The Truth About Love (8 page)

“Yeah. How sad is that? Being consoled by the opposition because my dad lets me down again.”

“But I’m a good listener. About anything.” Her gaze rose to his and held there. A growling sound gurgled in his midsection. His palm clapped against his belly.

She laughed. “Was that your stomach?”

“I might have forgotten to eat the last couple of days.” They’d stopped for burgers on the drive home from Tampa last night, but he hadn’t eaten much of his.

“Yeah?” She popped up off the couch. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re with one of the best omelet makers in Tallahassee.”

He held his hands up and shook his head. “No. I didn’t come here to mooch a meal off you.”

She grabbed one of his arms and pulled it, encouraging him to get up and come with her. “Come on. I never cook for myself. It doesn’t make sense when there’s only one person. And I love a big breakfast.”

He hesitated.

“Sausage links,” she said in a singsong voice. She’d bought a packet of them a few days ago, thinking they’d keep forever in the freezer. “Fried potatoes. Omelets.”

He laughed as he stood. “How many people are coming over?”

He now stood inches from her, almost nose to nose. The closeness of him made her feel giddy. “I told you—I like breakfast.”

“I just never knew a girl who could eat more than I can,” he teased.

She grinned. She’d always been grateful for her physicality and strength. Had never gone through the body hang-ups that some girls had. She tilted her head playfully. “Are you calling me fat?”

His hands traveled to her hips as his eyes met hers. The fun, flirty atmosphere was replaced by a silent connection between them. “I’m definitely not calling you fat.”

She took a deep breath. Her gaze fell to his lips as the manly smell of him swirled around her. She immediately jerked her gaze back up to his olive-green eyes. God, would he think she wanted him to kiss her? This was all so . . . inappropriate. She couldn’t be making out in her apartment with someone involved in one of her cases. She could almost hear Dr. Howard’s class lecture on conflicts of interest. Still, she didn’t want the moment to end. “Then what are you saying?”

He took a tiny step forward, drawing their bodies even closer together. “What I’m saying . . .”

Landon’s mind whirred as he stood with his hands on Gina’s hips. He’d come here to talk about his dad, yet here he was, unable to keep from touching her. “What I’m saying is . . . that you confuse me.”

She seemed to know what he was talking about. “Because you don’t know whether to run me over in the parking lot . . . ?”

He nodded, waiting for her to finish her sentence. The only sound in the room was the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“. . . or kiss me?”

He nodded again.

“I think the kissing would be a bad idea.” Her soft whisper filled the few inches between them. Despite her words, she didn’t pull away.

“Because of the case?”

“And because I confuse you.”

“Maybe the kissing would help.” He was for damn sure willing to give it a try.

“But I could lose my job.”

The sweet scent of her beckoned him closer. “It’s just a summer gig anyway.”

Her mouth fell open in mock surprise. “You want me to risk my career to kiss you?”

“It would probably be worth your while.” And if it led to other things . . . well, he’d definitely make sure she enjoyed that, too.

She covered his hands with hers and gently pulled them away from her hips. “Maybe we should stick with breakfast.”

She turned and walked toward the kitchen, giving him a great view of that sweet ass in tiny yellow shorts. He stood for a minute, wishing that little scene had turned out differently, then followed her into the kitchen.

She handed him a cutting board and two potatoes. “You’re in charge of these. Wash them first, then cut them into thin slices. Leave the skin on.” She opened the fridge and bent over to rummage through one of the drawers.

Again, the yellow shorts caught his attention, but he needed to stop staring and keep up with his end of the conversation. “You’re kind of bossy.”

“You want to help or do you want to complain?”

What he wanted to do was stay right here with her, whatever that took. And he hated himself for it. He hated that he’d started out wanting to find out more about his mother’s case and ended up enjoying—way more than he wanted to—his time with Gina.

He turned on the water to wash the potatoes as she pulled something from the fridge and closed the door. She walked over beside him and stuck a green pepper under the stream of water. There she was, close again. Leaning against him. Her breast grazed the back of his arm.

“This okay in your omelet?” she asked as she stepped away from him.

“Sure.” His throat was thick. He cleared it, feeling like a horny eighth grader who got all flustered at the thought of a boob touching him. “Sure,” he said again, with more conviction this time.

“Mozzarella or cheddar?”

“Are you always this prepared to fix a guy breakfast?” He didn’t want to think about another man standing in her kitchen. And he
really
didn’t want to think about what they might have done the night before.

She paused and grinned at him, as if she was on to his little tinge of jealousy. “I haven’t fixed breakfast for any guys since I’ve been in Tallahassee.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking.”

She pulled two knives from the silverware drawer. “I’m pretty sure it was,” she said as she turned toward him.

“Your sex life is none of my business.” He grasped the knife she held out for him.

She didn’t let go of the utensil. “Then why are you asking about it?”

He held her gaze for several seconds, challenging her. He didn’t want her to know how much he thought about having sex with her. “Cheddar.”

