Page 23 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“Good! Um. Gosh, I’m sorry. I’m keeping your hands prisoner, and you can barely eat.”

“I’ve eaten four of these pande... Pandesals?”

“Pandesal, yes. They’re more of a breakfast or coffee accompaniment, but to me, there is nothing that screams Filipino comfort food more than one of these, so I decided to make them for you.”

“You made them. You’ve baked for me twice.”

“You’ve saved my cat once. That’s enough.” She giggles.

Oh, no. It’s becoming one of the prettiest sounds I know, and I want to hear it again. I want to hear her play, and sing, and laugh... and suddenly I picture her on my lap, guiding my hands, and my hands slide to her long, beautiful legs, and she makes a new sound. “Gordon,” she sighs, softly, warm little body against my much bigger one. Not afraid of being held by me, because she knows I’d never hurt her. Never hurt anyone, even though I’m a troll.

“I’d save him again,” I say gruffly. “If necessary.”

“Thank you.”

She finds my hand again. A little pat. A little smile.

It’s absolutely unfair that it hits with the force of a firehose.

This is possibly my favorite date, ever. Better than any dance or party. Shoes kicked off. Cat asleep on the windowsill across from me. Comfort food in my belly. Gordon watching me with his mouth hanging open as I play my favorite pieces, the pieces that are easy now, but still sound impressive to the uninitiated. The kind that flow easily and make my entire body feel warm and relaxed. Für Elise. Nocturnes. Pop hits from the eighties. Gordon’s eyes just get wider, and his criminally handsome face gets softer. Sometimes I see him rub his chest, just for a second, and then he puts his hands back on his knees.

He makes my sofa look like toddler furniture.

And the chest-grabbing thing could mean he’s not used to all the spices in the adobo chicken. Could be heartburn.

But when my fingers still over the final notes, I hear a croaky whisper that’s so small, I can’t believe it came from someone so big. “That was beautiful. All of it,” Gordon says.

“You’re a good audience. Want to try it out? I’ll teach you a scale. C major is so easy, all white keys, all in a row,” I encourage, and when he stands, looking oddly lost in a heroic body, I tug him by the wrist, and he moves like a puppet on a string.

I think... I think this big, tough, “strong silent type” guy is a secret softie, and it tickles me.

It also gives me feelings I didn’t mean to catch. “C’mon,” I nudge, and sit him down on the piano bench. I stand behind him and have to stretch to reach over his shoulder and put his thumb on middle C. I try not to feel how hard his shoulders are, how densely muscled.

But oh my God, I’m not made of wood. He might be made of stone, however. I’ve never felt anyone with muscles like that. My insides go all woozy from being so close, and that’s just stupid and unprofessional. Right now, he’s kind of like a student. “Okay, like this.” I demonstrate five notes in a row with my right hand, one octave up. “Just go thumb, two, three, four, five. Perfect!” I cheer when he does it right, a look of amazement on his face. “Okay, and to do a scale, we go thumb, two, three, tuck the thumb under, and it’s thumb, two, three, four, five.” I coach. “Look, you did that. And so smooth.” It was smooth. And careful. “Want to learn to play ‘Hot Cross Buns’?”

“A song?”

“A simple song. Three notes.”

He hesitates. “I should go soon.”

“We don’t have to play the piano, Gordon,” I say, wondering if he’s bored and just wants to get out of here, even though we just finished dinner a few minutes ago. I glance at my phone from where it sits on the piano’s sleek wooden top.

Oh. No, it really is that late. I must’ve played for almost an hour.

“Teach me?” Gordon asks, that same little voice that melts me whispering past his lips.

“Sure!” I demonstrate the song, saying the name of the notes as I go, explaining that each key matches a note name. I feel like he should have been taught this in school—but then I remember the snippets I know of his childhood. I remember how many schools cut art and music first when money gets tight.

Gordon is a fast learner. He taps the song out slowly, perfectly. I can’t resist giving his massive shoulders a quick squeeze as I give a happy squeal. “You did it! Here, I have one of the beginner piano books I use with the piano class at school. Let me get it for you.”

“How much?” His hand reaches to his back pocket, and his head swivels to look up at me.

“Nothing. Freebie,” I smile.

When Gordon sits on the bench and I stand next to it, we’re practically eye-to-eye. Smile to smile. My eyes widen, and then slowly start to close as I lean closer.

And end up with a pectoral in my face.