After he ordered, he waited by the pick-up, his gaze trailing over the crowded tables in the café hoping for one that…whoa.Whoa.
In a sea of mostly young faces, earbuds in, phones out…there was a brunette with freckles sitting near a window, long legs stretched out and perched on the empty chair across from her, her attention riveted on something outside.
Well, hello, Pepper Broussard.
“Jonah?” The woman’s voice was tinged with impatience, and he turned to see the barista holding a cup out to him. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the drink and turning back to the beauty in black.
She wore leggings that stopped just under her knees and some kind of leotard or a bodysuit or whatever women called the stretchy garment that did extremely favorable things to every line of her body.
Her dark hair was piled in a knot on top of her head, a few damp-looking strands loose at her temples, and there was a light sheen on her skin that said she’d just been doing something physical.
Speaking of siren calls.
And, oh, he should ignore this one. He should take his coffee, notes, and complicated-enough life and find a table on the other side of the café. He should disregard the allure of that raspy voice and easy laugh and quick wit, and remember she was his professor’s daughter and, therefore, filed under Do Not Touch.
But for Jonah Lawson, “should” had a way of becoming a personal challenge to do the exact opposite. So, of course, he walked directly to her table, already smiling.
“Hey, I know you.”
She turned from the window, startled, then her whole face lit with a smile.
“It’s Paprika, right?” he asked. “Parsley?”
She rewarded the joke with a throaty laugh and swung her legs off the other chair, giving it a kick out in a silent invitation.
How could he say no?
“Very funny, Student Chef Lawson.”
Encouraged, he hesitated next to the chair. “You sure you’re not deep in thought?”
“Just watching those wrens dance. Sit and enjoy the show.” She pointed to a tree where, he assumed, birds fluttered.
He slid into the seat and looked outside, catching sight of two very small brown birds flitting around an oak tree branch. “I think that’s called flying.”
“Oh, no, no,” she insisted. “That’s called anadagioin the branches. Watch—one leads, one follows, and then they switch. That little hop is arelevéand that swoop?Grand jeté. Oh! Did you see that?”
He saw…birds. Definitely flying.
“That’s called apas de deuxwith perfect counter-timing. See how they mirror each other? One goes high, the other goes low. They’re quick, light, never touching but always aware of each other’s line.” She sighed as though enthralled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Yes, she was.
“Um…I take it you’re a dancer.”
She finally tore her gaze from the birds to pin it on him, and the effect was electrifying. Her eyes were deep golden brown with flecks of fire and insanely long lashes.
“Was, am, and always will be,” she replied, taking him in with what felt like the same scrutiny he was giving her. “And how is Atlas’s daddy?”
“Good. How’s Atlas’s favorite person?”
She laughed. “Has he been talking about me again?”
“Non-stop,” he volleyed back. “Why, just this morning while he was chilling in his bassinet and I got ready for school, he said, ‘Hey, Dad, have you seen the girl with the food name again? I liked her.’”
She bit her lip as though trying not to guffaw. “And you said…”