turning away as he headed into the kitchen.
“You really go all out.” I joined him and helped myself to a butterknife. “Can I make the bread?”
With a slight groan, he shrugged and pulled out the room-temperature butter from a cupboard. “Go wild, probably better at it than me. Does the bakery make garlic bread?”
“She does, but it’s not as big a seller as the desserts. Those are uber popular. She only makes one or two loaves of garlic bread a day, and it’s one of the ready-to-pop into the oven varieties. I work the day shift so it’s not something that sells a lot during my shifts.”
“That makes sense. Not many people want something so greasy and garlicky for breakfast.” He handed me the butter and garlic salt, taking his time in stepping back.
I scrunched up my nose. “Do you have real garlic?”
“Sure.” He handed me an untouched bulb; it looked as if it came home yesterday.
“If you have any parmesan cheese and basil, I can add that too.”
“Ooh, I’ve never had it done that way.” He dug through the fridge and produced a small plastic container of cheese, and then rooted through his pantry until he found the spice I wanted.
Side-eyed glances, along with a teasing smile, almost like a promise of things to come, were sent in my direction as he chopped green and red peppers, tomatoes, and iceberg lettuce, mixing them all with a vinaigrette dressing. I slathered a thick layer of butter and freshly chopped and roasted garlic, mixed with fresh basil, and sprinkled the tops with parmesan. It was my favourite comfort food.
Before I knew it, the garlic bread was on the table, alongside his fancy-looking salad that didn’t come from a bag but could stand a little more colour, and a homemade lasagna whose weight promised a hearty meal.
“Dig in, help yourself, and fill your tummy.” Landon sat opposite me and cut the steaming tray of lasagna into eight huge pieces.
