Operation: Geekdom
When I arrive home from work that evening, earlier than promised, I hear a weird howl coming through the front door. For a moment, I can’t comprehend the sound that’s assaulting my eardrums. The howl glissandos into a screech that sounds vaguely harmonic.
No, not harmonic - harmonica!
I just about do a happy dance in the hallway outside my apartment. I probably would have (the neighbors wouldn’t have minded - they know better than to Ask Questions by now) but I can’t bring myself to waste precious time. I grab my always-and-forever-present camera, unlock the door, shoulder it open as quietly as I can, aim and-!
Click!
Gianni doesn’t even hear the sound of it over the harmonica pressed to his lips. He’d claimed that he could play the device ages ago. This is the first proof he’s given me that he hadn’t been trying to ingratiate himself with me via geeky goodness.
And yes, playing the harmonica is wonderfully geeky. My toes tingle with the thrill.
His cupped hand waves, breaking up the note, warbling it with the kind of ease that comes from a whole lot of practice. He then lowers the instrument and, opening his eyes, arches a brow at me.
“’Oh, Canada’?” I guess, kicking the door shut behind me.
“’Temptation’,” he corrects me.
“Whoops.”
“I’m still working on it.”
“Well, you’re making progress!”
“So are you.”
“Sure am. One foot in front of the other. That’s how I get through day after day of proto-photographers,” I reply, kicking off my loafers and heading for the refrigerator.
“I meant with the photographs.”
“Well, I am a photographer,” I say, prying open the fridge door and grinning at the boxes of film sitting on the too-short middle shelf, awaiting use. I’m pretty sure fridge engineers are closet photographers; there’s always a too-short shelf in a fridge.
“The photos of me,” he counters, upping the ante.
“Oh?” I try out the wide-eyed Innocent Lasca look, wondering if I can summon enough genuine shock to sell it. Gianni doesn’t buy.
“Is that why you didn’t tell me your department meeting had been canceled?”
Actually, it hadn’t been canceled. It hadn’t even been scheduled. I’d lied about that. Kind of. Time to distract him. I decide to use the truth. That often has the effect of distracting subjects like the Gianni from the scent of a lie. “And here I thought it would be a nice surprise!” And it was. For me, anyway. “I told you playing that the harmonica was cute in a geeky way.”
He reaches out and closes the refrigerator door, crowding me back against the kitchen counter and caging me there with his longer arms. He stares at me with his dark eyes as if he has the power to read my mind. He doesn’t, thank the founders of photography, but I let myself get distracted by the sexy way his dark, wavy hair tumbles over his forehead.
Just that quickly, the only thought in my head is “yum…” and the only emotion in my body is delightful, hormone-produced, garden variety Lust (and a highly robust specimen at that).
Sensing this, Gianni lets out a long breath and informs me, “You’re hopeless.”
“On the contrary!” I reply as he leans in and presses a kiss to my neck. “I’m very hopeful…”
And I do not hope in vain. Who knew my apartment’s tiny kitchen had enough space for, um, well. You get the idea. Whoo boy.
The victory at snagging photo number four makes it just that much better, too.