“I know, right?” Dev nods. “I’ve probably eaten this meal fifty times now, but it never gets old.”
“Fifty times? Wow. Does he make it every day?” I dip a hunk of French bread into the sauce and take a hearty bite of it, not caring that this marks me as a piglet. Thank goodness Dev is just as hungry as I am. His nose is so close to his bowl, I’m surprised he hasn’t splashed the spicy sauce up into his nostrils yet. He’s already on his second helping.
“No. Maybe once or twice a month. He has a pretty big repertoire, and he likes to cook, lucky for us.”
“You don’t know how to cook?”
“Not really. My mom always tried to teach me, but I’m not a very good student.” He gives me a half smile, and I can almost picture him as a small boy. The vision reminds me of my son, Sammy, and makes me go warm with happiness.
I smile. “Oh, I don’t know if I believe that.” I realize after I say it that it sounds like I’m flirting. My face feels a little warm, but I’m pretty sure it’s the spice in the jambalaya and not the little wink he gives me.
“Believe it.” He holds up a hand that I’m absolutely sure could palm a basketball with no effort. “It’s hard to use regular-sized knives with paws like these.” He uses that paw to pick up another piece of bread and dip it into his sauce. A big slice from the thick baguette looks like a crouton in his giant fingers.
“You do have pretty big hands.” Is he thinking the same thing I am? I squirm in my seat a little bit. Damn, this jambalaya is spicy. I reach up surreptitiously and pull the collar of my shirt out a little.
He shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”
I’m confused. “Being a trainer?”
He shakes his head. “No. Massive growth spurts.”
I put my spoon down, intrigued about his history. I’ve never met anyone taller than six-two. “You had more than one?”
He’s chewing more slowly and looks as if he’s considering my question, not sure he wants to answer it. Once again, I’m worried that I’ve gone too far with my interrogation, but then he responds as he stares into his bowl.
“I guess I had my first one around twelve years old. I grew an entire foot over the summer. Then I had another one when I was around fifteen. The third one when I was around eighteen.” He looks up at me with a wry grin. “Let’s just say it left a lot of stretch marks on my back.”
“Wow. So, how tall are you?”
“Seven feet even.”
I don’t know why, but that makes my heart flip. “Holy crap.” I grab my spoon and act like I’m going to take another bite of my meal, even though every last bit is gone. I’m afraid that I’ve insulted him with my reaction, so I scramble to pick up the pieces of the conversation as I scrape up speckles of sauce and collect them over on the edge of the bowl.
“That’s really cool. I’ll bet you can reach everything on the top shelf.” I feel like thumping myself in the forehead with my spoon. Good one, Jenny. It’s as if I’ve never talked to a man before.
He laughs. “I haven’t met a shelf I can’t reach yet, unless you count the ones at Costco. But I’m pretty good at climbing, so I think I could handle those too.”
I sigh with jealousy. “You have no idea the struggles that I have being only five-three.”
“Oh really?” He puts the spoon down. “Tell me about it.”
I know he’s mocking me, but I play along like he’s not. “Well . . . I have a step stool that I have to carry around the house with me so that I can access my pantry, my linen closet, and my clothes closet.” I pretend-frown to make sure that he’ll be suitably impressed by my very sad story.
“You poor thing. I never realized how challenging it could be to be so petite.” His smile has turned upside down into a very overdone frown.
I know he didn’t mean it as a compliment, but being called petite makes me very happy. “Yep. That’s my personal struggle. I don’t like to complain, though. I just suffer in silence . . . try to be strong for all the other height-challenged people out there who look up to me . . .”
He laughs and leans back in his chair, wiping his mouth off with a napkin that he then throws on the table. He laces his hands and puts them behind his head, leaning back so he can stare at the ceiling. “Ahhhhh . . . ,” is all he says.
“So, you said your son might be tall for his age, huh?”
Dev swivels his head to the left and right, using his stationary hands to rub his scalp. Then, without warning, he lurches forward in his chair, stands up, and grabs both of our empty bowls to walk them over to the sink.