Pocketful of Sand(8)

Emmy doesn’t complain; she simply scoops up the paper and deposits it in the kitchen drawer where all her other artwork goes when she’s tired of seeing it on the fridge.

She skips off and, seconds later, I hear the television click on followed by the musical sounds of her favorite cartoon. I pour the blue-tinted batter into a muffin tin, scraping out the last blueberries from the bowl. I lick a bit of the mixture from my finger as I set the bowl in the sink and run water in it.

When I open the oven door to slide the muffins in, a cloud of smoke wafts out to choke me. Coughing and sputtering, eyes watering, I set down the pan and wave my hands in the air so that I can at least see my way to the window to open it.

Of course, it’s stuck, a thick layer of fresh paint sealing it shut. I run to the front door and yank it open, pushing back the screen door in hopes that the smoke will make its way outside. I grab a straight-backed rocker from the porch and wedge it in the opening so the smoke can drift out while I go back inside to shut off the oven.

I’ve got a magazine I’m using as a fan when stomping draws my attention back toward the door. I stop everything–moving, thinking, breathing–when I see him. It’s Cole Danzer, bigger than life and twice as beautiful, walking into my kitchen. He looks around for a second and then reaches over the sink to wrench up the sticky window. He does it with remarkable ease and, for a few seconds, I’m focused only on the sleek muscles of his biceps.

In addition to being lustily mesmerized, I’m stunned. Of course. He just appeared out of nowhere. And now he’s here. In my house. In my personal space.

And I realize how very much I want him here. In my house. In my space.

I guess that’s why I just stand statue-still in my stained T-shirt, holding a magazine, mouth hanging open, staring at him. I’m not as surprised by his surly demeanor when he turns his nearly-furious gaze on me, though. I’m beginning to think he’s always this way.

“I thought your house was on fire,” he growls in his bedroom voice. “What happened?”

He’s like a thundercloud, popping and crackling with irritable electricity. He even makes the hair on my arms stand up, like he’s reversing the polarity around me. I think it’s his proximity. His face is within a few inches of mine where I’m still tucked into the corner of the cabinets. I was fanning smoke toward the door. Now I’m just standing here, oddly mystified.

He seems to be even taller, even broader standing in front of me here in my tiny kitchen. And despite the gagging smoke, I can smell the clean scent of his soap–fresh and piney. I make the mistake of inhaling deeply, which only makes me cough.

His ever-present frown deepens initially as I sputter, but when I catch my breath, it softens as he raises his brow. Without uttering a word, it says, Well?

I can’t even remember the question when he looks at me this way.

“P-pardon?” I stammer, continuing to stare despite how rude I must seem.

Good Lord, he’s gorgeous! I mean, I thought he was incredibly handsome the first time I saw him. And he still is, whether he’s angry or frowning or pretending to ignore me. But like this…when he’s not scowling at me… he’s the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. His blue eyes are bluer, his lips more chiseled, his jaw even stronger. The pull of my body, of my soul toward him is magnetic. Gravitational. Irresistible.

“What happened?” he repeats, helping to shake me from my stupor.

“I-I don’t know. I was preheating the oven to make muffins.” I glance at the pan where it rests on the counter. “And then…”

Since most of the smoke has cleared out through the now-open window, Cole cracks the oven door. Another, smaller gray cloud belches up out of it. He just waves it away and bends to look inside.

“There’s something stuck to the broiler. Didn’t you clean it before you turned it on?”

His question makes me feel defensive. It’s my turn to frown. “As a matter of fact, I did. I guess I just didn’t think to check the heating elements. Why would I? Who gets food on the broiler?”

“Well, it’s too hot to clean now. You’ll have to wait until it cools off,” he announces, closing the door and straightening.

“Thanks for that piece of wisdom,” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Cole’s brow furrows into its frown again. “I just didn’t want you to burn yourself.” His concern seems genuine.

Oh.