Chapter 9 James

J ames furrowed his brow. It seemed like Liana was trying to change the subject. The entire time she'd told him about her health, James had experienced strong emotions that made his heart pound and left him with an excess of adrenaline. He wondered if he could get away with running a few laps around the block to get his energy out. No, that would be super weird, and worse, Liana would think he was running away.

But how could James just stand still? He was overwhelmed with awe for this woman but also angry at the ex who had fucked with her head and convinced her that she wasn't a fun person. That was clearly bullshit; James had fun every time he was with Liana. He was about to beg her to go out with him. But he wouldn't; he'd promised her that he wouldn't ask her again. If he had one thing going for him in this trainwreck of a life, it was that he never broke his promises.

Focus , he told himself. She asked you a question. She asked if you're competitive. Answer her so you get to spend more time with this girl. You're a competitive person. Super fucking competitive. Maybe don't say that. You don't know why she's asking. Maybe be honest but tone it down a little?

He finally settled on, "I played tennis competitively pretty much my entire life. And don't knock pickleball, either; it's a real sport, and people get competitive about it. Including me. Why do you ask?"

"It's just that," she smiled, "I'm pretty much an expert at making peanut butter sandwiches by now."

Was she trying to turn this night of making sandwiches into a competition? He still wasn't sure where she was going with this turn in the conversation, so he decided on some humor. "You had a great teacher."

She snorted. "You think you taught me to make a peanut butter sandwich? What am I, eight years old?"

He scoffed and then looked directly into her eyes. "It's not about who taught you the basics. It's about who taught you to do it well . It's all about the technique, Abrams, as I'm sure you know." Her answering blush was extremely gratifying.

"You may have been making peanut butter sandwiches for years," James continued, his eyes glittering, "but you'd never made one with me before today. I've been told I'm very good not only at making PB&J, but at making sure my PB&J partner has an incredible time."

Liana couldn't help the very unladylike guffaw that escaped her mouth, and James glowed internally with satisfaction. Finally, this woman was getting a hint of the things he wanted with her.

"Okay, I get it," she said. "You've made a lot of PB&J." He almost corrected her — a lot of times, but with fewer partners than she was probably imagining — but he managed to hold his tongue.

She waggled her eyebrows. "But, do you have the stamina for a long PB&J session? How long does it take to make one sandwich? One minute?"

He coughed. "One minute? Okay, I guess we really are talking about literal peanut butter sandwiches here."

She playfully slapped his arm. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Alonso. Like I said, it takes one minute to make one peanut butter sandwich. We have —" she glanced at her watch, "twenty minutes left in the hour."

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and his heart pounded. "If you can make at least 25 sandwiches," Liana said, "in the time we have left, then you can take me on a date."

For a second, time froze. He felt like his brain had malfunctioned. Surely he hadn't heard her correctly. He could take her out? "I can — you said — what?" Words, James , he admonished himself. Stop being an idiot.

He cleared his throat and tried again to speak. "If I make more than 25 sandwiches in the next 20 minutes, then I get to take you on a date?"

"That's what I said."

"But are you sure? You said you didn't want to date anyone, and I was trying to respect your wishes. I don't want you to feel pressured in any way."

"I don't feel pressured. I've regretted turning you down since the second I did it. Unless," her eyes suddenly turned doubtful, "you don't want to anymore? I mean, that's totally fine. Don't feel any pressure because of what I told you about my illness. I don't want you to go out with me because you feel bad for me, or out of pity —"

"Please stop," he all but growled. This woman thought he didn't like her that way anymore? How could he convince her that he was crazy about her in a way that didn't make any logical sense, especially considering that she'd just come back into his life? And she thought she'd be some kind of — what — pity fuck?

She didn't say you could fuck her, James. Pump the brakes. Convince her to get there. Start with a date.

"Spending time with you has literally nothing to do with pity," James said. "Believe me — if you could see inside my head right now, the images of what I want to do to you — God. Never mind. I don't want you to think I'm just trying to get in your pants."

