says.
“Huh?”
“The crease in your nose. You also do that when you’re perplexed.”
I love how he notices little things about me.
“It is perplexing,” I insist. “So you’ve never had a kale chip?”
“No.”
I gasp. “I love kale. I live for kale chips. I can’t believe you haven’t eaten one!”
“Um, you act like I haven’t eaten ice cream,” Landon says, laughing.
“Kale is better than ice cream.”
“ What? And you’re perplexed by me?”
I laugh. “Shut up.”
“I’ve never met anyone who would eat kale chips over ice cream.”
“Now you have,” I say.
Landon squints at me from behind his sexy glasses. “Yeah, I have.”
“What’s the squint for?” I say, mimicking his expression back to him.
“You’re different.”
I hesitate for a moment.
This could be good, as in I intrigue him.
Or bad, as in I’m entirely too goofy for a sexy cool guy like Landon.
I mentally will him to think I’m intriguing.
“Different can go one of two ways,” I say.
Landon’s eyes light up. “Really? I see three.”
“Three?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Different good. Different bad. Or different as in freakishly weird.”
I see the way his eyes are dancing at me. I can’t resist. I take my napkin, wad it up, and throw it at him. It bounces off his glasses, and he blinks in surprise. Then he laughs loudly, and I join him.
“That’s for thinking I’m freakishly weird.”
“I didn’t say that,” Landon protests, throwing the napkin back at me, hitting me right in the nose.
“Oh, but you thought it,” I insist.
“Let’s see, you claimed I trained my cat to jump on a plate of sushi so it lands in your bra, you get a chance to ask me anything you want and you want to know what food grosses me out, and you prefer kale chips over ice cream. Yeah. You’re right. You’re freakishly weird.”
I study him. His gorgeous blue eyes are sparkling, and his face is lit up in a smile.
He likes that I’m different, I think as I study him. That I throw the unexpected at him.
We continue our question session, all light and easy, and I learn so much about Landon. The things you can’t find out on Google. The little threads that when woven together, help make the whole of the person.
I learn that he is a night owl, hates getting up in the morning, and has to set three different alarms to make sure he’s not late for practice. He’s grumpy and needs dark-roast coffee with a shot of cream before he’ll even grumble a hello. Landon considers fashion a part of his job—he has some modeling contracts—and spares no expense on his wardrobe. His vision is crap and he wears contacts—the idea of LASIK surgery freaks him out. But he always wears contacts, except when he’s at home. That’s when he puts on his glasses.
All of these kinds of details intrigue me. How he loves kids because they are so accepting and genuine. That he likes scary movies and thinks Alfred Hitchcock was a genius. How hockey has been a part of him since he could walk and he’s seen the world because of it.
And he asks me the same type of questions. How I’m particular about my drink orders at Starbucks: venti iced green tea, less ice, extra sweet or venti passion iced tea lemonade, sweetened with a pump of raspberry. Hot-skinny vanilla latte or skinny flat white with two Splendas. That I love floral prints. That scary movies terrify me and I have to watch with a pillow so I can hide when I get nervous. That I’ve loved art since preschool. That I love the intricate nature of creating jewelry and hope to have my own studio and line someday. How I sell on Etsy now, but in the meantime, teach art classes and supplement my income by working on art for parties.
Time flies by, and when I finally do check my watch, it’s almost midnight.
And we didn’t even open the Trivial Pursuit game.
“Oh, Landon, it’s late,” I say regretfully. “I should go. I have a meeting tomorrow, and you have
“Huh?”
“The crease in your nose. You also do that when you’re perplexed.”
I love how he notices little things about me.
“It is perplexing,” I insist. “So you’ve never had a kale chip?”
“No.”
I gasp. “I love kale. I live for kale chips. I can’t believe you haven’t eaten one!”
“Um, you act like I haven’t eaten ice cream,” Landon says, laughing.
“Kale is better than ice cream.”
“ What? And you’re perplexed by me?”
I laugh. “Shut up.”
“I’ve never met anyone who would eat kale chips over ice cream.”
“Now you have,” I say.
Landon squints at me from behind his sexy glasses. “Yeah, I have.”
“What’s the squint for?” I say, mimicking his expression back to him.
“You’re different.”
I hesitate for a moment.
This could be good, as in I intrigue him.
Or bad, as in I’m entirely too goofy for a sexy cool guy like Landon.
I mentally will him to think I’m intriguing.
“Different can go one of two ways,” I say.
Landon’s eyes light up. “Really? I see three.”
“Three?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Different good. Different bad. Or different as in freakishly weird.”
I see the way his eyes are dancing at me. I can’t resist. I take my napkin, wad it up, and throw it at him. It bounces off his glasses, and he blinks in surprise. Then he laughs loudly, and I join him.
“That’s for thinking I’m freakishly weird.”
“I didn’t say that,” Landon protests, throwing the napkin back at me, hitting me right in the nose.
“Oh, but you thought it,” I insist.
“Let’s see, you claimed I trained my cat to jump on a plate of sushi so it lands in your bra, you get a chance to ask me anything you want and you want to know what food grosses me out, and you prefer kale chips over ice cream. Yeah. You’re right. You’re freakishly weird.”
I study him. His gorgeous blue eyes are sparkling, and his face is lit up in a smile.
He likes that I’m different, I think as I study him. That I throw the unexpected at him.
We continue our question session, all light and easy, and I learn so much about Landon. The things you can’t find out on Google. The little threads that when woven together, help make the whole of the person.
I learn that he is a night owl, hates getting up in the morning, and has to set three different alarms to make sure he’s not late for practice. He’s grumpy and needs dark-roast coffee with a shot of cream before he’ll even grumble a hello. Landon considers fashion a part of his job—he has some modeling contracts—and spares no expense on his wardrobe. His vision is crap and he wears contacts—the idea of LASIK surgery freaks him out. But he always wears contacts, except when he’s at home. That’s when he puts on his glasses.
All of these kinds of details intrigue me. How he loves kids because they are so accepting and genuine. That he likes scary movies and thinks Alfred Hitchcock was a genius. How hockey has been a part of him since he could walk and he’s seen the world because of it.
And he asks me the same type of questions. How I’m particular about my drink orders at Starbucks: venti iced green tea, less ice, extra sweet or venti passion iced tea lemonade, sweetened with a pump of raspberry. Hot-skinny vanilla latte or skinny flat white with two Splendas. That I love floral prints. That scary movies terrify me and I have to watch with a pillow so I can hide when I get nervous. That I’ve loved art since preschool. That I love the intricate nature of creating jewelry and hope to have my own studio and line someday. How I sell on Etsy now, but in the meantime, teach art classes and supplement my income by working on art for parties.
Time flies by, and when I finally do check my watch, it’s almost midnight.
And we didn’t even open the Trivial Pursuit game.
“Oh, Landon, it’s late,” I say regretfully. “I should go. I have a meeting tomorrow, and you have
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