Chapter 2 Oliver #2
I received flaming daggers in response, emitted from the most perfectly formed face I had ever seen, all angles and cheekbones, highlighted by the fire and that impeccably manicured beard, sporting a cleft in his chin and eyes that reminded me of the sky on that first really good beach day of the season, a sense memory that even my guest’s demeanor couldn’t diminish.
In the kitchen, I pulled out a large container of hamburger soup that I’d stowed in the industrial refrigerator—that thankfully hadn’t crapped out on me like the roof.
I poured some of the soup in a saucepan, lamenting that I hadn’t asked my guest what he wanted to drink.
That can wait, I thought moving to the small kitchen table that was at least as old as I was.
Guests rarely found their way into the kitchen, so the decor wasn’t important.
Gran had bought a beautiful new dining room set for the guests, just before she died.
I dropped to the chair, jumping right back up, having forgotten the box of candy in my back pocket. I figured the soup had minutes left to warm up, so maybe I could go offer my guest a drink and refill that candy bowl while we waited.
As I got closer, I could hear the rustling of clothes over the crackle of the fireplace.
The box I carried sounded like a heart-filled maraca, so I assumed it would announce my return, but as I approached the open entryway to the living room, Mr. Concannon was indeed rustling clothes, pulling off the long-sleeve T-shirt that was clinging to his body—his suddenly completely naked body. Well, except for the fuzzy pink socks.
He flicked the shirt and folded it, and I’d like to say I was entirely focused on the neat pile of drenched clothing he had stacked by the edge of the fireplace, but I was much more focused on the man himself.
He was taller than me, trim, but in no way petite.
I was looking at well-defined arms, legs, and back muscles, the remnants of a tan line visible on his biceps, ankles, and thighs. He must work outside, I thought.
And his not-tan parts? That muscled back and the area below it? They were a vibrant pink, which I hoped meant his blood was flowing, and he was warming up. His pink, round, smooth ass looked very warm indeed.
A beat too late, I realized how incredibly inappropriate it was for me to stand there unannounced and staring. I started to back out of the entryway, but my sugary maraca finally gave me away.
Those eyes had not been daggers before, because the way he looked at me when he turned around made me want to duck and dodge. I snapped my eyes up and kept them locked on his.
The towels were just a few feet away from him, on one of the chairs.
He must be freezing, I worried, wanting to walk right past his nakedness and hand him a towel, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing to do.
At best I was making the man uncomfortable; at worst I was about to get punched or sued for harassment.
I rattled the box in my hand. “I was just … You know what. Never mind. The soup’s warming. Let me grab it.” I took a few awkward side steps; my eyes locked on his until he was out of sight.
Box rattling, I made my way back down the hall, yelling as I went. “Let me know what you want to drink.” My face felt even pinker than his ass had looked.
“Wine!” I shouted, practically at a run.
“I have wine or beer or soda.” I was yelling to my empty kitchen by the time I finished.
I tossed the box on the small kitchen table and ladled myself a portion of soup, dropping to a chair as the bowl steamed in front of me.
I stirred it for a bit, replaying the scene in the living room.
Before long, the spoon was clattering, and my head was buried in my hands.
Oh my God, Gran, what have I done? I stayed like that, contemplating my life: the angry, naked man in my living room, the leaky roof, and the nonexistent off-season bookings that would allow me to fix the place up like I wanted. It all piled up higher than the snow outside.
And then there was Gran’s courtyard. The cherry on top of the snow pile that was my life.
I thought a lot about Gran’s courtyard. I wished I had the skills, or the funds, to spruce it up.
When Gran got sick, our friends and neighbors had helped with upkeep.
They’d helped out with lots of things. But after Gran passed, I made a point of letting people know I was ready and able to run the Lavender Sea on my own.
Sure, maybe I had something to prove. To a person, they all let me know that all I had to do was ask if I needed anything.
Then they respected my wishes and left me to it.
I heard footsteps. “No, no,” I said out loud. “Stay by the fire.”
I scurried then, loading up a tray.
I found my guest seated in front of the fire, his phone in front of his face and a laptop propped on his lap.
One of the pink towels was wrapped around his shoulders, his hair drying every which way as if he had used the towel to buff it out before dropping the thing around his neck.
His strawberry-blond locks framed a scowl that I could only assume was permanent since I hadn’t seen him offer any other look.
The body that I knew to be lean and muscular, part tan and part candy-heart pink, was clad in the baggy, drab black sweatsuit I’d provided.
