Chapter 10 Not a Pleasant Anything
not a pleasant anything
Liam
“The stunning redhead in the frame in your kitchen. I’ve seen the picture. And the ring.” Quietly and with a fair bit of suspicion, she adds, “You deny her?”
I thump my chest, working out the last bit of inhaled hops so I can speak. “I couldn’t deny Ayla anything. Hell, I’m her daughter’s godfather.”
Her eyes go huge. “Godfather? You don’t even call yourself Dad?”
“Fuck no.” I turn to look at her square in the eyes. “Ayla’s my sister.”
The look on her face is confusion mixed with disgust, probably similar to mine with the cinnamon roll discussion earlier. The light dawns for both of us. Her dueling middle fingers and the I abhor cheating comment. I assumed it was about her.
“You thought I was a cheater.” My voice is low, prodding her.
She nods.
“But you baked for me?”
Her eyes slide away. She shrugs quickly before putting the bottle to her lips and working a deep pull from the bottle. “You saved me. And she could eat them too.”
That’s debatable. “You let me into your house?”
“In all fairness, you let yourself in.”
“That I did.” I don’t mention she cupped my jaw. Or that I could smell her.
Maybe another time. But now I’m curious about the cute girl who’s tempted to do illegal shit, while wrapped up in a package of sensible pants and button-down tops. “I—” I start, only to be interrupted by a voice over the fence from the garage.
“I can smell it from here. Tell me you didn’t fuck it up because I’m hungry.
” The last syllable dies in the back of Fitzgerald Young’s throat as he takes in the scene.
What must appear like a date under the stars with the Rockies on as background noise halts my friend in a stutter step before his momentary pause is gone.
We clap hands when he gets to me then he turns and, with all the south Texas charm he can muster, he extends a palm. “Hi, I’m Fitz. You’re a pleasant surprise.”
“She’s not a pleasant anything.” That comes out all wrong, but Fitz gets the message loud and clear.
“I see.” The man grins. He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “Gonna grab a bowl and see if you did my chili justice.”
“It needs work,” Lorien spits with some irritation. I’m not sure whether her insult is at Fitz for his recipe or me for my cooking. Or my poorly-worded phrase.
“How would you tweak it?” I ask when the other man is finally gone.
The grin that hits her mouth is malevolent. “Cinnamon rolls.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
She’s a testy one. I wasn’t wrong about the spine of steel or her willfulness.
That’s a problem because my cock is a fan too.
She’s feisty and strong but seems docile when you crack the prickly shell.
Not five minutes ago she was awkward and cute.
And she has an ass that beckons me to get on my knees.
“Let’s see how you did.” Fitz has returned with a bowl of his own and heads to the smoker to scoop out some dinner. “Smells right.” He takes a bite. “Not bad, Murphy. I’m impressed.”
“It needs beans,” Lorien mutters petulantly.
“Woman.” Fitz puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me. Or at least irk me. Beans don’t belong in chili.”
“The rest of the country disagrees.” She lifts her eyebrows in challenge.
“The rest of the country’s opinions mean little to Texans.”
This is the most I’ve heard the man speak at one time. He’s usually the silent type. That should resume.
“The opinions of Texans matter little to the rest of the country,” Lorien mutters under her breath, quiet enough that only I can hear it.
I can’t help my laugh or stop myself from clinking her now empty bottle. She doesn’t reciprocate.
“Well, thank you for dinner.” She stands and sets the empty bottle in line with her first and gestures to the seat she just vacated.
“Fitz, do you need a chair?” To me, she says with more chill in her voice than I expect, “Thank you for dinner, Liam. I appreciate it.” And then she sways that perfect ass away.
I start counting in my head because Lorien Anderson seems to live within the box of societal norms. I’ve gotten to eleven when I hear “Pumpkin balls” and a low growl.
She returns through the gate brandishing her bowl, extending it to me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to steal your bowl.”
My lips twitch. Hell, my beard is full-on dancing as I reach for it. “Thanks, Lorien. Glad you enjoyed it.”
She spins on her heel and disappears into the night.
I fight not to laugh at her obvious annoyance and turn up the ballgame. Not so loud as to be annoying, but enough to remind her we’re outside and so our voices don’t drift.
“She’s—” Fitz voice is fucking wistful. “Are you interested or can I…” His voice trails off but his meaning is clear.
“No, you cannot.”
It’s his turn to grin. “I see.” He spoons up more chili. “This probably needs more jalapenos. Maybe a serrano.”
“Only if you want to overwhelm the brisket.” I drain my beer and lift the bottle to him in question.
“Nah. I’m good with water.”
“Be right back,” I offer and head to the kitchen to rinse the bowl, taking the empty beer bottles and adding them to the recycling on the way.
When I return, he’s laser focused on the game. His face is serious, but he accepts one of the glasses of water I offer. “I’m moving.” Two words. A decision. One a long time in the making.
I nod. We’re not the kind of men who divulge our deepest secrets or hidden demons. But he’s a good man, one of very few I trust. “You’ll be missed.”
“Thanks. It’s time. Mom is sick and they need me.”
“No need to explain, brother. I don’t like it, but I get it. Family is family.”
“Exactly.”
“Besides, you can always come back.”
He shakes his head as if he knows his fate is sealed, before a bit of levity hits his tone. “At least you don’t have to worry about me stealing your girl.” His head tilts toward the townhouse connected to mine.
