“So the idea,” he continues, completely unaware of the direction of my thoughts, “is that when the defense pinches, it opens a lane. But only if the winger rotates at the right moment. If you stay static…” He taps the sugar packet. “…you get trapped on the boards.”
“Trapped on the boards,” I repeat solemnly, like I’m sitting in a university lecture.
His eyes lift to mine. “You’re not actually listening.”
“I am,” I protest. “I’m listening very hard.”
“You’re smiling.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not listening.”
He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. “What happens if the center doesn’t cover?”
I glance at the salt shaker. Then the butter dish. Then the sugar packet.
“…The butter gets lonely?”
Jake snorts, and the sound is so unexpectedly warm it sends a flutter through my stomach.
“Close,” he says dryly. “We get scored on.”
“Wow. High stakes.”
He nods once. “Exactly.”
We’re both still smiling as he slides the shakers back into place.
“So,” he asks, settling back in his chair, “what did you do all day?”
“I painted,” I say, aiming for casual, even though my heart does that ridiculous little leap whenever someone asks about my art.
“All day?” His brow lifts.
“Pretty much.”
“What were you painting?”
I hesitate. “Something.” I shrug lightly. “I can show you later. If you want.”
He clears his throat. “I’d like that.”
The words are simple, but the way he says them makes my chest tighten.
He leans back, studying me. “How do you even do it?”
“Do what?”
“Paint.”
I blink. “With… my hands?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I set my fork down, suddenly animated. “It depends. Sometimes I start with a sketch. Sometimes I just begin with color. Blocking in shapes. Letting it move. Sometimes I don’t even know what it’s going to be until I’m halfway through.”
“That sounds chaotic,” he says.
“It is,” I reply brightly. “That’s the best part.”
