“Cats. I have two cats.” I hold up two fingers for emphasis, wishing Boen was like any other person who looks less attractive when he’s uncomfortable. His bottom lip stretches into a thin line, but still manages to look pillow soft and biteable.
Not that I would ever think about biting Boen. He would definitely not like that.
Boen nods, like he wants to comment but is too polite to.
“Rachel, let him in,” Mrs. Gretchen says. “Come sit on the couch, Boen. It’ll be more comfortable for those long legs. I’m going to get us a drink.” As I watch her leave us with a twinge of unease, I notice Boen isn’t wearing his customary khakis.
Those long legs are wearing jeans today.
“Oh, Boen is never comfortable,” I say, leading him into the living room. I don’t even try to stop myself, because if I’m talking, I’m not looking at how well he wears those jeans. “He’s too tense to be comfortable.” I smile widely at his expression of disgust and plop down in the corner of the couch.
“I’m not tense,” he hisses as he sits as far away from me as possible. It’s not even a couch; with only two cushions, it’s more of a sofa or settee. A love seat. Boen has his cushion and I have mine.
I roll my eyes as I glance at him sitting upright, knees together and feet on the floor. “O-kay.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know you don’t like my dog.”
“He pooed on my lawn and I stepped in it.”
“I didn’t tell you to step there.” Childish, I know, but this close, it’s harder to be rude to him.
Boen presses his lips together and I like to think it’s an effort not to say something equally childish. “What’s that?” he points to the platter of hummus and naan bread that I brought over.
“Pumpkin hummus. I made it. The hummus, not the bread.”
“Yes, I gathered, which is why I asked.”
“How did yougatherthat I made it?”
He taps the edge of the white platter. “A bit plain for Mrs. Gretchen’s style.” When he looks at me, his gaze takes in all of me—the tie-dyed tank top under my open Blue Jays jersey, my dusky pink denim skirt, the bare feet with the rainbow-painted toes—and his mouth quirks at the corner. “I would say yours too.”
For once, I think he’s being nice. “It’s a borrow that was never returned,” I admit, stumbling a bit over the words because of that look, not because it had been Liv’s platter. “Try some. It’s good.”
Boen shakes his head. “Pumpkin would make me feel like I’m eating a jack- o’-lantern.”
His face shutters closed as I laugh. “That’s funny,” I clarify. “I’m not laughingatyou.”
His toffee-coloured gaze meets mine. “For once,” he mutters.
Did I hurt his feelings? “Why do you care if I laugh at you?” I demand. “Which I haven’t. I didn’t laugh atyouwhen you stepped in the poo. I just laughed. You will too, eventually.”
“I doubt that.”
A long beat of silence broken by the sportscasters talking about one of the Jays on the injured list, which allowed Dean to join the team mid-season. I reach for a piece of bread on the platter at the same time as Boen, accidentally brushing his hand with mine, and getting a shock for my trouble.
A real shock, not some jolt of pretend electricity. I jerk back with surprise and drop the piece of bread.
“Static electricity,” Boen explains as he picks up the bread. “From the carpet.”
“Uh huh. I knew that.”
“Of course you did,” he says with another quirk of his mouth.
Luckily, Mrs. Gretchen joins us with a pitcher of iced tea, or I might have tried to make Boen smile again. “Here we go, something to wet your whistle.”
“Let me get that,” Boen offers and pours us glasses.
