Page 24 of In a Pickle
When James groaned, Liana decided to steer the conversation back on course. “Thank you, James.” She stepped closer to him, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her, causing butterflies to jump in her chest. “I’m really happy to be here. I’d actually love a bowl of oatmeal.”
“Perfect. That sounds good to me, too. Why don’t you get settled in on the couch over there, and I’ll make us two bowls. What do you want in your oatmeal? Brown sugar or honey? Any fruit?”
“I know you’re going to tell me I have serial killer vibes again, but I actually like my oatmeal completely plain. Not sweetened. No fruit. No sugar. Nothing.”
He shook his head in mock disgust. “You’re lucky I like you, Abrams. I’m willing to overlook your serial killer tendencies. Okay, two bowls of oatmeal coming right up. One with sugar, like a normal person, and one psychopath style.”
She laughed and ambled over to the living room, where a white cloud couch was piled high with blankets and pillows. She took off her shoes, pulled the fluffiest-looking blanket to her, and settled into a corner of the U-shaped sectional. She grabbed the remote and started scrolling through the TV options.
A ball of gray fluff suddenly jumped out of nowhere onto her lap and settled comfortably on top of Liana. “I’m guessing this is your cat?” Liana called out to James.
“Oh, you met Harry?” James poked his head around the corner. “Yep, that’s him. You see that little lightning-shaped scar on his forehead? He had it when we got him, so we decided to name him after Harry Potter. Daniel Radcliffe version, of course. Harry is a total sweetheart. They say cats are assholes, but Harry just wants to be loved. I see he likes you already. I forgot to ask: are you okay with him sitting on your lap?”
“Totally,” she enthused, scratching Harry between the ears and eliciting a soft purr. “He’s so cute! I’ve always wanted a cat, but my mom doesn’t like them. Not that I’m complaining. We had a dog growing up, and I loved him more than anything. Anyway, sorry for interrupting you while you were getting things ready.”
“You’re not interrupting,” James assured her. “I’ll just finish preparing the oatmeal, and then I’ll be right in to join you.”
After a minute, James appeared, carrying a TV tray laden with two bowls of oatmeal and two glasses of water, which he set down on the coffee table.
“Room for two under that blanket?” James asked. In answer, Liana peeled the blanket back and patted the spot next to her.James settled in and pulled her into his side. She let her body sink into his chest and let out a sigh of contentment.
“Tell me,” she asked after a moment, “what would you be doing on this fine Sunday if not snuggling under the blanket here with me?”
“First of all, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here with you.”
“That’s sweet. But I’m curious.” She traced two fingers down his chest. “I want to know more about you. Your hobbies. Your job. I mean, I know pickleball, obviously. And your charity work. I guess I just want to know more about you.”
He hummed. “The feeling is mutual. I want to know everything there is to know about you. About me… where to start? Well, I actually kind of have three part-time jobs.”
“Damn. That must keep you busy.”
He shrugged noncommittally. “It ebbs and flows. I teach five classes per week at the PHCC, and they’re all on Wednesday or Thursday, which leaves me the other five days of the week for my other stuff.”
“What are your other part-time jobs?”
“I’m using the word ‘jobs’ loosely here,” he said, making air quotes. “One doesn’t really pay me, but the other does pay me — more than I deserve for it, really. The mostly unpaid one is professional pickleball. The paid one is working at my family’s charitable organization. My mom runs it, so you can see why they pay me the big bucks.”
“Right, you mentioned you work for your family’s foundation. That’s what you’re organizing the PHCC event for, right?”
“That’s right. My main work for the charitable fund is organizing two events per year: one in April, which I told you a bit about, and then another get-together around Miami Art Week in December.”
“The April one is the pickleball tournament?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What does the art week one involve?”
“It’s a fundraiser for the U Miami hospital system. We sell artwork, all made by kids who have been hospitalized. Most are kids in the cancer ward. We set up all of the art in a gallery on the first floor of a building my dad owns in Wynwood. It’s right near a bunch of other art galleries, so we get a ton of foot traffic, in addition to the invitations we send out. When my mom first pitched us the event, I thought we shouldn’t compete against Art Basel and should do it another time of the year. But it turned out my mom’s instincts were right. Apparently you can never have too many art week events.”
“Well, there are never too many crypto bros in Miami ready to attend those events. Not to mention the finance bros who fly in from New York for Art Basel just to make the traffic around here hell.”
“Very true,” he agreed.
“Do you like it? The charity work?”
He looked into the distance, considering. “Yes and no. The work itself, I love. I sit with those kids a lot of the time while they draw and paint to prepare for the art week show. I leave every day sobbing but also fulfilled.”
“I’m sure.”