Whimsical pink socks and the pink towel around his neck provided the only rays of sunshine to the whole look.
The bag he’d dumped near the front door was ensconced between his legs, with the zipper open, a perfectly reasonable pair of white socks hanging out of it.
I took some comfort in the fact that he was staring daggers at his phone screen and not at me. He looked up as I rounded the corner, closing the laptop and sitting up straighter as if he was about to stand.
“Please, Mr. Concannon. Stay by the fire. I made my grandmother’s famous hamburger soup, and I have a glass of wine for you, but if you’d prefer …”
“Dinner’s not included,” he reminded me, though he stayed put, his gaze back on his phone.
I walked around him and stood between him and the fire, forcing his gaze my way.
Mine was insistent, and those beautiful eyes went wide before that angry or possibly frustrated look returned.
Tray balanced on one hand, I used the other to point out the bay window that I had loved to sit in as a kid, looking up at the ugly hotel next door and imagining the stories behind the people I saw there. The wind rattled as if on cue.
“I would ask if you’ve seen the weather out there, but I know full well that you have.” I was pleased when he continued to look at me rather than his phone. I assumed a verbal response would not be forthcoming, so I continued.
“If you had dinner plans or thought you were going to order delivery, I think we both know neither of those things are happening. So please …” I placed the tray on the small table that sat between two chairs in front of the fire, swapping it for the empty candy dish.
“... humor me and stay put by this fire for a bit to warm up and help me honor the memory of my gran by trying some of this soup. It was one of her favorite recipes.” A little guilt never hurts.
He hesitated, then slapped his phone down, sliding it to the far side of the end table as if it reminded him of something unpleasant.
He shoved the laptop in his bag, kicking it away.
Then he slid the bowl to the edge of the table, inhaling the scent.
His eyes met mine, and I thought for a quick second that his face was relaxing ever so slightly.
Then his phone pinged, and it was all anger and daggers again.
Maybe I was just imagining that second when the smell of Gran’s soup had him thinking about chilling the fuck out on his wintery beach vacation.
“I’ll um … go, unless you need anything else? Something different to drink?” I started to say as he picked up the wine glass and practically inhaled it.
The man of few words just shook his head as he put the glass down and picked up the bowl.
“Hot,” I warned. “At least I hope so.” My comment warranted another silent nod in response.
“Okay, then.” I smiled even though I wanted to sigh in frustration. “You eat up and warm up, and I’ll be back in a bit to show you to your room!”
Candy dish in hand, I returned to the kitchen and finally filled it with Valentine's-themed confections, sitting down to eat the rest of my own meal.
“Cheers, Gran.” I raised my spoon in salute before tasting the soup I’d left cooling. “Not half bad. It mostly reminds me of yours.” I pulled out my phone, picking up where I’d left off in my book until I found myself reading the words The end.
I hadn’t heard a peep from the living room, so I decided to check back in with my guest.
“Almost forgot!” I scooped up the candy dish before heading back down the hall.
“Mr. Concannon,” I called out softly, not wanting to sneak up on him again.
I received another grunt for my effort. This one sounded mostly like the word “yes.”
I rounded the corner, speaking. “I wanted to check on you?” I began, but I cut myself off when I saw him perched over his laptop, which was resting on the end table.
I was pleased to see the soup bowl empty.
He looked cozy in front of the fire, his cheeks rosy and his hair dry.
I felt confident he had warmed up, and there was no harm done after his adventure in the blizzard.
Yet his gaze was still intense as he glared first at his computer screen, then up at me.
The computer, or his phone, chimed a new notification.
I wondered what kind of shitty job had him burning holes straight through his laptop screen.
I was curious about him and wanted to find a way to make his time in Jannah Beach more pleasant.
Gran would be proud of my customer-service instinct.
Not sure you should be, Gran. Those piercing blue eyes have something to do with it as well.
I could hear Gran’s voice in my head: Don’t forget to smile. So I did.
“You’re busy,” I whispered, placing the candy on the end table next to his cell phone and trading it for the tray of empty dishes. I pointed as I backed out of the room, stopping in the entryway.
“You keep working.” I smiled. “Come find me whenever.” I pointed. “Kitchen. Down the hall.”
But I turned and went in the other direction, leaving the tray on the server in the dining room and heading for the sitting room, where a bookshelf held books and games and pictures of the Lavender Sea from years gone by.
I found a book I hadn’t read and headed back to the kitchen to wait for my guest to finish his work, or his angry posting, or whatever it was that had him looking like he wanted to throw his laptop, or possibly me, in the fire.