Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Yes, sir,” I say, giving him a saucy little smile as I take the pot holder. There’s a pause in his kitchen routine. A furrow in his brow. Like he’s replaying my words, weighing them.
When his eyes darken, I’m pretty sure he likes my yes, sir.
I like his reaction, judging from the way my pulse skitters.
Then, he closes his eyes for a flash of a second, as if he’s pushing off whatever thoughts invaded his mind.
When he opens them, he wheels around, tending to the skillet with the kale in it. That’s my cue to brush off the moment too, so I snag the baking tray with the squash on it.
Hollis already set the table, and now he’s outside shooting hoops with Rhys while Donut watches them through the window. As I set the tray down on the counter, Gavin hits me with another question. “How did you get into yoga?”
“I needed it for rehab. I actually played soccer in high school,” I explain. “But I tore my ACL my junior year.”
He winces as he snags the pot of quinoa and drains it in the sink. “Ouch. That’s one of my nightmares.”
“It usually is for athletes.”
His smile is sympathetic but also sad. “That sucks, Briar. Were you hoping to become a pro soccer player?”
I appreciate that the question is straightforward. That he asks it with no doubt that I’d have been one if that was what I’d wanted. “I did hope to at the time,” I say, moving to the stove to stir the creamy pesto sauce that goes with the “squash bowl” he’s making. “I love running and competing. And I did everything I could to rehab so I could play soccer again. Including yoga.”
“And was it a perfect fit?”
I shake my head. “I actually hated it at first. Because it wasn’t soccer. But I kept doing yoga, hoping it’d help me play soccer again. When it became clear that I wasn’t going to be able to do it at the level I wanted to, I realized over time I’d somehow fallen in love with yoga.”
As he scoops the quinoa into a pre-seasoned mixing bowl, he seems to mull that over before he asks, “Why do you love it?”
“Nearly anyone can do yoga. If you’ve had an injury. If you haven’t had an injury. If you’re an athlete. Or if you’ve never played sports in your life. If you’re coordinated. If you don’t know your left foot from your right foot. And any one of any size can do it too. It’s one of the most accessible physical activities that exist. All it takes is practice. And I like that it’s called a practice because that really tells you everything you need to know about yoga as a form of exercise. You practice and the more you practice, the more it gives back to you.”
Gavin looks up from the mixing bowl and gives me a soft smile—one that I don’t often see from him. He has some hard edges. He’s more like sandpaper than the other guys. But it’s sweet to see he has a soft side even if he rarely shows it. “I like that,” he says thoughtfully. “The idea that you’re in charge. You make it happen. Just you.”
“Exactly!”
As he adds the kale to the quinoa mix, his gaze swings briefly to me, like he’s weighing something. He looks back down at the bowl, then says, a little quietly, “I’ve seen some of your videos.”
“You have?” I’m kind of ridiculously touched.
“I do them,” he says, like it’s hard for him to admit.
“I love that.” I don’t bother to mask my excitement. I’m always thrilled when I learn someone watches and likes my videos.
“I sort of missed it when you went to the Sea Dogs.” It not me, but that’s okay. I can tell opening up isn’t easy for him.
“I’m just happy you’re doing them,” I say.
Gavin’s suddenly intensely focused on tending to the saucepan, and it’s clear he’s hit his limit for this topic, so I take the wheel. I wave a hand to the mouth-watering spread in front of me on the counter. “I need to know where you learned to cook like this. I feel like you should be on one of those thirty-minute-chef shows or something.”
“I taught myself.” There’s real pride there. But I hear the subtext too. Like there was nobody else to do it for him. Like he had no other choice.
“Books? Recipes? Cooking shows?”
“I just watch cooking videos on YouTube and I try to do it better.”
I laugh. That’s such an athlete approach. “So you’re competitive?”
His hazel eyes twinkle. “Just a little bit,” he says dryly, like he’s glad to be understood.
“Well, I can’t wait to try this feast.”
“I think you’ll like it,” he says.
“Cocky.”
“Just a little bit there too.”
The verdict? Everyone likes it. When it’s time for dinner, Hollis is the first to unleash a food moan. “This is amazing,” Hollis says, pointing his fork approvingly to the butternut squash bowl, bursting with quinoa, kale, and pesto goodness. Donut even perks up her head from the couch. “Why are we getting tacos at hole-in-the-wall joints when you can cook like this?” Hollis asks.