My body is stiff as I fight the urge to relax into his embrace. We’re lying on our sides, and his hand is resting on my belly, holding me to him. “Relax, freckles.” It’s as if my body needed his words as permission to do just that. I feel my shoulders relax and my body sinks further into the couch.
He mumbles something that sounds like “That’s my girl,” and I feel his lips press to the back of my head. This is way too much. It’s wrong, to be here with him like this, when we’re nothing to each other. Nothing more than acquaintances, yet here I am, letting him into my home. Again. Giving in to his demands. Letting him hold me. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a demand, but all the same, I shouldn’t be doing this. I just can’t seem to make myself pull away.
Drawing out of my thoughts, I turn my attention back to the movie. I let myself get lost in the love story. I’ve seen this one at least one hundred times, but it never gets old. I could repeat the lines by heart as if I played the role.
“So I can kiss you anytime I want,” I whisper with Reese Witherspoon as she stands before her leading man in the pouring rain.
Landon’s thumb traces small circles over my belly, and I endure it until the credits roll. Needing some distance, I sit up, pulling out of his embrace, and stand. “Dinner should be ready.”
His eyes are bright blue and filled with something I can’t quite name as he peers up at me. “Em,” he says softly, reaching out for me.
I step away from him. “I’m going to make us a salad. You eat salad, right?” My eyes travel to the eight-pack of abs clearly outlined beneath his form-fitting shirt.
“Yeah, I eat salad.” He drops his hand and pulls his long form from the couch.
Turning on my heel, I make my way to the kitchen. I don’t have to turn to see if he’s behind me. I can feel him. I gather the bag of salad mix, a tomato, a bag of cheese, and the bottle of ranch and French dressing from the refrigerator. “I only have French or ranch.” I hold up the bottles to show him.
“I’ll eat either.”
“Good. Tomatoes and cheese?” I ask.
“Yes.” He comes to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder as I start to prepare our salads. “What can I do to help?”
“Uh… there’s a bag of croutons in the cabinet there.” I point to the cabinet by the fridge. I quickly avert my gaze back to the salad in front of me to keep from drooling over him. I am holding a knife, after all. I need to stay alert or I fear I could lose a digit.
“Plates?” he asks, taking the lid off the Crock-Pot and bending closer to inspect the contents or maybe smell it; I’m not really sure.
“Above your head. There’s a spoon in the drawer in front of you.” I can hear him messing around, and with a quick glance, I see he’s plating us each some of the chicken casserole.
“This smells fantastic. What’s it in?”
“Just chicken breasts, cream of chicken soup, milk, salt and pepper, and some boxed stuffing.”
“Easy enough.”
“Do you cook?” I ask him.
“I know my way around the kitchen, but I don’t do it often. Cooking for one isn’t much fun. I always make breakfast. Hitting practice on an empty stomach is not fun. I eat a lot of takeout, or at Harvey’s. What about you? From the looks of this, you know your way around a kitchen too.”
“I can cook. I just don’t do it often. Like you said, cooking for one is not so fun. I had planned to eat this all weekend, and then take the leftovers into work for Aubrey, Chance, and CJ on Monday.”
“I’m sure they appreciate that.”
“They do. It happens pretty much every time I cook. I hate the idea of food going to waste.”
“Yeah, me too. Eating out is easier.”
“I eat a lot of frozen meals, which I know isn’t exactly the healthiest option, but it works.”
“Sounds like the two of us should share more meals together.”
Deliberately ignoring his words, I turn to face him, saying, “Here you go.” I hand him his bowl of salad. Grabbing my bowl, and the two bottles of dressing, I place them on the table. Landon already has our plates with two forks, so there’s nothing left to do but drinks. “What would you like to drink? I have water, lemonade. I think I have a bottle of wine….” My voice trails off as I try to remember if I do, in fact, still have a bottle of wine.
“Water is fine. I’ll grab it. Sit.” He points to the seat at the table next to his, where he places my plate. It would be rude to move to the opposite end of the table to get some distance from him. He’s so… big and commanding, and he makes my tiny house feel even smaller.
“So, your folks live in Georgia?” he asks, taking a bite of his salad once he’s seated.
“My mom does. She loves it there.”
“That’s important. Loving where you live.”
“What about you? Does your family live nearby?”
“They do actually, about an hour from here. I still don’t get to see them as much as I’d like. They make it to all of my home games, and we usually have dinner afterward. Sometimes Mom cooks at my place. She thinks that she still needs to take care of me.”
“I can imagine that’s a feeling or need rather that never goes away once you have kids.”
“That’s what she tells me.” He takes a bite of his casserole, his salad bowl now empty. “Wow, this is really good.”
“You doubted me?” I feign being shocked.
“Never.” He takes another big bite. “You want kids?” he asks.
Luckily,
