Someone Else's Ocean(45)

“Salad and very bland chicken.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, snatching a fig from the cutting board and popping it into my mouth. I picked up a mason jar that sat next to a pile of vegetables. “What’s this?”

“Pomegranate dressing.”

“Wow,” I said before I shook it up and brought a fingerful to my mouth. “Delicious.”

“Yeah, my mother insisted she teach me a few things about cooking when I was growing up.”

“That’s awesome. I had to learn my cooking skills from Paula Dean and with your diet, I’ll be hard-pressed to find a recipe suitable for you.”

“No worries. I’m easy. I also bought some bananas,” he said his deep voice pure temptation. “I’m making you pops for dessert. I figured I’d reward you for being such a good muse.”

“Good muse?” I took a seat on the stool opposite of him. “How so?”

“You always have music going, it’s always lit up over here. I think I might enjoy your bubble while I’m here.”

“They do sell candles and docking stations everywhere. You could create a bubble of your very own.”

He grinned down at his cubed figs. “I said your bubble. Should I get crystals too? Then my man card should definitely get revoked.”

“Nothing wrong with wanting a little calm in your life.”

“I’ve been off the tit for some time, Koti. I can handle it.”

I took immediate offense. “Yeah cause most people can, right? They don’t need a silly routine when they get home to cope with everyday stresses.” I stood abruptly. “I need to go shower.”

“Shit,” regret was clear in his features as I glared at him over the counter. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

“Rule number one of friendship, don’t ever use something against someone that they tell you in confidence, especially a weakness.”

“You aren’t weak at all.”

“Well, then you have a fucked-up way of delivering a compliment. Backasswards way, friend.”

Stomping down the hall, I heard Ian whisper under his breath, “Swallow your tongue, asshole.”

I kicked off my shoes in my bedroom and glared into my closet. My shower lasted fifteen minutes longer than usual, and I knew I was wasting water. I brushed my hair and threw on an old T-shirt sundress. When I rejoined Ian in the kitchen, another apology, in the form of a glass of wine was waiting for me.

Ian’s eyes flit over my face before he snatched a towel off his shoulder. “It was insensitive.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

He picked up the glass and held it out to me. “Well don’t get used to it from me, all right?”

I nodded, taking his offered wine, while he grabbed the chicken out of the oven.

“This is really nice of you.”

“Least I could do, since you’re putting me up.”

Ian plated up our dinner and took the cushioned seat next to me on the island. We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes as we ate.

“This is delicious.”

“It’s the dish my mother taught me to make for my dates,” he confessed.

“And here I was thinking you had skills,” I said with the nudge of my elbow. “Still, it’s impressive.”

“My mother was always thinking of things like that. She made me a cookbook for quick reference in case there was a second date.”

“Wow.”

“She trained me well. She said she always wanted her children considerate more than any other characteristic.”

“I think I love your mother,” I said with a mouthful. “Rowan is good people.”

“So tomorrow, will I get a rain check on the dinner I missed?”

“Oh, I get it. This is a favor thing?” I turned to face him and felt the awareness of him shoot through every cell, every pore. He was temptation, his smell, his smile, his beautiful voice.

“In a way. But I was wondering what that dinner might have tasted like.”

“Well,” I said as I took the last bite of chicken off my fork. “I’m not a modest cook with truly mad skills. The fish will be dry, but the wine will be delicious.”

We clinked glasses. “I look forward to it.”

“I’ve got the dishes,” I said grabbing his plate.

“I’ll let you.” He grabbed Disco and nodded his head toward the door. “Going for a walk.”

I nodded as my hands shook in the dishwater.

This is not good, Koti.





Half an hour later, I was browsing through a painter’s magazine of canvas templates and accompanying paints while Ian set up his computer.

“Shit, the Wi-Fi here is barely catching with next door.”

“Waiting on a call from your daughter?”

“Yeah. I may have to go elsewhere.”

The glowing blue light flashed in front of him and I saw his eyes light in recognition. He waved at the screen.

Uncomfortable with the intrusion, I gestured toward my bedroom. “I’ll just go.”

“You don’t have to.”

He signed fluidly at the screen. “Stay.”

“Okay.” I sat back down in my seat and he began talking with his hands. I watched fascinated.