6. The Great Pretenders
6
Foster
Avirgin?
I lean back against the kitchen counter and blow the steam off my coffee before taking a sip. I barely slept last night, Hadley’s final words before she passed out ringing in my ears.
There’s no way that’s true, right? She’s thirty years old. I know that because I was at her Dirty-Thirty birthday party earlier this year.
And it’s not just her age that makes the whole thing so unbelievable. It’s the fact that she’s fucking gorgeous. And while she’s been a bit jittery and shy since I moved in here, before that, I saw the real Hadley. Sweet, outgoing without being obnoxious, friendly, and, at times, cutely flirtatious.
I can’t think of a single reason she wouldn’t have guys banging at her door to take her out. To get close to her. To get her naked and sweaty and screaming God’s name.
I take another drink of my coffee, then set the mug on the counter behind me. Crossing my arms over my chest, my eyes go unfocused as I try to work out the puzzle that is Hadley West.
I suppose she could be a virgin by choice. Sex isn’t a top priority for everyone, and she could’ve just decided to avoid it. But that doesn’t feel right to me. Her words from last night flow through my mind.
You think I’m pretty?
She’d sounded surprised, like she couldn’t believe I find her attractive. It’s ludicrous, really. With those pixie-like features, long blonde hair, and dove-gray eyes, she’s a vision. Add to that her killer curves…fuck, that ass, itself, is a work of art…and she’s the epitome of seduction. Does she truly not see it?
If I was pretty, I wouldn’t be a spinster.
Her voice had dropped on that bit, like she truly believed her physical appearance contributed to her single status at the ripe old age of thirty.
I’m definitely too old to still be a virgin.
Imbibing too much alcohol is known to lead to loose lips, and drunk people usually tell the truth. And if it is true…
Nothing. It’s nothing to me. None of my business. And I’m pretty sure she never would’ve told me if she hadn’t been three sheets to the wind last night.
I nod to myself, making a decision. I’m going to forget she ever said anything.
“Easier said than done,” I mumble just before a groan reaches my ears.
I straighten, turning toward the doorway as Hadley appears, her hair a mess and her closed eyelids puffy. She’s holding her head like it might fall off if she doesn’t, her feet shuffling across the floor as she enters the kitchen.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I say, and she stumbles to a halt, opening one eye to peer at me.
Her face flushes red as she mumbles out something that sounds like a greeting. Moving toward the coffee maker, I pull out the carafe and pour some into the mug I’d set aside for her earlier. Holding it aloft, I motion her toward the small breakfast table.
“Sit down and relax. I’ll cook you some breakfast.”
“That’s my job,” she says even as she shuffles toward the seat.
“Today, it’s my job,” I say, setting the mug down in front of her.
I’ve seen her usual order at Beans & Books, so I know she likes her coffee sweet and creamy. I dig around in the fridge until I find some chocolate flavored creamer, then grab the sugar bowl beside the coffee maker and set the items in front of her.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, still holding her head on with one hand while she pours some of the creamer into her mug.
“You’re welcome,” I say, then head back to the refrigerator.
Opening the door, I bend over and pull out a carton of eggs, a package of bacon, and a bag of shredded cheddar cheese. Bumping the door closed with my hip, I take my load to the counter next to the stove and set it down before digging through the cabinets to find a frying pan. Coming up with my prize, I set it on the stove and turn on the burner. Giving it a moment to heat up, I duck into the pantry and find a bag of tortillas.
“Breakfast burritos sound good?” I ask as I walk back out.
She nods slowly, and her eyes squeeze shut as if the motion sent pain through her temples.
“Where do you keep your painkillers?” I ask.
“Drawer by the sink,” she mumbles.
I pull open the drawer to find a bottle of aspirin along with some antacids, allergy pills, and two epi-pens. Shaking out a couple of aspirin, I put the lid back on the aspirin and close the drawer.
“Are you allergic to bees, or something?” I ask as I walk over and place the aspirin in her hand.
“What?” she asks, looking up at me through squinted eyes.
“The epi-pens in the drawer,” I say, jerking my head in that direction.
“Oh,” she says, throwing the pills back and washing them down with her coffee. “No, those are for a potential emergency with the guests. I like to keep them on hand, just in case.
“Smart,” I say, walking back over to the stove.
The pan is hot, so I lay a few strips of bacon inside. It starts to sizzle, filling the kitchen with a glorious smell that makes my stomach rumble with anticipation. I glance back at Hadley, and she’s holding her head in both hands now. My lips curve up, and I turn back to the bacon so she won’t see my humor.
Been there, done that.
I know what she’s feeling right now, and the sooner I get some food in her belly, the sooner she’ll feel better.
“I can’t decide if the smell of bacon is mouthwatering, or if my mouth is pooling with saliva because I’m about to throw up,” she grumbles.
“Hopefully the former,” I say as I crack a few eggs into a bowl and whip them up. “Do you need some antacids? I saw some in the drawer with the aspirin.”
“No, I think I’m okay,” she sighs.
Once the bacon crisps, I pull the strips out of the pan and place them on a paper towel to drain the grease. Pulling a coffee mug from the cabinet, I pour the excess grease into it, leaving just enough to give the eggs a little extra flavor. Setting the pan back on the burner, I pour in the eggs and scramble them with a spatula. Once they’re cooked, I split them between two tortillas, add bacon to each, and sprinkle them both with cheese before rolling them into burritos.
“Hot sauce?” I ask as I set the plates on the table.
“No, thanks. But there’s some in the fridge if you want it,” she says, and I shake my head and slide into the chair across from her. She gives me a small smile and adds, “Thanks for this. It smells delicious.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply as I pick up the burrito from my plate. “Now, dig in. You’ll feel better once you eat.”
“I don’t usually drink that much,” she murmurs just before she takes her first bite.
“Then why did you last night?” I ask, keeping my voice casual even though I’m extremely interested in her answer.
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug and swallows the bite she’s been chewing before saying, “We were celebrating.”
I nod slowly, focusing on my breakfast as if I’ve accepted that answer. But I don’t believe her. For starters, she’s a terrible liar. She refuses to meet my gaze and looks highly uncomfortable. Of course, she could be remembering her confession last night.
I’m definitely too old to still be a virgin.
I could see why she’d be too embarrassed to make eye contact with me after that even though, in my opinion, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It is what it is. A bit surprising, maybe.
Okay, maybe more than a bit surprising. But, still.
And she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. If she wants to pretend the words never passed her lips, then I can pretend I never heard them.
I have my own fair share of topics that I refuse to discuss. Things from my past I like to pretend never happened.
Hadley and I are a lot alike in that respect. She doesn’t want to talk about the things that haven’t happened to her. I don’t want to talk about the things that have.
We’re both great pretenders.