She released the knife and motioned to the cutting board. “Cut your potatoes. Thin. Like potato chips.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He’d do just about anything, he realized, to stay here with her.

“And no more looking at my ass.”

His eyes widened. She’d caught him.

“I’ll just . . . ummmm”—he motioned toward the cutting board behind him—“cut these potatoes now.” He turned around, ready to get to work before she nailed him again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

G
ina watched as Landon sliced the potatoes. How adept a person was in the kitchen told a lot about how they’d been raised. Though Gina’s family was fairly well-off, she’d learned to cook from both her parents, unlike her wealthy roommate, Caitlyn, from sophomore year, who’d grown up with a housekeeper and didn’t even know how an electric can opener worked.

“You’ve done this before,” Gina said as she scooped from the margarine tub.

He chuckled. “Only a few thousand times.”

“You worked in a restaurant?”

“My aunt used to leave a note for me every day after school, telling me what I needed to do to get supper started.”

“I would have thought you had football practice.” She plopped the margarine into the skillet.

He reached for the second potato. “And basketball. And baseball.”

The rhythmic sound of the knife thwacking on the cutting board was relaxing. Homey. “So when did you have time to start dinner?”

He shrugged. “She was out even later than I was.”

“So what’s your specialty?” She loved the camaraderie with him. Their closeness. It was comfortable. Almost . . . intimate.

He turned to face her as he chuckled. “My specialty?”

“What do you like to cook?” She slid the mound of margarine around in the skillet, trying to get it to melt faster.

He turned back toward the cutting board and sliced some more. “Chili. Beef roast. Frozen pizzas.”

She laughed. “Frozen pizzas aren’t really cooking.”

“They are when your job keeps you out a lot of evenings.”

“What is it you do for the senator exactly?”

He straightened his back. “Senior statistical analyst,” he said in an official-sounding voice, but with a touch of sarcasm.

“You don’t like it?”

“The statistics part is fine. I was a math major, so it’s a pretty good gig.”

So, good looks, athleticism,
and
brains. The whole package. But there was something he wasn’t telling her. “What’s the part you don’t like?”

He stood motionless, no longer chopping the potatoes. It was as if he wasn’t making eye contact with her on purpose. “Never mind.” He started slicing again. “I like it all.”

She hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if what she’d sensed for a while now was really true. Finally, she decided to dive in. To test the deep, still waters known as Landon Vista. “You don’t like that there’s so much focus on your mom’s murder. That you’re their poster child for tougher sentencing guidelines.”

His shoulders rose and fell in an exaggerated shrug.

She turned down the burner and set the spatula on the counter. Dare she comfort him? Dare she try to get beneath his facade?

She walked up behind him and placed her hand on his back. He stiffened, then slowly relaxed.

“You don’t have to work there,” she said. A shoulder muscle rippled underneath his shirt.

He set the knife the counter, finished with his task. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

She paused, thinking about that TED Talk she’d watched on her computer—the presentation about how everyone felt vulnerable. But should she share her own fears with him? She swallowed. “I hate going into the prisons.”

He turned to look at her. “What?”

“I love knowing that I’m helping innocent people get out, but I hate going in there. It’s scary and claustrophobic and . . . without hope.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

So maybe you’ll open up to me.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess everyone hates something about their job.” She reached around him and took the cutting board full of potatoes from him and slid them into the skillet. They sizzled in the melted margarine.

“Seems like a tough career for someone whose clients are, by definition, in prison.”

She had to agree, but she’d promised herself she’d do it. It was her way to make amends.

But Landon didn’t need to know that. She’d never told anybody how strongly she felt about why she had to do it.

“Can you get another skillet from there?” She pointed to a lower cabinet with her toe. “And then get the eggs out of the fridge?”

They worked steadily beside each other until the huge breakfast was ready. “If you need ketchup for your potatoes, it’s in the fridge.” She set the heaping plates on the table next to the glasses of orange juice she’d asked him to pour.

He retrieved the bottle and rushed over to the little nook to pull a chair out for her.

She smiled. “You really were raised a good Southern boy, weren’t you?”

He shrugged. “It’s the least I can do since you’re feeding me so well.” He pushed her chair in and sat in the other one.

She sipped her orange juice, then set her glass on the table. “Taste your omelet,” she said, eager for his opinion.

He took a bite and nodded as he chewed. “Good.”

Satisfied, she picked up her own fork and started eating. They ate silently for a long while. The hum of a car passing by on Bronough Street was the only sound in the kitchen.

“I hate being the guy everybody thinks they know,” Landon said, finally breaking the silence.

She lowered her fork slowly as her gaze met his. She could tell the conversation had taken a turn.

“It’s what I hate about my job,” he continued. “People fawning over me because I used to play football. They don’t even know me.”

She nodded. She’d gotten a taste of that from her own playing days. Groupies who wanted a piece of her, even though they knew nothing about her. And that was women’s volleyball. It had to have been a hundred times worse for a guy who won Division I football games on TV every Saturday afternoon.

