Nothing Less (Landon Gibson 2)

Well, I don’t love her. I barely know her, but she has a smile that would make any man believe he loves her.

“Hi, Landon.” Nora walks past me and into the apartment. The energy inside my place changes with every step she takes. She makes things brighter. The ceiling even seems higher when she’s around.

Instead of sharing that information, I respond with a simple “Hi” of my own.

We’re both quiet as we go into the kitchen and I help her with the bags. She grabs one from me and puts it on the counter closest to the stove, a few feet away from me.

I start pulling things out of the brown paper bags: an onion, a bottle of olive oil. “What is all this? Did Tessa have you stop by the store or something?” I pull out a wheel of cheese. Goat cheese, to be exact.

Nora opens the fridge and sets a half gallon of milk on the top shelf. “No. I’m going to make cupcakes.”

I lift the next item up to my face. Fig spread. “With figs?” I point to the onion on the counter. “And an onion?”

She nods, closes the fridge, and walks over to me. “Yes, and yes.”

Doesn’t sound like a very good cupcake, but, sure.

As she moves around my kitchen, I’m fascinated by the way she moves, so self-assured, so comfortable in her own skin. When she lifts her arms to open the cabinet, a pair of dark denim shorts peeks out from beneath her oversized black T-shirt. So there is something under there. Which is . . . fine.

She hasn’t made a peep in a few minutes now. She turned on the oven in silence; she wiped butter across the bottom of my cupcake pan without saying a word.

I’m going to have to start the conversation, it seems. She’s standing in front of the stove, the cupcake pan resting on the burners.

“How was Scarsdale?” I ask.

She turns her cheek so that I can see her face. “It was Scarsdale,” she responds flatly. “How’s Brooklyn?”

I smile. “It’s Brooklyn.”

Nora turns back around to the stove, but her shoulders move up and down ever so slightly as she quietly laughs to herself.

I don’t know what to talk about. I want to talk about so many things, but it’s hard to walk a tightrope and talk at the same time. I think about the last time we were in this kitchen, her hands squeezing my biceps as she moved her body against mine. The taste of her mouth when she moaned into mine. I reminisce about the curve of her luscious hips as she rocked them on my lap.

“Is something wrong?” Nora asks as another wave of memories hits me. I think back to the first time she touched me. She was so forward, running her finger down my bare stomach. The air in the kitchen has become so thick with awkward silence and tension that I can barely find my breath.

I shake my head, lying.

I sit down at the table, and Nora moves around me to grab the carton of eggs from the fridge. The oven beeps, giving notice that it’s reached the temperature needed to make Nora’s mystery cupcakes.

She sighs, and I want to scream because I have so many things to say but no way to say them. I want to touch her, but I don’t have the strength to do it.

“Are you sure?” Nora’s voice is quiet, her shoulders squared. “Because you’re being weirdly quiet, and it sure seems like something’s wrong.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say without risking her fleeing. “If I say anything, you’ll disappear. Remember?” My voice has an edge that I didn’t mean to include.

Nora turns around to look at me. She wipes her hands on a towel and walks over to where I sit at