The Truth About Love by Sheila Athens Page B

it’s a pretty good gig.”
    So, good looks, athleticism, and brains. The whole package. But there was something he wasn’t telling her. “What’s the part you don’t like?”
    He stood motionless, no longer chopping the potatoes. It was as if he wasn’t making eye contact with her on purpose. “Never mind.” He started slicing again. “I like it all.”
    She hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if what she’d sensed for a while now was really true. Finally, she decided to dive in. To test the deep, still waters known as Landon Vista. “You don’t like that there’s so much focus on your mom’s murder. That you’re their poster child for tougher sentencing guidelines.”
    His shoulders rose and fell in an exaggerated shrug.
    She turned down the burner and set the spatula on the counter. Dare she comfort him? Dare she try to get beneath his facade?
    She walked up behind him and placed her hand on his back. He stiffened, then slowly relaxed.
    “You don’t have to work there,” she said. A shoulder muscle rippled underneath his shirt.
    He set the knife the counter, finished with his task. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
    She paused, thinking about that TED Talk she’d watched on her computer—the presentation about how everyone felt vulnerable. But should she share her own fears with him? She swallowed. “I hate going into the prisons.”
    He turned to look at her. “What?”
    “I love knowing that I’m helping innocent people get out, but I hate going in there. It’s scary and claustrophobic and . . . without hope.”
    “Why are you telling me this?”
    So maybe you’ll open up to me.
    She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess everyone hates something about their job.” She reached around him and took the cutting board full of potatoes from him and slid them into the skillet. They sizzled in the melted margarine.
    “Seems like a tough career for someone whose clients are, by definition, in prison.”
    She had to agree, but she’d promised herself she’d do it. It was her way to make amends.
    But Landon didn’t need to know that. She’d never told anybody how strongly she felt about why she had to do it.
    “Can you get another skillet from there?” She pointed to a lower cabinet with her toe. “And then get the eggs out of the fridge?”
    They worked steadily beside each other until the huge breakfast was ready. “If you need ketchup for your potatoes, it’s in the fridge.” She set the heaping plates on the table next to the glasses of orange juice she’d asked him to pour.
    He retrieved the bottle and rushed over to the little nook to pull a chair out for her.
    She smiled. “You really were raised a good Southern boy, weren’t you?”
    He shrugged. “It’s the least I can do since you’re feeding me so well.” He pushed her chair in and sat in the other one.
    She sipped her orange juice, then set her glass on the table. “Taste your omelet,” she said, eager for his opinion.
    He took a bite and nodded as he chewed. “Good.”
    Satisfied, she picked up her own fork and started eating. They ate silently for a long while. The hum of a car passing by on Bronough Street was the only sound in the kitchen.
    “I hate being the guy everybody thinks they know,” Landon said, finally breaking the silence.
    She lowered her fork slowly as her gaze met his. She could tell the conversation had taken a turn.
    “It’s what I hate about my job,” he continued. “People fawning over me because I used to play football. They don’t even know me.”
    She nodded. She’d gotten a taste of that from her own playing days. Groupies who wanted a piece of her, even though they knew nothing about her. And that was women’s volleyball. It had to have been a hundred times worse for a guy who won Division I football games on TV every Saturday afternoon.
    “Some days I wish I could just sneak away. Go become a river guide or work for the fish and wildlife commission”—he waved his fork in