Page 43 of The Interception
I want him to kiss me.
But…he’s hurting. He’s vulnerable. He’s on an emotional roller coaster that’s speeding out of control. If we kiss and the feelings he has are merely a by-product of emotional overload, I’m going to end up with a broken heart.
I don’t know what to do. This isn’t something I signed up for.
The moment this thought enters my mind, I feel immediately convicted. I didn’t sign up for it, but that doesn’t mean God didn’t put it in my path for a reason.
Ender slides his fingers down my back, sending shivers up my spine. “Layne?”
I turn around and take a deep breath. “If you’re thinking about that moment in the kitchen, and you want to test your theory, I’m giving you permission to do so.”
Half expecting him to tackle me, I prepare for impact that never comes. He slips his arms around my waist, slowly pulls me into a hug, and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “Don’t think for a moment that I don’t want to, but you deserve more than that, Layne. You deserve me focused, attentive, completely dedicated to you alone. I’m distracted, my brain is a mess, and that isn’t how I want to feel when we first kiss. Okay?”
I nod. Relief floods my body.
“That said, do I have permission to take advantage of that offer when I’m feeling better?” He shifts, burying his face deeper and breathing me in.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice cracking with intense emotion lodged in my throat.
“I’m lucky to have you on my team. In my life. I’m not sure what I did before you came into it, and I’m not sure what I’ll do when you leave.”
Oh yes, the leaving part. The part where we have lives in different places. But do we have to? He does, because his work is here. It’s not like he can make the two-hour commute from Savannah to Charleston for every home game. Add the fact that uprooting Sarah Beth and Lula would be cruel at this point in their grief process.
I have family in Savannah but no job. I’m more flexible. The realization that Icouldbe persuaded to relocate if this thing with Ender turned into more than whatever it is now. But I don’t say any of this, because the moment has passed. Ender releases me and we head inside so I can make him dinner.
He makes himself comfortable on the sofa while I get busy in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure if he would be up to helping me make it, but then again, I didn’t tell himwhatI was making. We agreed via email that this was the recipe to go with, which in my mind constitutes us “designing it together,” so I throw my worry and make him the meal.
The chicken takes the longest to make, but with a crispy coating and just the right seasoning blend, it’s juicy and so good. I whip up a garlic sauce and a buttered, toasted roll. It’s simple but with a flavor blend that’s perfect for fall, tailgating, and hopefully winning this cook-off so Ender can stop worrying so much about his sister.
When I finally emerge from the kitchen, Ender is dozing on the sofa. Hesitantly—because I’m not sure what he needs more, sleep or food—I rub his arm. He peers at me with one eye and sniffs the air. His other eye pops open and he sits fully.
“That smells amazing. Is this the recipe for the cook-off?” He accepts the plate I offer him with all the excitement of a kid handed his favorite food.
“Yeah. Figured you should try it for real before I make it for the judges. I managed to shave a little time off my prep, too.”
He takes a big bite and his eyes roll back. With a full mouth, he says, “I need to hire you. You can’t leave Charleston. Sorry. You’re now my personal chef.”
“Well, Iamlooking for a job. I have experience as a personal chef for an athlete, you know.”
“Your brother?” he asks, taking another bite.
“Yep, but now he has a great wife to do that for him so I’m not needed as often. Or at all, really. She’s a great cook, so I’m only called in when there are meatballs to be made.”
“So you’re saying the best way to get a permanent personal chef is to marry one?” He looks me dead in the eyes to deliver his line, which makes the heat that attacks my whole face impossible to miss. “I might have to consider that option.”
The sandwich doesn’t stand a chance, which is unfortunate for me because I’m trying to figure out what to say in response. The rate at which he consumes his food does not give me much time to work out his comments, design a noncommittal but flirty response, nor to gain the composure with which to deliver it. All bad things, which is why I say, “I’m open for applications.”
I’m open for applications.
And he doesn’t miss a beat.
“Shouldn’t I be the one open for applications if I’m the one hiring a personal chef?” He’s going to play like he didn’t drop the wife bomb and add another layer of tension to our already stew-thick interactions. I either have to call him out on what he said, or admit he’s right. I can’t do either of those because he knows that I know what he said. Admitting he’s right is admitting I’m embarrassed to call him out. Calling him out means more blushing and putting myself out there as possible wife material.
What are we even talking about? I’ve known him not even two full weeks.
“You’re going to ignore me, aren’t you?” He puts his plate on the coffee table and sits back on the sofa, arms crossed, with a big old smirk on his face. The cocky little jerk.
“I figure maybe if I ignore you, you’ll eat some humble pie.” I reach for the plate to take it to the kitchen. He rises to follow me, no doubt to tease me a little more.
