Mai Tai'd Up
Page 21
“Lucas?” I asked, and he popped his head out from the pantry.
“Holy hell, there’s another case of pudding in here! And seven, no, eight boxes of chocolate Pop-Tarts!”
“Okay, that’s it. Get out of my pantry; you’re a pest!” I shouted, marching him once more to the table. “Don’t make fun of my consolation chocolate.”
“Your what?” he asked, confusion all over his gorgeous face. Oh, man, I was in trouble.
“My consolation chocolate. I went through a breakup. I’m entitled. Besides, you should have seen the diet my mother had me on to fit into my wedding dress. Ugh.” I cracked eggs angrily into a bowl and whisked with a vengeance. “I am owed that chocolate.”
“I believe you,” he replied, watching me pour the eggs into the onion mixture.
“I’d ask you to pour the orange juice, but I’m afraid I’d have to hear about the chocolate milk,” I said, looking at him over the burners.
“Can I have some of it?”
“My chocolate milk?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
“Then you won’t hear a word about it,” he answered promptly, heading back to the fridge. He got out both, and I nodded him toward the cupboard where the glasses were kept. A few minutes later we were sitting at the table with full plates and glasses in front of us. We grinned at each other across the tops of our glasses and dug in.
“This is really good,” he told me as demolished half the omelet in two forkfuls.
“Thanks.”
I sat contentedly for a moment, listing to the scrape and clink of his fork as he polished off the other half. In just a few short weeks I’d gotten used to the quiet, but the silence of one is very different than the silence of two. It was nice to have another scrape and clink in the kitchen.
“So what’s with the house?” he asked suddenly and, surprised, I choked on my orange juice. “You okay?” He thumped me on the back.
“Sorry, wrong pipe. What did you mean?”
“This crazy pad, man—these ring-a-ding-ding digs. I feel like I should be saying things like chickie baby.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s not my taste, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you kidding? This place is great!” he said with such enthusiasm that I found myself smiling again. I sure did smile a lot around this guy.
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s. It’s been in the family for years, but we hardly ever use it. Hence, the very out-of-date decor.”
“And now it’s the home of a pit bull rescue. Very cool.”
“Yeah. Not at all what I was expecting when I came up here; I just needed some space. And how lucky for me that I’ve got the land to do this here.”
“Is this what you did in San Diego? Like, for a living?” he asked.
I took the opportunity to examine my plate. “Not exactly.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“I’ve never had a paying job before. I was good at one thing, and that was winning crowns. Then I volunteered. Then I was engaged. And I wasn’t going to work once I was married. So this is kind of a big step for me,” I snapped, throwing my fork down. Where had that come from, and why was my chin wobbling?
Ah, fudge.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a touchy subject for me, I guess.” I sniffed, dabbing at the corners of my eyes with a napkin.
“It just happened; I think it’s normal to be a little touchy. You should have seen me after Julie and I broke up. When I first got to Guatemala, I was . . . not myself,” he admitted, pushing his plate away.
“Oh, yeah? Did you cry over omelets like a big baby?” I asked, my voice going all warbly now. Warbly voice and wobbly chin, what a combo.
“Over omelets? No. But I drank more than I usually do, and made a few late-night phone calls that I’m not proud of.” He leaned closer and motioned for me to do the same. “Okay, there was one night when there might have been a tear or two. But that was over some weird goat stew—not an omelet in sight.”
I laughed into my napkin, an ugly, weepy laugh. “What a mess I am.”
“Yeah, you barefoot and in your nightgown,” he said quietly, reaching out to swipe my cheek with his thumb. “What a mess.”
He stood to clear the table, reaching for my plate first. “Okay, we wash dishes, and then we paint. How’s that sound, weepy girl?”
“Good,” I whispered. I whispered because I didn’t trust my voice in that moment. Because there were suddenly other things I wanted to do instead of washing dishes and painting . . .
I’d done most the work the day before, but there were some high spots that were hard for me to reach that I’d saved for last. Being so tall, Lucas was the perfect guy. To hit the high spots, of course.
We talked as we worked. And laughed as we worked. And over the course of the morning, I decided that Lucas Campbell was not just great looking and funny, he was also . . . a nice guy. With Prince Harry hair.
Kryp-to-nite. So much trouble.
I learned that he was an only child but had a lot of extended family, mostly in Northern California. He’d been on the water since he was a kid, originally surfing and now kayaking and paddleboarding—a real beach rat. I learned that he’d never wanted to be anything other than a veterinarian, and to go into the family business that his grandfather started back in the sixties. And I learned more about his ex, Julie.
She hadn’t been on the pageant circuit as long or as extensively as I’d been, and had held mainly local titles, which could be why I’d never met her. She was always more interested in acting, which is what she decided to do when she left Lucas to run off to Los Angeles. Who would ever leave this guy?
Someone is saying the exact same thing about you every time they look at Charles.
Touché.
“So who ended it?”
“Hmm?” I asked from the corner of one of the stalls. I was almost finished, sitting down to paint the baseboards. The old floors had been power washed, then sealed to keep down the dust that was always floating around in old structures like this. With the whitewashing, the entire place looked bright and inviting, the old beams sailing overhead. Things this old were built to last, by God, and the roof only needed minimal patching to keep the dogs dry in even the nastiest of storms.
It was cozy.
And speaking of cozy, Lucas was standing on a stepladder in the stall next to mine, looking down on me from above as he tackled his own last corner. Lucky corner, I mused.
