Debbi Rawlins - Delicious Do-Over

“How should we do this?” she asked, staring down at the food, and not seeing any plates or utensils.

“No rules here.” He sat down cross-legged, facing the food-laden towel as if it were a set table, and patted the spot beside him.

She joined him, and then helped by opening the box of crackers and container of cut-up fruit. He used a pocket knife to cut slices of cheese, stopping to hold a bit of the soft gouda to her lips.

She opened, and used her tongue to sweep the small piece into her mouth. “Mmm. Good.”

He briefly kissed her, and then licked his lips. “My favorite.”

She shook her head, pretending she wasn’t amazed at the laid-back way he treated everything. Not her. The lightest kiss, the casual teasing, all made her stomach jittery. She focused on their dinner, eyed the ready-made food that she couldn’t identify. “Any minute it’s going to be too dark to see what we’re eating.”

Rick smiled. “Are you adventurous?”

“Define what—” She sighed, and went with the simple truth. “No.”

He removed a pair of chopsticks from a paper wrapper. “Then it’s better you don’t see what’s coming.”

She grabbed one of the plastic forks that had been bundled with the chopsticks. “Uh, I’m not putting anything strange in my mouth.”

His lips twitched. “What a pity.”

She started to say something, thought better of it. She wasn’t nearly quick enough to be witty, had never come up with—much less uttered—a double entendre in her life. There simply was no winning this conversation. She only wished blushing burned calories, but then she’d be a stick. She grabbed a couple of napkins and used them as a plate to hold the crackers while she topped them with cheese.

“You chose this one,” he said, passing her the chicken and rice. “Adventurous or not, I think you’ll like it.”

Since she had made the selection, she opened it up and sampled the cucumber salad first. It was surprisingly good mixed with a sweet vinegary dressing. “I like this a lot,” she said, spearing another cucumber half. “What’s the black flecks on the rice?” She peered closer. They were too big to be black pepper.

“It’s called furikake, a sesame seed-and-seaweed condiment. Don’t make that face.”

“Seaweed? Seriously?”

He nodded. “Try it.”

She was a wuss when it came to trying ethnic food, but she figured a tiny taste wouldn’t kill her. She forked a small portion, found the rice to be stickier than what she was accustomed to, but took a bite.

“Well?”

“Good.” She watched him deftly use the chopsticks to scoop some kind of noodle salad into his mouth.

“Now try some chicken.”

“What are you, my mother?”

Eyeing her, he chewed, swallowed, then set his chopsticks aside. Before she knew it, he cupped a hand behind her neck, drew her to him and gave her an openmouthed kiss. Not a long one, but intense enough to make her drop her fork.

“You tell me,” he said with a cocky grin, and then went back to eating his dinner as if he’d merely suggested she check out the moon rising over the mountains.

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