She watched him, saying nothing, thankfully giving him a chance to collect his thoughts.

"Okay," he said, wincing. "Let's try this again. Literally, just a date. We're vibing. I really enjoy spending time with you. I want to take you out. Please tell me I didn't fuck this up already?"

"Tsk, tsk, James," Liana said, dragging a finger down his arm in a teasing way that told him he'd somehow, miraculously, not fucked this up yet. But also, he really kind of needed her to stop touching him right now, or he'd be sporting a semi in the middle of young professionals volunteer night.

James awkwardly tried to shift his stance. He must have been too obvious, because Liana suddenly pulled her hand back, cleared her throat, and took a step away from him.

"Like I was saying," Liana started again, "you're being awfully presumptuous right now. I said you could only take me out if you made 25 more PB&Js. The clock's still running. Tick tock. 19 more minutes."

"Stop stalling for time," he said playfully. He grabbed a loaf of bread. What would be the most efficient way to make sandwiches? Could he make some sort of PB&J assembly line? What would Henry Ford do?

He started frantically laying out pieces of bread in two lines. He scooped as much peanut butter as his knife could hold and hurriedly smacked it onto the first row of bread. Giant globs of jelly followed on the second row. But James couldn't bring himself to do shoddy work, especially not when these were going to hungry people. He forced himself to slow down enough to spread the peanut butter and jelly evenly before closing the sandwich and carefully sliding it into a bag.

Liana watched him with an amused smirk on her face, making her own sandwiches at a deliberately leisurely pace. God, this woman was so beautiful. Don't look at her! Stop getting distracted!

Line up the bread, spread, close the sandwich, put it in a bag. He fell into a rhythm. How did Liana know he was in his element when he was competing? He was having an amazing time.

Shit, he'd run out of bread. He sprinted to the next table. "Hey, man, are you using that loaf of bread? Thanks." James grabbed the bread without waiting for an answer, ignoring the guy's snicker.

James rushed back to his table, untying the bag as he ran. Five more minutes. He could do this. He'd lost count of how many sandwiches he'd made, but it had to be at least twenty. Liana continued their playful banter, trying her best to distract him, but James was locked in now. There was no way he was losing.

Suddenly, the voice of the lead volunteer broke through his concentration. "Okay, everyone, thank you so much for all of your hard work this evening! It's time to wrap it up. Please start putting away your materials so that the wonderful employees here can close up shop. You can finish making your sandwich if you started one, but please stop after that so we can leave on time. Remember, we'll be grabbing drinks down the street at the sports grill as soon as we're done."

James literally growled. It would have been comical how his upper lip peeled away from his teeth in some kind of primal response, except that he knew this poor volunteer didn't deserve his wrath. Hastily, he turned his expression into a smile.

"You okay there, buddy?" Liana taunted.

"I had four more minutes until the top of the hour," James replied.

"Oh, but you were so cocky! What's four more measly little minutes?"

James took extra care with his final two sandwiches — he'd already started two in his little assembly line before time was called, and he figured it was in the spirit of the volunteer's instructions to finish both.

"All right, Abrams," he said, indicating the box of sandwiches he'd completed since their bet began. "Count ‘em."

After a tense minute in which James had to remind himself repeatedly to breathe, Liana finally said, "Twenty-nine. Wow, you didn't even need those last two. Well done, Alonso."

He could have whooped in joy. Instead, he held up his hand to her for a high five. "Thanks for pushing me. That was fun."

"Thanks for being down for a little competition."

"For you?" he said. "Anything." Then, realizing the implications of what he said, he hastily changed the subject. "Are you coming to the sports grill?" She started to shake her head no, and he held up a hand. "I know, I know, you can't drink. I'm not planning to drink either. But I heard that the bartender makes a mean ice water with lemon. I dare you to try it and tell me it's not the best ice water you ever had."

She laughed, as he was hoping she would. "With an offer like that, how could I refuse?"