Page 107 of To Belong Together
As she read the example for the second step, a knock broke her focus. She set aside the laptop and paused to clean up her face with a tissue. Again, John was her first thought, but so many others might stop by. Mom, Susanna, someone from church, a neighbor, or even Aunt Connie might want to check in.
She pushed the wadded up tissue into her pocket—why had she never put a trashcan in the living room?—and got the door.
On the stoop, John lifted a brown paper bag. “Hungry?”
A wave of gratitude sideswiped her and spilled instant tears.
She wiped her cheeks and eyes, feeling every bit the fool. “This is what it’s come to. I’m a crybaby at the sight of takeout.”
And John, of course. Mostly John.
Her sight cleared again, and his sympathetic frown came into focus. “That’s a yes?”
With a weak laugh, she stepped aside. “Come on in.”
34
“How much pizza do you eat?”
At John’s question, Erin turned from wrapping plates in newspaper. He stood near her cabinets, a gaping cardboard box at his feet, three metal pizza pans clamped between the fingers of his bad hand, one round baking stone in his good hand.
The task of sorting her pots and pans ought to be beneath Awestruck’s drummer, but instead of complaining, he kept jolting her with his lopsided smile.
She picked up another plate. “If I’d known you would get judgy, I would’ve assigned you to silverware.”
He grinned, eyeing the closed drawers. “I bet you have a few ice cream scoops too.”
“Only two.”
“One for each hand.” Chuckling, he set the pizza stone in the box and piled on the other pans.
If not for his company, she wouldn’t have resumed packing tonight. She’d be wallowing and mourning, writing that eulogy. Tomorrow, she’d have to pick the grief back up and complete her speech, but tonight, a break.
Not that she didn’t feel guilty over how alive she felt in John’s presence. She ought to be sad, but around him, all she wanted to do was flirt. And be close to him. Her breath turned light and ineffective whenever he looked at her.
She set her mind to her work—for all of two minutes, until John snorted. She laid another wrapped plate on the stack in her own box as he lifted four cupcake pans of three different sizes—mini, normal, and mammoth. Fighting his smile, he tipped them over the edge of the box. They settled with a crash that probably didn’t bother a drummer in the least.
“I have an oddly well-stocked kitchen, all things considered. My mom doesn’t get me.” She gazed at the box. “Although the pizza pans were on the right track.”
“Pizza’s a staple at my house too. Cupcakes and ice cream, though …” He ducked his head and pulled out some cookie sheets without comment or a sideways glance. “Fans don’t want a tubby drummer.”
She laughed. “They’re really that shallow?”
“Are you complaining?” He set the cookie sheets in the box and lifted his arms from his sides. On him, even a T-shirt looked good, hinting at definition across his chest and shoulders. With a smirk, he reached into the cabinet again.
Her cheeks flamed. He’d basically asked her to check him out, and she’d taken the bait way too easily. “You stay in shape for your fans?”
More pans clanged into his box. “Not solely for them, but accountability helps.”
Accountability implied they cared about him as a person. From the sound of it, they didn’t.
If those people would judge John for ten pounds, they would judge her too. Her waist might be slim, but Kate hadn’t been the first to point out her muscles. Fans could probably also get mileage out of how poorly she wore heels. How board-straight she was.
She and John had been seen together. Had they already made comments about her on a website somewhere? In some tabloid? About how different she was from his usual company?
She returned to wrapping plates. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
And one more reason they didn’t belong together.
