Chapter 8 #3
That evening, Nettie was elbow-deep in soap suds, sleeves rolled up, hair in a messy knot on top of her head as she stared out the tiny kitchen window above her sink.
The glass reflected her tired face back at her, the faint shadows under her eyes a reminder of long workdays and even longer nights where sleep never came easily.
The small house smelled faintly of grilled chicken and garlic—meals she’d portioned out for the week—her desperate attempt at being responsible when all she wanted was to curl up on the couch with her emergency Kit-Kat stash and binge something brainless on television.
She dunked the pan into the sink again, scrubbing at the browned bits stuck stubbornly to the bottom, when her phone buzzed across the counter. The sharp vibration jolted her heart into her throat.
Her first instinct was to ignore it. Whoever it was could wait.
She wasn’t in the mood—not for Gina’s well-meaning texts, not for Shannon’s half-joking check-ins, not for anyone.
Her friends had been kind earlier, but their pity had felt like salt in the wound after opening her big mouth in front of Tate.
And Tate… oh gosh, Tate.
She flushed just remembering the mortification of his overhearing her earlier.
Her stomach clenched, and she shoved the thought away, scrubbing harder at the pan.
But then her phone buzzed again. The sound echoed in the silence of her kitchen, louder than the running faucet, louder than the clatter of dishes.
Two messages?
Her chest squeezed.
That was never just spam.
Rolling her eyes—half at herself, half at whoever dared disturb her fortress of self-pity and doubt—she yanked her hands out of the soapy water and reached for the dishtowel.
Water dripped down her forearms as she wiped them furiously, leaving the pan abandoned in the sink like a sinking ship.
On the counter, her neatly lined meal-prep containers waited, open and ready, a rainbow of cherry tomatoes, bowtie pasta, and steamed broccoli lined up like tiny soldiers.
She was trying. She really was. Healthy meals, structure, order. Discipline. But order never quite filled the hollow ache. And when it didn’t?
That’s what the Kit-Kats hidden behind the flour canister were for.
Balance, yo.
She dried her fingers with exaggerated care, like drawing out the moment might soften whatever blow waited for her on that glowing screen. With a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, she picked up her phone.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
The name on the screen—Tate.
Not Gina.
Not Shannon.
Not spam…
Tate.
Her thumb hovered, trembling, over the notification, her whole body buzzing like she’d just plugged herself into an electrical outlet. She clicked.
The world stopped.
Her knees went weak, and she grabbed the counter with her free hand to steady herself, the edge biting into her palm.
Ohhhhh. Oh no. This was not fair.
On the screen was a picture that should have been outlawed by every reasonable code of decency.
Obscene – in some code book somewhere. Illegal- most definitely in her mind, this was breaking some sort of law against nature.
Something so dangerously perfect it would be seared into her mind forever, branded upon the back of her skull.
Even if the world ended in the next five minutes, she would die with this image etched behind her eyelids and retinas.
Tate.
And a kitten.
She blinked, as though her eyes had betrayed her and she needed to double-check. But no—it was very real.
The photo showed Tate sprawled on a couch, his head propped against a pillow. His dark hair was rumpled like he’d run a hand through it too many times, his jaw shadowed in a way that made her mouth go dry. But it wasn’t just him.
Oh no.
No, no… Fate once again said, ‘Hold my beer’ – and signed up for AA with this one. She had her limits, and Fate just trashed them all with one text message.
Sheesh.
Nettie cursed aloud, did a double-take to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, before ogling the photo and zooming in – for posterity’s sake, of course.
A gray tabby kitten—tiny, no bigger than her palm—stood on his chest like a conquering hero.
Its back was arched, tail puffed, mouth open in what looked like a ferocious hiss.
Ferocious… except it was about the size of a coffee mug.
It was the most aggressively adorable thing she had ever seen, with bright blue eyes that nearly swallowed his sweet little face.
And Tate?
The man who was all broad shoulders and sharp edges, who carried himself like the world rested heavily on his back?
He was smiling. Really smiling. Not the grumpy, measured glare he gave strangers.
Not the half-smirk that he rarely used to show a lesser amusement to something mildly tolerable.
A full, unguarded, crinkle-at-the-corners-of-his-eyes smile.
She pressed her hand to her chest, as if that could keep her heart from ricocheting out of her ribcage.
This wasn’t fair.
This was catastrophic.
Nearly bordering on obscene at how appealing that singular photo was.
Nettie stared at her phone like it was both a gift and a curse, the kind of thing that ought to come wrapped in caution tape. Because how was she ever supposed to recover from that? Every other picture, every other smile, every other being on the planet had just been demoted. Permanently.
Her pulse skittered. Her palms actually tingled. She set her phone down gingerly on the counter like it might combust in her hands. Then—against all logic—she snatched it back up again, because what if he saw she’d read it and didn’t answer? What if she was hallucinating?
