Page 7 of Fumbled Into Love

“I’m here. Uh…Maybe this is an in-person conversation.”

My stomach plummets straight to the dingy tiled floor. An in-person conversation? I flip my chicken, steeling my sudden nerves. “Oh…well, I’m free now. I work late the rest of the week for the after-school program. Did you want to come over?”

Another drawn-out pause. “Sure,” Deon croaks out.

“I’ll send you my address,” I say, before hanging up and slumping against the countertop.

What the hell is going on?

Three sharp bangs echo through my apartment as I’m throwing things into my bedroom. I didn’t take in the disaster of my space before I invited Deon to my apartment. Clothes are thrown across the living room, multiple pairs of Converse rest in forgotten corners, and my kitchen is a nightmare.

I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes chucking everything I can onto the floor in my room, so I can exude the persona of someone tidy. I’ve never been tidy, even after years of trying to train myself. Marie Kondo couldn’t even save me with her organizational skills. I am a lost cause, but if someone comments on my mess, I simply say it’s ‘organized chaos’. I can’t fix the weird water stains on the ceiling or the crooked kitchen cupboards, but I can at least clear off the couch and fluff the pillows.

Deon’s arm is mid-air, ready to knock again, when I swing the door open.

Piercing green eyes meet mine and I scan his face, searching for the twin dimples that appear when he smiles, but instead of the calm, collected facade he often wears, his eyes are frenzied. Wide, broad shoulders fill my door frame and the muscles of his bicep pull taut against the thin long-sleeve workout shirt. His arm jerks to his side.

“Hi,” he says meekly.

“Come in!” Too cheery. I tone it down. “Are you hungry? I made dinner.”

I swing the door wide and he slowly steps across the threshold, eyes roaming the cramped apartment. It’s not much, but I wanted to live alone and I survive on a non-profit salary. The door clicks shut and the room is eerily silent as I analyze my space.

Tomato sauce is splashed against the stovetop and I spot a few shoes I missed in my panicked attempt to clean.

Oof.

“Do you like chicken parmesan?” I ask, making a lousy attempt to fill the silence as Deon stares. “The sauce is made with tomatoes from Maren and Jack’s greenhouse.” His gaze swings to the stovetop, and he nods, dropping into a chair at my kitchenette. I make two plates and hand one to Deon. “We can talk after eating.”

He nods again, digging in. His plate is empty in ten quick bites and he eyes the rest of the food on the stove. Just like Santi. He never stops eating. I call him a walking garbage disposal the way he’s willing to eat any and everything.

“There’s plenty if you want seconds,” I offer, halfway through my plate.

“I shouldn’t…” He longingly gazes at the stove and it dissipates a fraction of the tension in my shoulders.

“You should…” I respond with a sly smile.

His lip ticks upward and a soft warmth settles in my cheeks.

Dinners are often a silent affair in front of the television with whatever dating show is on. There’s something special about sharing a meal with someone and knowing they enjoy the food you prepare.

Deon rises, crossing the small kitchen. The cramped space shrinks as he piles more food onto his plate. My eyes snag on the way his muscles flex as he scoops pasta out of the pot. The crisp, clean scent of his cologne sways past as he returns to the table, immediately shoveling food into his mouth. My phone dings and I scramble for it.

Declan: Have you spoken to Deon?

My chest flutters. I glance at the quarterback, whose gaze burns into my skin as I respond.

He’s in my living room…What do you know?

Declan: Text me after.

The phone drops from my hand, landing with a thud against the two-person dinette. Whatever Deon wants to talk about, Declan knows the subject.

Deon rises rapidly, startling me.

“Talk. We need to talk.”

His eyes flicker around the room, looking everywhere except in my direction before he stalks into the living room.

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