Page 64 of Embracing the Beat
“What?”
He spins around. “What?”
“What did you say?” I ask, even though I heard it loud and clear.
“I said ‘sure.’ What else would I say?” he teases. “You all right? Your cheeks are all red.”
His teasing makes me giggle, and I wave him back to his task before turning and finishing the prep on the salad that has been at the forefront of my mind all day.
I’m dishing up our dinner when he comes back into the kitchen, tugging down a faded t-shirt. I hand him one of the plates and follow him to the table.
“How was work?” I ask, taking a bite. I can’t contain my moan at the fresh flavors of the greens and juicy tomatoes.
His eyes darken at my little noise of appreciation, and he shifts in his seat. “Good. I gave a pop quiz in my second period today.”
I groan. “You’re so mean! Pop quizzes are torture.”
“Is it still torture if I let them use the notes I asked them to take for the twenty minutes before the quiz?” He quirks an eyebrow.
“Not as bad then, maybe.”
“Tough crowd. They all survived,” he promises.
He tells me about another class where a student came in dressed in a full colonial costume for an oral report, and I laugh when he explains that the report was all about Benjamin Franklin traveling to modern times and his fascination with cell phones.
By the time he’s done, we’re finished and taking our dishes to the sink, and I follow him to the basement stairs.
“When do you think you’ll head back to LA?”
“Why?” I ask warily, pausing.
He glances up, stopping a few steps below me.
“Just a question.” His tone may seem nonchalant, but the way his shoulders tense tells me he’s not as indifferent to the answer as he wants to appear.
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not?” He turns back to walk up a few steps until he’s eye level with me.
“No?”
The way his expression shifts, the tension fading until all I can see is the desire I’ve become familiar with. It’s there anytime he looks at me, and it creates enough heat to fry my brain.
Who am I kidding? I don’t ever cool down when he’s around…or when I think about him…about us.
“Umm…what was the question?” I ask dazedly.
He barks out a laugh, threading his fingers through mine and tugging me down the stairs with him.
“You ready to work?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, instead he hands me a screwdriver for the light switch and electrical outlet plates while he preps the baseboards.
He crouches down, shorts riding low on his hips, t-shirt stretched across his back so snugly the shift of his muscles distracts me. I completely forget the task he’s given me.
“I can feel your eyes on me,” he says, startling me from my ogling.
“Sorry, not sorry?”