Nope. It was there. Still there. In all its beautiful, arrogant, maddening glory. Her brain spun wildly, ping-ponging between panic and giddy hysteria. How did a sane woman respond to… that?
What could she possibly say?
If she sent him a selfie right now, she would have cartoon hearts for eyes, no question. There was no hiding it. None. She’d look like she’d just won the lottery and was proposing marriage to her phone screen.
Her phone buzzed again in her hand, a sharp vibration that shot through her like a live wire. Another message.
His name is Mulligan.
Her throat went dry. It was a weirdly sweet, too-big-for-the-small-guy’s name, but somehow fit him to a ‘T’. Tate had actually sent her a picture of his kitten—and now he was casually throwing in a name?
What’s next?
“Play it cool, Nettie,” she whispered to herself, saying it out loud as if the words might anchor her to sanity. “Just… play it cool.”
Her thumbs hovered. Finally, she typed:
Mulligan is adorable. Thank you for sharing.
Yep. That was safe.
Normal.
Totally not screaming You drive me crazy! – or I don’t want to like you again!
And then—nothing.
Silence.
Nettie sat frozen, unsure what else to say or do because things felt weirdly strained. He texted like he said he would. She replied. They were polite. And now—zilch. The sudden gap was deafening.
She huffed out a breath, putting her phone back on the counter with a little more force than necessary, and tried to refocus on the pan she’d been scrubbing. Bubbles clung to her wrists, the hot water steaming faintly in the sink, but she couldn’t get that image out of her head.
Goodness, his smile was beautiful…
And then—ding.
Her eyes snapped toward the phone, almost in disbelief, heart rate spiking. Tate was texting again.
She dried her hands so fast she nearly dropped the dish towel, grabbed her phone, and held her breath as she clicked on the notification.
What are you doing?
Her lips twitched as she fought back a smile. It was almost as weird as a ‘What are you wearing?’ comment because it was so out of left field for him – or for her. She typed back:
The dishes. What are you doing?
Thinking.
Nettie rolled her eyes because she knew him.
Oh, she knew him. This was bait. She could practically hear the smug tone in her head, like he was leaning back in his chair with that infuriating smirk.
She’d ask what he was thinking about, and he’d snap back with ‘none of your business’ or something equally irritating.
Still, she sighed heavily and played along.
What are you thinking about?
Stuff.
She groaned. If she kept rolling her eyes like this, it was bound to cause permanent damage.
What kind of ‘stuff’…
Stuff I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Talk to you later…
Her fingers hovered, irritation bubbling. Fine. If he wanted to be cryptic and moody, let him. She typed the only thing she could:
Bye.
Yup.
Nettie snorted. Yup. That was so Tate. Draw someone in and then slam the door in their face for daring to peek through the window. Classic.
She was about to set her phone down again when it beeped.
Her breath caught as she read.
You’re not a friend.
“What in the actual heck?” she exclaimed to the empty kitchen, her voice bouncing off the tile. “Who even texts stuff like that?”
She muttered under her breath while her thumbs flew across the screen. If he was trying to get under her skin—congratulations. Mission accomplished.
You’re not my friend either.
His reply came quickly.
I know that.
Fine.
I’d rather not define things – especially with something as puny as friends.
Her eyebrows shot up. Oh, really? If he wanted to start redefining labels in the middle of a dishwashing session, two could play that game.
So don’t – and if we’re not trying to be friends, then why are you still texting me?
I’m not sure.
Her stomach flipped, and she wasn’t sure if it was irritation or something far more dangerous. That was not the answer she was expecting from him or anyone else. If they weren’t friends, then what were they? Why was he texting? What did this all mean?
You’re difficult.
I’ve heard that before. You’ve gotta come up with something better than that to hurt my feelings or piss me off.
Nettie hesitated, thumbs still. She wasn’t trying to hurt him—or anyone. She was just… retaliating to how he was acting. Surely he realized that?
I’m not doing either. I’m responding to how you are speaking to me.
A pause. Then:
I already know I’m hard to be around.
I’m sorry.
Her eyes widened, heart thudding so loud she swore it echoed. She reread the words three times, as if the letters might rearrange themselves.
Tate. Apologizing.
Apologizing.
Her knees felt weak, and she had to grip the edge of the counter again as her brain went into shock at the words on her screen. She had known him for years and never once did Tate apologize for anything – ever.
I’ll work on it. Good night.
“That’s it?” she asked aloud to the silence, her voice shaky. “Just like that? You show up, toss your grenade, and then run?”
Her thumb hovered, debating sending something—anything—but in the end, she locked the phone, tossed it onto the counter, and shook her head.
“You’re not difficult,” she muttered, flipping the switch on her phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’. “You’re impossible.”
And for the rest of the night, no matter how hard she tried to scrub, rinse, or distract herself, her mind replayed that picture, those words, and that startling apology.
Because Tate was many things—but predictable was never one of them.