The Locket

“Let me guess, another one of your abilities?” I asked sarcastically.

“No, I’m just that strong,” he laughed, patting his chest, obviously taking my question as a huge compliment. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I could have gotten up on my own,” I said, rolling my eyes and attempting to sound rebellious.

“Yes, I could see that,” he said grinning ear to ear.

We went inside and Brent got me a towel. Glancing at his cell phone on the counter, he picked it up, pressed a few buttons and returned his gaze to mine. I assumed he was probably texting with Reese, and decided to shrug it off, not wanting to spoil the moment between us.

His smile widened showcasing his perfectly white teeth. He really was gorgeous.

“Your lips are still blue, Blake,” he chuckled.

“Ahhh,” was all I managed to say. While I pretended to be ticked off, I loved this playful, carefree side to him. His confidence made him all the more appealing. I resisted the urge to throw my wet body into his arms, fist my hands through his hair and demand that he kiss me.

Glancing at the clock, I noticed it was after four o’clock. I didn’t think we had been on the beach so long. My stomach rumbled letting me know I was starving. I hardly touched my breakfast and needed to eat sooner, rather than later.

“You hungry?” I asked Brent.

‘Famished,” he said. “What should I cook?”

“I got it. You cooked breakfast,” I offered. “I’m going to get changed, warm up, and then I’ll show you one of my abilities,” I teased. I was in fact, a very good cook. My mom had taught me well, and I looked forward to doing this for him because I wanted to, not because some divine concept in the universe said I should.

After spending an eternity in the shower warming every inch of me, I changed into the thickest sweats I found. Still freezing, I also found thick socks and layered a long-sleeved shirt under the sweats.

I came downstairs to find Brent on the couch watching Sports Center, still scribbling in his book. Sitting there watching the commentators discuss football, he seemed like any normal high school aged guy. He waved at me and I smiled, joining him on the couch.

“Can I see?” I asked, pointing to his pad of paper.

“It’s not finished yet,” he replied, smiling shyly, holding the book to his chest.

“I’m sure it’s great. Come on, let me see it.”

He handed me the pad and my heart skipped a beat when I looked down on the page, seeing myself on the rocky beach below. I was squatting down looking at a rock in one hand and holding the toy pail in the other, my toes curled around the stones.

“I told you I couldn’t resist the scenery,” he flirted, making my heart feel as though there were butterflies flying around in it.

“This is amazing, Brent,” I complimented, my cheeks burning feverishly.

“It’s all right,” he said, apprehensively.

“It’s more than all right. It’s incredible. You’re so talented,” I said, trying not to smile like some star-struck groupie. “I would love to keep it.”

“When I’m done,” he said, pulling the notebook from my hands frowning.

“I didn’t mean to push,” I said softly, knowing how it felt to show your talents to others. I had been playing guitar since I was a kid, and could still never muster the courage to do it for anyone other than my parents.

His brow was creased in a way that had become familiar to me, marking some internal struggle within him.

“It’s fine. What about that food? I’m starving,” he asked.

Making my way through the fridge I found mushrooms, onion, garlic, porchetta, fresh romano cheese and cream. I retrieved some olive oil and pasta in the cabinets, scoring when I found an indoor herb garden adorning the kitchen window. Clipping fresh basil and parsley from the dense plants, I measured a tablespoon for both. I poured the olive oil in a skillet, heating it on the stove. It was a great kitchen, with top of the line appliances I’m sure rivaled those in fine restaurants.

Cooking in this kitchen was enjoyable, satisfying my inner chef. I started a pot of water, and set the pasta aside until the pot boiled. Setting the cheese and cream aside until everything was thoroughly cooked, I tossed the remaining ingredients in the heated oil. Once the water boiled, I added the pasta, setting a timer on the stove to ensure it would cook to al dente perfection. I added the cream and cheese to the skillet, stirring the sauce until it thickened to the consistency I wanted, and set it aside while the pasta finished.

“That smells wicked awesome. I’m drooling over here,” Brent called from the front room.

My mind wandered off to a sensual place, envisioning me feeding Brent each bite of his supper and him smiling at me, love in his eyes. He swallowed hard when he finished and brushed my bottom lip with his thumb. He told me I was beautiful, and he loved me more than life itself. Then his lips met mine and he kissed me softly. As the vision continued, a muffled giggle from under the table interrupted us. A little Brent popped out and jumped into his daddy’s lap. “Eww, you guys were kissing,” the child said sweetly. Brent started tickling his ribs and the child’s boisterous laughter filled the room.