Page 11 of Mom-Com
I bit my thumbnail. “I forgot cinnamon.”
“Who doesn’t have cinnamon?” Gabby teased me.
“A mom whose kids hate oatmeal, that’s who.” I sighed and went to grab my purse by the door. “Back to the store I go.”
“Why don’t you just ask to borrow some from Mrs. Reynolds next door?”
Gabby was the voice of reason among the two of us. “That’s a great idea. I’ll be back in a flash.”
I dropped my purse, jammed my feet into my ratty slippers, and rushed over to Mrs. Reynolds’ house. I rang the doorbell and hopped from foot to foot to keep warm. After a significant wait and a second jab to the doorbell, I had to face the fact that no one was home. I spun around to traipse back across the lawn and grab my purse for the trip to the store after all when my gaze landed on Jameson’s house.
What were the odds he’d have cinnamon on hand?
What were the odds he’d be in skin-tight biker shorts again?
I hustled across my lawn and up to his door, taking a deep breath before ringing his doorbell. I was there for cinnamon, not a peek at his muscles. Besides, it would take having all my wits about me to navigate a conversation with him, as awkward as he was.
The door swung open and there he stood, creased slacks, dark blue sweater vest over a button-down shirt, and a severe expression. His thick eyebrows were drawn, a significant valley gouging between his eyes.
“Um, hi! Sorry to disturb you.” I went for a smile, but he continued to look at me with that expression. His eyes had a hazy look to them, like he was seeing me, but not really seeing me. It made about as much sense as my previous interaction with him. I forged ahead. My man-pies were desperate. “Okay, so, I’m baking some apple pies and just realized I forgot to buy cinnamon. Any chance you have some lying around I could use?”
He stared at me for a beat longer before his eyebrows relented and his gaze cleared. “Uh, sure. I think I have some. Come on in.” He backed away from the door and spun on his heel—yes, he was wearing dress shoes in his own house—and walked toward a doorway that I presumed led to the kitchen. I shuffled behind in my fuzzy slippers.
“All our stuff is still kind of packed away, but I’m sure I can find it.” He came to an abrupt stop and I almost ran into his broad back, my slippers giving very little traction on the wood floor.
I backed off quickly and silently, and peered around him. There were three large open cardboard boxes in the middle of his kitchen. One was packed to the top with small appliances and all manner of spatulas and serving spoons. Another held a year’s supply of canned soup. The last one was a mystery in that everything in it was wrapped in brown packing paper.
He stood there staring at the three boxes, not moving.
“So, you guys like soup?” I could have slapped my forehead. What the hell kind of question was that? Felt like the awkward conversation virus was spreading and I was its current victim.
He whipped his head toward me, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, yeah. I’m not much of a cook, so I keep a lot of soup on hand. Pretty hard to mess that up.”
Then he started digging around in the small appliance box, setting a lemon pepper container on the counter, then a garlic salt shaker, before finally unearthing the cinnamon container from under the toaster.
“Aha! I knew I had it.” He presented it to me like a proud cat dragging in a dead mouse.
“Well, thanks. You’ve saved me a trip to the store. I appreciate it. I’ll bring it back shortly.” I hugged the bottle to my chest and inched my way out of the kitchen.
He waved off my suggestion. “No worries. Take your time. I rarely use cinnamon.” Then he grinned and I froze for a second. Gone was the nerdy professor, in its place a handsome man who could turn female heads if he only tried. Then he frowned and I could breathe again. I must have been mistaken, the glimpse too brief to have been real.
“Okay, well, thanks again.” I lifted the cinnamon in some sort of weird toast and then hightailed it back to the front door. I had to get out of there. I barely knew the man. I probably shouldn’t have come in his house what with all the crazy stories you heard about murders and kidnappings in Southern California.
I was halfway to my house when I heard his front door finally click shut.
“Hey, Mrs. Reynolds came through, huh?” Gabby smiled at the cinnamon in my hand when I came into the kitchen.
“Not really. I got this from my new neighbor, Jameson.” I got busy finding the teaspoons to measure it into the apple and sugar mixture.
“Jameson, huh? He sounds hot.” Gabby elbowed me. “Is he?”
I didn’t meet her eyes, just kept mixing the apples so they were thoroughly coated with the cinnamon and sugar. These pies had to be perfect so Mr. Future Lily-Marie would know how fabulous I was and want to taste all my other delightful desserts, if you know what I mean.
“Um, not really. He’s kind of a nerdy professor, to be honest.”
“Hmm...sometimes those types are actually the really hot ones under their glasses. Looks can be deceiving, you know?”
“He doesn’t wear glasses, I don’t think. Sweaters, yes. But not glasses.”
