Page 23 of Bad Seed
He answers with a little chuckle.
Damn it. I flex my nose to keep from crying, the least attractive thing on a date. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“My talking. I don’t try to do it. I just, when I get nervous, or don’t know what to do, my mouth starts going. Half the time I don’t realize it’s been flapping until I look up and everyone’s staring at me. And I did it again. Sorry.”
Aubry rests the spoon on the pot and turns to me. I only catch a hint of his dark brown eyes before I panic.
“You probably hate it, being the stoic type. I’ll try to shut up. Right now. No more talking… Damn it.”
Wiping his hands off on a kitchen towel, he says, “You’re right.”
I wince.
“I don’t talk much. I haven’t had a conversation with someone other than Astin in…a long time.”
“Really?” I can’t believe he doesn’t have random people stop him on the street just to tell him how hot he is.
“Part of my job was being big, intimidating, and quiet.” He sounds as if he wants to be anything but that, his gaze drifting miles away.
I want to ask him if he misses being a bouncer. If it was a lot of work. If he ever got to meet anyone famous and throw them out.
So I pinch my fingers and fight to shut up.
Aubry’s gaze focus back onto me. “I find your rabid talking refreshing.”
“You do?”
“It’s relaxing in a way.”
He lifts his hand and my heart skips a beat. Slowly, like dancing through molasses, his fingers drift across time and space to land on my space. On me. On my cheek!
“Whenever I have no idea what to say, you’re already filling the empty air.”
Oh my god!He’s running his fingertips over my cheekbone.He’s gonna kiss me! This is it!I slip my eyes closed and ready my lips. All I know is his warm touch cradling me, ready at a moment’s notice to go ‘This is mine’ and pull me to him.
Hiss! Splort!
The touch falls off, and I look around. Aubry’s already moving the pan that’s boiling over. He races to adjust the knob and wipes off the overspill with his towel. It’s a lot easier to take dinner spoiling the mood instead of me.
Well, since he likes me talking, I start to do it. A lot. I tell him how my parents live in Sacramento, that I have a brother who was a rotten brat growing up, but who’s okay now. That I moved to Loomis on a whim with some friends who quickly got other jobs and moved out in a year. How I love photography, but can’t stand weddings, so my options were severely limited.
“…and then I stumbled onto food styling. It’s fascinating. Like one part art, one part chemistry, and a little magic while praying everything doesn’t melt under the lights before I get the shot.”
“And you don’t find taking a hundred pictures of the same fruit bowl boring?”
“No.” I’m damn near vibrating with excitement, wanting to tell him every trick I’ve learned. “I love it. Every peach is unique, the colors, the roundness, the scent...”
“Um-hmm,” Aubry chuckles.
My face flushes, but I keep going full steam ahead. “Taking something we see every day, like a pot noodle, usually viewed under harsh grocery store or kitchen lighting and turning it beautiful is…well, it’s wonderful. Amazing.”
He’s completely stopped to stare at me. “You find food beautiful?”
Oh, that was probably something crazy. I nervously tug on my hair, trying to reel back in what I said, but it’s also the truth. There can be beauty in the shine off of an apple, in the glow of an orange peel, and even in the glint of a spoon in a bowl of a ten dollar cereal.
“Yeah,” I admit, bracing for the ridicule.
