Page 7 of Wrecked
I fire up the grill and prepare dinner. When they’re done, I set everything up on the granite island and glance around at the stark white kitchen. I'll admit it, I cleaned the stainless appliances and they gleam like a motherfucker. But this is not a date. There’s a knock at my door, and I rush to answer it. Running my fingers through my hair, I spot her on my doorstep. Fuck, she’s sexy. Her little red dress and sandals are perfect and match her ruby, red lips. Not a date. Friends. Just friends. I can do this.
“Come on in,” I say, ushering her inside.
She’s shy, moving slowly past the threshold, and I place my hand on the small of her back. She immediately sidesteps out, and I let my hand fall. It’s awkward for a moment, until she’s in the entryway.
“Ready for kabobs?” I ask with a smile.
“I’m always ready.”
I crack my neck to the side, wishing I could see what else she’s ready for. God, I’d love to find out.
She follows me into the kitchen. “I have some Miller Lite in the fridge. You can grab one if you want,” I offer, trying to make her feel more comfortable. The whole ‘my house is your house.’
She pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge, and my chest warms at the sight.
After the food is plated, I slide hers over to her and she takes a bite. She licks her fingers with an ‘mm’ and my dick twitches. Fuck. Stop. This is friends. We grab our plates and head into the living room.
“I like your house,” she tells me.
“Thanks, the open floorplan is one of the things that sold me on it.”
She glances around at the furnishings—large flat screen tv on the wall, bookcase, leather sofa and recliner—and I wonder what she thinks of my lack of bows. I’m a man, so my place isn’t bogged down with frilly decor. It's simple. Like me. Most days. Sure, when I get under the hood of an old car, yeah, I get greasy, but I keep the grease at the shop and my place neat. It isn’t borderline obsessive clean, but everything has its place. Especially my prized possession: a framed Wayne Gretsky signed jersey and official picture. It hangs right over the couch, and Payton stares at it for a moment.
“Hockey fan?” she asks, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder before planting that fine ass on the couch.
I sit beside her. “Gretsky fan. Big difference.”
“Oh, well hockey’s cool.”
“Hockey’s ok,” I say.
“It’s so mean.”
“Mean?” I take a bite of a green pepper.
“They nearly kill each other on the ice. It’s all so violent.”
I tilt my head to the side. She’s sweet. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of violent. What about you? Big sports fan?”
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
“Knitting?” I ask.
Confusion is set in her eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Your hobbies. I bet you knit. Like sweaters and shit,” I say, taking another bite.
She laughs. “No, I don’t know how to knit.”
“So, what does Payton Hudson like to do for fun? You do know what fun is right?”
She glares at me, crinkling her nose. “Yes, I know how to have fun.”
“That doesn’t involve decorating?”
“Oh, ha ha. I sometimes like to hike.” She takes a sip of her beer.
I set my plate down, taking a quick swallow of beer. “Wait a second, you hike?”
