Anya’s voice is small when she says, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Wrong.” After our discussion and what I’ve gathered regarding her underlying parental frustrations she has, I know that she’s going to be a girl who requires proof of action more than words. “She upset you by directly flirting with me. Not happening, babe.”
“Babe, huh?” She teases but she’s smiling again.
My voice takes on a tone much more serious than I intend when I assure her, “I only see you.”
Her jaw drops almost imperceptibly before she quickly schools her features and changes the subject. “So, what are you thinking here?” Her eyes skim the menu.
Letting my menu flop onto the table, I jab my finger in the middle of the left side. “I was hoping you’d want to share a boil bucket.”
She looks where I’m pointing on my menu, finding it on hers and reading through the options, surprising me when she says, “I could totally go for that. Which one are you wanting?”
Seafood is my favorite, but it’s too early to dive into raw fish with her. Baby steps. “I like them all so you can choose the bucket, flavoring, and whether you want any spice.”
She becomes intensely focused as she reads through all the possible combinations. I’m fairly certain she reads every line twice as I watch her jade-green eyes flit back and forth.
“How about the number five? It has crab, shrimp, sausage, broccoli, corn, and boiled eggs?”
I open my mouth to respond when a young lady approaches our table with an order notebook in one hand and her pen ready in the other. She hardly looks old enough to be legally working. “Hello! What can we make for you two today?” she asks sweetly.
Anya smiles kindly at her. “We’re going to share the number five bucket with garlic butter and no spice, please.”
When she’s finished scribbling down the order she smiles and makes her way to the kitchen.
My eyes wander back to Anya and I wish I could know everything about her in an instant; I especially want to know what she’s thinking right now that’s causing her nose to scrunch like that.
“You’re not still mad I’m a football player, are you?” I tease.
She barks a surprised laugh, nearly spitting her sweet tea on me, but catches it with her hand at the last possible second. She rips a paper towel off the roll from the end of the table and wipes her hands and mouth.
“I’m still coming to terms with it.” She counters with a wicked grin. “Maybe it’s you who won’t be able to handle me.”
She meant it in jest, but a flash of pain passes through her features, and I realize she hurt her own feelings, striking a deep nerve with what was supposed to be an off-hand comment.
I can’t stop myself from reaching across the table to take her hand in mine. “I can’t wait to prove you wrong.”
There’s a spark of hope brewing in her eyes that I completely intend to nurture into full blown faith, but we’re interrupted and she pulls away.
Usually, one of my favorite things about this restaurant is how fast they get your food back to you, but I was really enjoying the tingles of our bond everywhere our hands touched. I know she can feel it because she’s looking at her hands like she’s waiting to see blue and purple static coming from them like one of those static electricity light machines.
Unfortunately, today that means there is now a steaming metal platter full of our seafood feast between us. But it also means it’s time to see what my girl’s got.
Will she go for the gloves and bib? Does she know how to crack open her crab legs without demolishing the meat? Does she care to get her hands dirty?
10
Anya
Ihave never had so much fun at dinner in all my life. Not with family, not with girlfriends, and certainly not with a boy . . . that plays football.
When the food arrived, Kodi was watching me like a hawk. The waitress provided us with plastic bibs, gloves, the shell crackers, and fun little forks to dig the meat out of the crab.
Kodi just smiled at me, not moving to begin eating or don the protective plastics provided to us. With a nervous smile on my face, I just went for it, pulling a large crab leg off the platter.
The trick is to snap the leg at the joints and if you’re lucky, the meat will come out easily. It’s okay if it doesn’t, then you just need to snap the shell in half—careful not to snap it so hard you break the meat with it—and then the crab meat should be easy enough to slide out of half the shell.
A massive smile crossed Kodi’s face as I triumphantly showed him my large piece of crab meat, dipped it in the butter, and nearly moaned at how good it was. I hadn’t had this in ages and hadn’t realized how much I missed the never-ending seafood I seemed to have access to in Washington. Seemingly happy with my enjoyment of the meal, he got to work on his own.
