We stared at each other for a long moment until his foot brushed against mine under the table. “So about that kiss.”
My eyes widened while my heart rate spiked. “What?”
He bit his lip, keeping a smile at bay. “When we were kids. Why’d you do it?”
“Oh, that.” I stirred the syrup on my plate with my fork.
The smile grew to a grin. “What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
My heart was beating in my chest as I took a drink of water. Goodness, the man could flirt like it was his career and here I was—the rookie, part-time hire. Severely out of practice. I wasn’t sure I had ever beeninpractice.
He finished off the bacon on his plate and eyed his pancake before glancing back up at me. “Alright, I’ll let you off the hook about the kiss, for now, but only if you eat a bite at the same time as me. If I choke, I want you to go down with me.”
“Shouldn’t I take a bite after you, so I can help you in case you choke?” I countered.
He looked interested. “Mouth to mouth?”
Heat bloomed in my chest as I fought off an embarrassed laugh. “For choking, I think I’m supposed to shove you, stomach first, into the back of a chair.”
“Yikes. Alright then, we both do it on three.”
When I looked like I might refuse, he added, “Or you have to explain the kiss.”
I picked up my fork, matching his stare with an even one of my own.
“On three,” he said as we both readied our forks with a bite. Honestly, that part took longer than it should have. What was in gluten-free and wheat flour that made it so dense? The wheat flour had definitely been coarse ground, so it had felt grainier when I added it to the batter. Or perhaps it was me not having a recipe that was the real culprit. “One, two…three.”
I remember watching a commercial on TV at my grandma’s house, years and years ago, where a dog was given a big spoonful of peanut butter. The camera zoomed in on the dog’s face while he moved his mouth back and forth, chewing. He kept chewing for the entire thirty-second TV spot, his eyes never changing expression, never quite able to get the peanut butter down his throat. Our experience with un-measured, spur of the moment, dense and gritty gluten-free whole wheat pancakes was similar.
I ran to get milk from the fridge, pouring us both a big glass which we drained in seconds. When the pancake sludge had finally escaped my throat I looked at him staring at his plate.
“It’s kind of like one of those protein bars. A couple of bites and it will fill you for hours.” He took another big bite, chewing with a purpose.
I could feel the pink splotches overtaking my skin and moved to take his plate. “You don’t want that.”
His warm hand covered mine, staying me. “I like it.”
Breathing out a laugh, I said, “No you don’t.”
“I like it so much I’m going for bite number three.”
“I think you’ve been on the road too long, cowboy.”
His hand was still on mine, the weight of it burning a hole everywhere it touched. He looked at me for a few moments before smiling softly and releasing it from under his.
Then he took another bite.
5
My face hurt from smiling. We had been sitting at the table for an hour longer than needed after we finished dinner, exchanging stories and laughing about his adventures with his friends in Eugene. I even told him about my painting. And how much I loved it, even if I wasn’t any good. How I loved to drive out by this one spot outside of Livingston that had the prettiest view of the mountains and the Yellowstone river and paint, just like I’d seen people do in the movies. I didn’t tell him I had only done it once because somebody drove by and saw me. Which led to my over-anxious brain questioning everything I was doing, worrying over being alone in the mountains, and telling myself that my painting wasn’t any good anyway. Most people didn’t even know I liked to paint, but I told him.
Maybe it was the whole confessing things to a stranger idea that was so freeing, because to be honest, I kept having to remind myself that other than a few shared childhood memories, I didn’t know this man at all. No matter how cozy it all felt sitting at the table exchanging stories and laughter, he was a stranger to me. But on a scale of one to ten, my comfort level with him was probably a six. And honestly, that realization startled me. A six. After 4 hours. I stared at him while he told me about his move to Eugene from Wyoming when he was fifteen. Months after our infamous kiss. About the escapades he and his friend Jake got into. Calf and steer roping for his high school rodeo team. The ranch and the people he loved and worked for. It was catnip to me. I couldn’t get enough. Maybe it was his low, easy voice. Or his natural confidence. Maybe it was his large hands moving in animated gestures as he spoke. Or maybe the little smile he would send my way. Usually, something like that would send warning signals to my brain, but I got nothing. No signs of distress at all.
Safe.