Not my girl, I think. But not his either.
“That’s a relief,” I deadpan.
“What’s the story there?”
“She likes Madonna.” That sums it up.
“Enough said.” He turns his attention to the screen. “My Astros are going to wipe the floor with your Rockies.”
“Sure,” I nod to the screen. “In an alternate universe where they can compete.”
“Don’t start.” There’s humor in his voice.
“You could always pick a winner, you know.”
“Hey, now. You know better. Some things you’re born into. Like knowing better than to put beans in chili, saying Yes, Ma’am, and No, Ma’am, taking care of your momma, and the fucking Houston Astros.”
I’ve got to get better about that Mom one.
Lorien
She likes Madonna? That’s the answer?
I guess it’s better than she’s not a pleasant anything.
Fine, I admit it. I was listening. Of course, I was. I wanted to know, or I thought I did.
My neighbor might be grumbly, but I expected more than to be reduced into two sentences that apparently say everything necessary to the man whose recipe he followed.
I want to yell, I’m a biochemist and a daughter. I’m a sister on the verge of a life-changing breakthrough. I believe in female empowerment. I love beans in chili, and there’s more to me than my music choices. Darn it, I’m a freaking delight.
Instead, I slump below the cracked window and allow myself a good cry.
It’s been a minute since I’ve been this emotional or felt so rejected. No… rejectable.
I’ve been on a path since I was a junior in high school taking advanced placement chemistry and biology.
An aptitude for science they called it. By senior year I was taking courses at the local college for my science credits.
I wasn’t great at systems, or connecting the dots, outside of science, that is.
My brain just gets it. There’s no explanation aside from that. I was unrelatable to my classmates. Undatable by boys who thought intelligence was intimidating.
In my university years, I had similar problems. Socially awkward, physically too if you consider my clumsy nature, and I was the geek that professors loved and lab students wanted to partner with but not necessarily befriend.
Enter my female empowerment years where I said screw all this and dove headlong into owning who I am, how my brain functions, and cutting out anyone who thinks to tear me down. My sister is a decade older. Therefore, my music tastes have more range than most expect.
And Madonna is timeless. Her music is at least.
But those teenage insecurities, the ones that say I’m not desirable—not enough, or the opposite, too much—those live rent-free in my head. I’m too smart, too awkward, too know-it-all, all the while not pretty enough, not alluring, and in no way sexy.
The sob that rends from me is louder than I expected and I reach to close the window.
The last freaking thing I need is a grumpy neighbor, who uses sustainable napkins and does inexplicably kind things, hearing me cry.
Whether he thinks I’m cracked in the head or that he should try to fix it, he’s wrong on both counts.
It’s not him. It’s just what he represents… the men of the world who want beautiful women who have just enough smarts, but not enough to overpower their own intelligence, who are vixens in bed while looking like a lady in heels the rest of the time.
And it’s exhausting. Twisting myself into knots to appear to be something I’m not.
Look more helpless, I’ve been told.
Dumb it down, I’ve been advised.
Maybe a little more lipstick, I’ve heard.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I swipe the tears from my cheeks, get my too-full butt off the floor, and pad to the bathroom.
A long hot bath, slathering down in some silky lotion, and a good night’s sleep will do the trick.
They won’t fix my brain, or my bum, or the fact that I don’t ooze sex.
But maybe the self-care trifecta will remind me my intelligence isn’t the problem.
Nor is my booty. I have what I need. I am enough and not too much. I’ll be just fine.
And my trusty vibrator is more than enough to get me off.
I’ve had a couple days to think after the night where dinner was great, the beer was delicious, and my heart was smashed by his in-your-face not-a-pleasant-anything comment. And I’ve come to a conclusion.
Screw Liam Murphy.
Screw his glorious beard and his flopping dick and his reusable napkins.
Screw his rules about music and living according to his expectations.
It’s an Alanis kind of morning and if he hears it, so be it.
This isn’t the new-and-improved version of me. It’s the I-don’t-give-a-rip version. And I’m coming in hot.
Cranking up the speaker on “Right Through You,” I set about to clean. My house isn’t dirty. I haven’t lived here long enough to make a mess of it, and I’m gone for long periods on most days. It’s dusty more than anything with a lone dead fly on the kitchen windowsill.
But a good mopping and something to make the house smell good goes hand-in-hand with my new-ish attitude.
The aggressive knock on the back door surprises me and I jump and throw my hand over my chest.
Fudge nuggets.
There’s no peephole on this one, but the window over the kitchen sink shows the offender is none other than the grumpy guy next door.
Throwing open the door, I launch in, “Don’t start. You said no Madonna, and this is obviously”—I whisk my hand through the air—“Not Madge. Not to mention, you, sir, do not make the music rules in my house.”
I slam the door without further ado, only to have it bounce off something in the way. Much to my chagrin, his shoe is in the door jamb. My eyes rise from it to his face. “Your foot is in the way.” I keep my voice cheery and no nonsense.
It falls flat.
His eyes rake my body, and I’d swear those ochre eyes dilate. His chest rises and falls, but no anger mars his features.
I wiggle my fingers at his foot with a “shoo.” He’s so surprised he takes a lone step back, met properly with my door in his face.
Alanis for the win.