“How long do they usually last?”
He shrugged. “Storms, a day or two. It’s the aftermath that can drag on and on.”
She looked thoughtful. “No telling how long you’ll have to stay, then.”
He winked. “Nope.”
Sierra stood by the glass doors in the dining room, assessing the scene outside. Just as Campbell had mentioned earlier, the waters of Cooper Inlet were escaping. The inlet, about two miles away, had already begun to swell onto the road running next to it. The storm still raged on, with the wind and rain swirling beneath the darkened sky.
With a sigh, she walked away from the door and back into the living room area. The gilded analog clock on the wall showed her that the dinner hour approached, but the rumbling in her stomach told her it had arrived.
She looked to Campbell, who was still sitting on the end of the sofa. He had his phone out, and had been staring at it for a while. The screen glow illuminated his face in the dimness of the room.
Moving toward the kitchen, she called out to him. “Campbell, are you hungry?”
He glanced up. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“I asked if you’re hungry.”
He nodded. “Do you need help cooking?”
She flipped the wall switch by the fridge, flooding the kitchen with soft, white light. “Not right now. What’s got your attention over there?”
“I’m reading a book. I’ve got one of those e-reader apps on my phone.”
Her brow crinkled. “What are you reading?” Opening the refrigerator, she scanned the shelves for the bundle of fresh herbs she’d seen there earlier.
“The collected poems of Langston Hughes.”
She stopped midreach, angling her head so she could look at him. “Really?”
He looked up then, meeting her eyes. “Yes, really. Why do you look so shocked?”
“It’s just...I’ve never met a man who read poetry. At least not one who would openly admit it.”
He shrugged. “To be honest, it’s not just ‘reading poetry.’ Langston’s the man. Even all these years after his death, his words still resonate.”
Recovered a bit from her initial shock, she grabbed the plastic clamshell case holding the herbs and set them on the counter. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who shares my opinion. I adore Langston’s work.”
He watched her, as if seeing her with new eyes. “No kidding. What’s your favorite of his poems?”
She thought about it as she removed unsalted butter, a loin of pork and a pound of fresh brussels sprouts from the fridge. “I’d have to say ‘Mother to Son,’ with ‘Harlem’ being a close second.”
He tilted his head to one side, appearing thoughtful. “I see. Those are definitely seminal works of his.”
She washed her hands with the lemon-scented dish soap and dried them on a checked towel. Grabbing three russet potatoes from the wire basket on the kitchen counter, she set to work peeling them. With a glance over all the food she’d set out, she thought she should revise her earlier statement. “Listen, why don’t you come in here. I think this will go faster if I have an extra set of hands, and we can keep talking while we cook.”
“No problem.” He placed the phone facedown on the coffee table and came to the kitchen. She inched to the left, so he could access the sink, and while he washed his hands, she kept working the vegetable peeler, turning the potato in her hand.
As the peel fell in a perfect spiral, she set it down and reached for the second one.
He dried his hands and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
She gestured toward the rest of the food sitting on the counter. “Grab a deep roaster, and halve those sprouts, please.”
“You got it.” He searched the lower cabinets for the roaster.
As he bent, her greedy eyes devoured the sight of his muscled thighs and the perfect shape of his rear end. The man was built like a warrior, and looking at him now, she couldn’t help wondering about his “spear.”
He stood then, having located a large, white ceramic roaster. After he set that on the counter and got a knife and cutting board, he began working on the sprouts, splitting them with precision and expertise.
As she cubed her peeled potatoes on a separate board, the room grew quiet, save for the sounds of the storm and of their knives striking the boards. To break the silence, she glanced at him. “You never told me your favorite Langston Hughes poem.”
He chuckled. “You never asked.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m asking now. So, tell me.”
After sliding a handful of halved sprouts off the cutting board and into a colander, he set the knife down. “I love the two you mentioned. But my absolute favorite is ‘April Rain Song.’”
She searched her mind for a moment, before the words to that poem came back to her. “Oh, yes. The one with the rain kissing you...”
He turned around to face her.
Their gazes met, locked.
Something lay behind the dark pools of his eyes, something she couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it made her knees tremble. To steady herself, she pressed the small of her back against the edge of the counter.
He began reciting the poem, drawing each word out, the way the men around here tended to do. She’d heard the words before, but never in this deep, molasses-thick drawl. With each word, she felt tingles race over the surface of her skin.
When he’d finished, she drew in a deep breath to fill her empty lungs. “Wow.”
“So you enjoyed my recitation?”
She nodded. “You certainly put a lot of...um...feeling into it.”
A slight smile turned up the corners of his full lips. “That’s the only way to do it when you’re reciting the work of a true master.”
She swallowed, nodded again. What she didn’t say was that he’d shown her a whole new side to the piece. She’d never considered that poem sensual in any way, until just now. Hearing him recite it gave the poem an erotic edge she never would have ascribed to it before. Whether Mr. Hughes had written such undertones into it, she didn’t know. But she did know she’d never hear that poem the same way again.
Her stomach growled a loud, hungry protest. She pressed her palms over it, as if that would muffle the sound.
Campbell reacted with a short, rumbling laugh. “We’d better get back to cooking. Your stomach is about to stage a coup.” He moved closer to her, then past her to rinse the sprouts in the sink.
Feeling her cheeks warm, she blew out a breath. “Sorry about that.”
He waved her off while he ran a stream of water over the sprouts. “No big deal. Hunger is a natural thing, nothing to be ashamed of.”
I’m hungry, alright. He had no idea she was fighting down more than one appetite. It seemed like ages since she’d been in the company of a man so handsome, thoughtful and intelligent. Her sometimes crazy filming schedule didn’t leave much free time for dating and relationships. This was the first time in almost six months she’d been alone with any man.
And if he stayed much longer, looking as delicious as he did, she had no idea where things would go between them.
After