“Holy hell, there’s another case of pudding in here! And seven, no, eight boxes of chocolate Pop-Tarts!”
“Okay, that’s it. Get out of my pantry; you’re a pest!” I shouted, marching him once more to the table. “Don’t make fun of my consolation chocolate.”
“Your what?” he asked, confusion all over his gorgeous face. Oh, man, I was in trouble.
“My consolation chocolate. I went through a breakup. I’m entitled. Besides, you should have seen the diet my mother had me on to fit into my wedding dress. Ugh.” I cracked eggs angrily into a bowl and whisked with a vengeance. “I am owed that chocolate.”
“I believe you,” he replied, watching me pour the eggs into the onion mixture.
“I’d ask you to pour the orange juice, but I’m afraid I’d have to hear about the chocolate milk,” I said, looking at him over the burners.
“Can I have some of it?”
“My chocolate milk?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
“Then you won’t hear a word about it,” he answered promptly, heading back to the fridge. He got out both, and I nodded him toward the cupboard where the glasses were kept. A few minutes later we were sitting at the table with full plates and glasses in front of us. We grinned at each other across the tops of our glasses and dug in.
“This is really good,” he told me as demolished half the omelet in two forkfuls.
“Thanks.”
I sat contentedly for a moment, listing to the scrape and clink of his fork as he polished off the other half. In just a few short weeks I’d gotten used to the quiet, but the silence of one is very different than the silence of two. It was nice to have another scrape and clink in the kitchen.
“So what’s with the house?” he asked suddenly and, surprised, I choked on my orange juice. “You okay?” He thumped me on the back.
“Sorry, wrong pipe. What did you mean?”
“This crazy pad, man—these ring-a-ding-ding digs. I feel like I should be saying things like chickie baby.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s not my taste, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you kidding? This place is great!” he said with such enthusiasm that I found myself smiling again. I sure did smile a lot around this guy.
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s. It’s been in the family for years, but we hardly ever use it. Hence, the very out-of-date decor.”
“And now it’s the home of a pit bull rescue. Very cool.”
“Yeah. Not at all what I was expecting when I came up here; I just needed some space. And how lucky for me that I’ve got the land to do this here.”
“Is this what you did in San Diego? Like, for a living?” he asked.
I took the opportunity to examine my plate. “Not exactly.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“I’ve never had a paying job before. I was good at one thing, and that was winning crowns. Then I volunteered. Then I was engaged. And I wasn’t going to work once I was married. So this is kind of a big step for me,” I snapped, throwing my fork down. Where had that come from, and why was my chin wobbling?
Ah, fudge.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a touchy subject for me, I guess.” I sniffed, dabbing at the corners of my eyes with a napkin.
“It just happened; I think it’s normal to be a little touchy. You should have seen me after Julie and I broke up. When I first got to Guatemala, I was . . . not myself,” he admitted, pushing his plate away.
“Oh, yeah? Did you cry over omelets like a big baby?” I asked, my voice going all warbly now. Warbly voice and wobbly chin, what a combo.
“Over omelets? No. But I drank more than I usually do, and made a few late-night phone calls that I’m not proud of.” He leaned closer and motioned for me to do the same. “Okay, there was one night when there might have been a tear or two. But that was over some weird goat stew—not an omelet in sight.”
I laughed into my napkin, an ugly, weepy laugh. “What a mess I am.”
“Yeah, you barefoot and in your nightgown,” he said quietly, reaching out to swipe my cheek with his thumb. “What a mess.”
He stood to clear the table, reaching for my plate first. “Okay, we wash dishes, and then we paint. How’s that sound, weepy girl?”
“Good,” I whispered. I whispered because I didn’t trust my voice in that moment. Because there were suddenly other things I wanted to do instead of washing dishes and painting . . .
I’d done most the work the day before, but there were some high spots that were hard for me to reach that I’d saved for last. Being so tall, Lucas was the perfect guy. To hit the high spots, of course.
We talked as we worked. And laughed as we worked. And over the course of the morning, I decided that Lucas Campbell was not just great looking and funny, he was also . . . a nice guy. With Prince Harry hair.
Kryp-to-nite. So much trouble.
I learned that he was an only child but had a lot of extended family, mostly in Northern California. He’d been on the water since he was a kid, originally surfing and now kayaking and paddleboarding—a real beach rat. I learned that he’d never wanted to be anything other than a veterinarian, and to go into the family business that his grandfather started back in the sixties. And I learned more about his ex, Julie.
She hadn’t been on the pageant circuit as long or as extensively as I’d been, and had held mainly local titles, which could be why I’d never met her. She was always more interested in acting, which is what she decided to do when she left Lucas to run off to Los Angeles. Who would ever leave this guy?
Someone is saying the exact same thing about you every time they look at Charles.
Touché.
“So who ended it?”
“Hmm?” I asked from the corner of one of the stalls. I was almost finished, sitting down to paint the baseboards. The old floors had been power washed, then sealed to keep down the dust that was always floating around in old structures like this. With the whitewashing, the entire place looked bright and inviting, the old beams sailing overhead. Things this old were built to last, by God, and the roof only needed minimal patching to keep the dogs dry in even the nastiest of storms.
It was cozy.
And speaking of cozy, Lucas was standing on a stepladder in the stall next to mine, looking down on me from above as he tackled his own last corner. Lucky corner, I mused.