“Some days I wish I could just sneak away. Go become a river guide or work for the fish and wildlife commission”—he waved his fork in the air—“or something else deep in the woods.”

“You don’t have to stay in such a public job. Or even stay in Tallahassee, for that matter.”

“Oh yeah? Where else would I live?” He reached for the ketchup bottle and twisted off the lid.

“I once read that Wyoming has the fewest people per square mile.” She wondered where—ten years from now—each of them would be.

“Sounds like the perfect spot.” He shook the ketchup bottle over his potatoes, which were the only thing remaining on his plate. Nothing came out. He shook it again. Still nothing.

“Here. Let me. I used to have to do this when I worked summers in a restaurant.” She took the bottle from him and beat it against the heel of her hand as she aimed it toward his plate.

Nothing came out.

She stood up for a better angle and leaned over the table. Yes, she’d hated it when the male customers used to leer at her boobs when she did this as a waitress, but her shirt today wasn’t as low cut as her uniform had been at the steakhouse back home.

She shook the bottle and then raised her head. Landon looked up from her chest to her face. He held her gaze. Silent heat simmered between them.

She looked down again, fully aware that Landon’s attention would drop back to her cleavage. But she liked that he was attracted to her. That she had something he wanted. Something that would at least keep him interested.

She pounded the bottle on the heel of her hand, harder this time. A giant mass of ketchup burst out and onto his lap, spreading across his light khaki shorts. His jaw dropped open as he scooted his chair back.

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry.”

“Didn’t keep your restaurant job long, did you?”

“That never happened before.” She grabbed a wad of paper towels to mop up the puddle on top of his zipper, then realized she couldn’t really . . . dab . . . there. She pulled back instinctively.

“I’ve got it.” He took the paper towels from her and scooted the red mass around on his lap. There was so much of it that sopping it up seemed like a futile effort.

She jumped up. “Let me get you some other pants to wear home.”

“No. I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.”

She motioned to his pants. “I’ll wash those for you—make sure the stain comes out.”

“You don’t have pants big enough—” He stood.

She held in a giggle as the ketchup ran down his shorts and onto his legs. “I do. I have this huge pair of sweatpants.” She glanced at his sopping-wet crotch. “Never mind. I’ll be back,” she said as she dashed into her bedroom.

Landon hoped to God no one in Tallahassee saw him in the sweatpants Gina had insisted he wear home. Could a guy look any more stupid than he did, with huge orange letters emblazoned across his ass? Especially the words
Tennessee Volunteers
when everyone in town was a Seminoles fan?

But he’d told Calvin he’d return his cordless drill this morning, and after all the guy had done for him—as both a coach and a friend—he didn’t want to let him down. Calvin had bought his wife a new wine rack for her birthday and he needed to put it together.

Landon knocked on the front door of Calvin’s house and turned toward the street behind him, checking again to make sure none of the neighbors were in their yards.

Calvin answered the door in a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. He’d gone two-ninety in his playing days, but had slimmed down to two-thirty or so since he’d been coaching at Florida State.

“Hey.” His friend opened the door wide for Landon to enter. The ebony-colored skin on his forearms glistened in the morning sun. “Rachel’s making pancakes. You want to come in and have some?”

“I already had a big breakfast, but thanks.” He handed Calvin the drill. “I’ve . . . got to be somewhere.” Back home. Where he could change out of these ridiculous pants.

“Why you in such a hurry?” Calvin stepped out onto the front porch. “You want to at least come in for a glass of juice or something? Sweet tea?”

Landon backed down the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder to see where he was going, unwilling to turn around. “No. Thanks.” He stuck his hand in the air in a sort of half wave. “Got to go.”

When he’d gotten around to the corner of the garage, he’d turned and rushed toward his truck, thankful he heard the door close behind Calvin.

“Hey, Vista.” The deep voice of his former coach thundered from the front porch.

Landon turned to see that Calvin had closed the door, but remained on the outside.

Calvin chuckled. “Nice pants.”

Landon cringed as Calvin’s big, booming voice ricocheted off the other houses in the neighborhood.

“I guess we know where you were last night.” Calvin called, his voice even louder than before.

“Screw you.”

“Screw somebody,” Calvin called.

Landon heard Rachel on the front porch chastising Calvin for shouting across the front lawn, but Landon didn’t turn around. He liked Calvin’s wife, but he sure as hell wanted to get out of there before the entire neighborhood came outside to see what all the yelling was about. Before they saw the big orange letters across his ass.

He turned on his truck and slammed it into reverse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Rachel stood toe-to-toe with Calvin, leaning toward him as she waved a finger in his face and did all the talking. At least Calvin was getting what he deserved. Good.

Landon pressed the gas pedal to get out of there and . . .

Crunch.

Metal crashed against metal.

His body jarred forward.

Shit.