Page 7 of Knotty, Nice, & Holiday Lights
Without thinking, I jump into action, heading for the huge, stainless Sub-Zero fridge across the kitchen and swinging open the French doors.
“We have all sorts of cold-cuts I just got from the deli, and I have about every form of condiment you could ask for,” I tell her. “If meat isn’t your thing, I have all sorts of veggies and vegetarian dips.”
“Oh, meat isdefinitelymy thing.”
And there go my bones again, trying to escape my body at the sound of her sultry voice right beside me.
She’s stealthy, like a ninja.
Kunoichi?Isn’t that what female ninja are called?
“It is,” she says, and I look down at her smiling face, realizing I’d asked that out loud.
And what was that she said about meat?
A nervous laugh escapes me, and I clear my throat. “Uh, would you care to look at what we have? I can whip something up for you.”
“Why don’t you,” she places a hand gently on my forearm, making me shiver, “go sit down. I think I’ve caused you enough duress with mystealthy ninja waysfor now.”
Dammit. This was not the way I wanted the afternoon to go. I should be comfortable in my own freaking skin, like a man, not scared and jumpy like a little boy.
Setting my jaw, I turn from the fridge and return to my cooling bread, busying myself with setting up a bread knife and the dishof soft sweet butter I’d set out, then taking a plate from the cabinet and setting it on the island counter where Izzy had made probably the fastest decision I’d ever witnessed. She’d taken some cold cuts, cheese, and mayo out, moved the salt and pepper grinders closer to her. She smiles at me before pulling the plate over to her little work station.
“Do you want fresh sourdough for your sandwich? I also have white and wheat.”
“Sourdough sounds perfect.”
I turn back to my perfect loaf and start slicing.
It took me almost six months to get my mother’s recipe right, despite her meticulous notes on how to do what. She’d always covered her recipes in chicken-scratch, adding new tips, tricks, and observations each time she made something. This way, she’d never forget what improvements she made.
Now, I do the same. Though, my handwriting is a bit neater.
As Izzy makes her turkey and ham sandwich, I butter the heel of the sourdough and take a bite, letting the savory flavor permeate my mouth as I chew through the crust.
“No sandwich for you?”
I peer at her over my bread heel. She’s gathered all the items to return them to the fridge.
“No, thank you,” I say. “But let me get all that for you so you can eat.”
She’s shaking her head and already moving for the fridge. “I’ve got it.”
She didn’t let me make her sandwich, she doesn’t want me to clean up after her, and right now our dynamic is host and guest. If she won’t let me care for her when it’s my paid job, what would this mean for a relationship between us? Would she ever let me care for her?
I may have only known her for about an hour, but Izzy seems like an independent woman.
“Tell me about yourself, Will,” she says, taking a seat on one of the barstools at the island.
I purse my lips. “If you let me get you something to drink.”
She lets out a laugh and nods. “Okay. Any diet cola?”
I grin and head back for the fridge, where on the other side of the lunch meat are a few can caddies and well-organized glass bottles of beer, courtesy of my friend Vaughn at Wildflower Brewing Company.
With a can of diet cola in my grasp, I dip down to the freezer drawer below for a frosted glass, then bring both to Izzy, whose eyes widen at the sight.
“Oooh, fancy,”she hums as I pop the tab and pour the soda into the cold glass, then turn the handle in her direction. “Thank you.” Her smile is bright, but her eyes are hooded as she looks up at me, and my heart flutters in my chest.
