Page 64 of Reel Love

I smile back. We’re closer than we even are in the helm of Joel’s boat. And those times have been out on the ocean. I’ve never caught the way Stevens smells, but it hits me unexpectedly now. He’s like the ocean breeze, salt and crisp, but with something soothing like a cup of tea or a bedside candle in the undertones.

I walk back to the last paper bag on the counter and grab out a box of frozen brown rice.

“Heads up,” I say, tossing the box in Stevens’ direction. He reaches out and catches it, reads the label and sets the box into my freezer.

Unpacking groceries usually serves as a reminder that my week is about to take flight. Tonight feels like an extension of a much-needed vacation.

We work side by side, unloading the rest of the items into my cabinets, fridge and walk-in pantry.

“This place is as big as my entire living room,” Stevens says, emerging after setting some raw nut butter and rice cakes on the shelf in my pantry.

His tone is so neutral, I don’t feel self-conscious in the least.

I attempt to diffuse the disparity between us by saying, “Well, in my Hollywood apartment, I don’t even have a pantry.”

Somehow, mentioning that I have an entire separate residence doesn’t level the playing field in the least. But Stevens takes it in stride.

“Well, my other dwelling doesn’t have a pantry either.”

“You have a second home?”

He smiles a smile that should be on billboards, only it’s so homey and directed only at me, his new friend—at least I think we might be friends now.

“My other home: the ocean.”

“Ahhh.” I laugh a little. “I forgot you’re a merman.”

“How did you find out?” He chuckles good-naturedly.

“Brigitte dubbed you that the day we bumped into you in the cove.”

He smiles. I imagine he’s secretly entertaining the thought of being a merman. Something nearly boyish crosses his face for a moment. It’s a nuance of an expression actors work years to master.

“You being a merman would explain how you stay underwater so long,” I add with a wink.

“You’re on to me. Promise me you’ll keep my scaly secret.”

“Cross my heart.” I make the X motion on my chest, then I walk to the fridge and open the door.

“Let’s see. We have …” I read the labels Marta put on each container. “Chicken breast with green beans and a balsamic glazed couscous, halibut filet with citrus salsa and asparagus, or a mixed green salad with slivers of lean strip steak and roasted sweet potatoes.”

“No pizza?” His face is serious, but I can see the mirth in his eyes.

“Pizza is a rarity.”

“Any of that sounds good. But I don’t want to take one of the meals you already had planned to eat this week.”

“It’s fine. I can get more where this came from. And I can always resort to soup. Besides, I’ll more than likely be in Hollywood a few nights this week.”

“You could always feast on that bucket of plain Greek yogurt.”

I laugh. “That will last me a week of breakfasts.”

“Surprise me,” he says, tipping his chin toward the fridge.

He’s certainly surprising me. I watch as he plops onto one of the barstools, pivoting and extending his long legs out to the side.

“Should I help cook?” he offers.

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