Chapter 3
Chapter Three
HALSEY
“You know, I thought it was homier in here.” Posey looks around my apartment. “It feels...cold. Is it the concrete walls and floors or the lack of area rug? Maybe both.”
“Can you shut the fuck up and just help me?” I ask as I place a bonsai tree on the kitchen counter along with some of the supplies needed to take care of the stupid thing.
I opted for the juniper bonsai tree because Posey insisted it looked more like a Sherman than the other varieties. The fucking thing was fifty dollars.
Fifty dollars for a miniature tree. Sure, I can afford it, but I was annoyed I had to purchase it in the first place.
I told Posey after our game last night that he was meeting me first thing in the morning to help me get groceries and some necessities for Blakely’s arrival, as well as a bonsai tree.
We’re running late because he made us examine the feminine products for ten minutes and what I should stock in my bathroom until I finally told him she was probably coming with her own. He agreed, that made the most sense.
We then smelled every candle in the candle aisle despite me telling him I had candles, and he ended up picking the scent that I already have in my home.
This was followed up by him thinking I needed lots of snacks to make it seem like I was human.
Pretty sure my walking body portrays that, but at that point, I was exhausted, so I let him fill up the cart.
Looking at the full reusable bags in my apartment, I’m guessing that was a big mistake.
“You know, I’m getting tired of the attitude,” Posey says as he comes up to me with a bag full of miscellaneous things like notepads, pens, lotion, and a whisk.
He asked if I had one, and when I said no, he put it in the cart.
You have to make it homey for her, he said.
You have to make sure she doesn’t need a whisk and comes up short, he said.
Guarantee, she won’t even touch the fucking whisk.
“Then you never should have offered up my place to stay.” I fill up the sink with two inches of water and put Sherman—yup, that’s happening—in the water so it can soak up whatever it needs.
“You can act all grumpy about it, but you know deep down, this was a great idea.”
“How?” I ask. “How was this a great idea?” I motion to my apartment. “If you haven’t noticed, I keep it pretty plain here. I don’t need much, just a place to read and sleep. She’s going to come here and think it’s some sort of jail cell.”
“Not with the new Egyptian cotton sheets we got for her bed.” He pats me on the shoulder and says, “And can I just say, it’s really white knight-ish of you to give her your bed since you don’t have one in her room.
Sleeping on an air mattress is a real commitment and making sure she doesn’t have to suffer through that truly shows how much you like this girl. ”
“I wasn’t going to make her sleep on an air mattress,” I mutter. Nope, that will be me, which should be fun given I have lower back issues from playing hockey my whole damn life.
“That being said, we should probably move the bed, right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “We have about an hour to get this shit done, so put away the cold food and I’ll work on everything else, then we’ll do the beds.”
“Right, okay.” Posey peeks into the sink. “Is that too much water for Sherman?”
“No, that’s what the girl at the nursery said to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“For the love of God, Levi,” I shout. “Please just put away the fucking cold food.”
“Sheesh, okay.” He moves toward the bags and starts unloading them as I try to calm myself.
Am I stressed?
Yes.
I’m beyond stressed. Blakely will be here in an hour.
I have to move my bed to her room, try to make this concrete sanctuary not look so .
. . sterile, and mentally prepare myself that Blakely White will temporarily share my space.
My private, bland, and quiet space. And if there are two things Blakely is not, it’s bland and quiet.
“You know, you should probably iron the curtains you got for her room.”
I move past him and start placing crackers, chips, and whatever food Posey thought she might like in the pantry. “We don’t have time to iron, they’ll shake out once they’re hung.”
He’s stacking the cans of lime La Croix very carefully, making me want to scream at him. “I don’t know, it’s risky.”
“We can steam them then, but you need to fucking hurry up.”
“Dude, we need to make it look presentable. The last thing you want is for her to think you’re some careless bachelor. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Because I don’t see you with a girlfriend?”
“Because I haven’t pulled the trigger yet. Once I do, I’ll have my girl in the palm of my hand.”
I highly doubt it. If anyone is a hot mess on this team, it’s Levi Posey.
Together, we unpack the food and—carefully—stock the kitchen, including the whisk he made me buy, as well as the colorful cutting knives that are pink, purple, and blue.
He claimed it was a nice, feminine touch that I could afford since I was brimming with masculinity. Once again, his words, not mine.
“Now, we don’t want to light the candle, but we need to place it somewhere,” Posey says, holding up the rich mahogany-scented jar.
“Silas told me that sometimes it can look too desperate if you actually light the candle.” He glances around the barren living room. “Where are your coffee table books?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Then where are your actual books? I know you have them, as you read all the time.”
“They’re in my room. Why?”
“Because, Joanna Gaines likes to stack books and put a candle on top. It looks nice.”
“Who is Joanna Gaines?”
“Jesus.” Posey moves past me, bumping my shoulder, and heads toward my bedroom. He stops immediately and takes it in. “What the hell is this?”
“My room.”
He glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s a bed with stacks of books piled on the floor. Where is your dresser? Your curtains? Perhaps a rug to keep your feet warm when you first pop out of bed?”
“Don’t need them.”
“What the hell do you do with your money?” he asks with a shake of his head.
“Invest. Save. I don’t know. Buy books.”
“How about some shelves, huh? That might be nice. Look at these stacks and stacks of books. Don’t you think they would want a place to live? What kind of bookworm are you?”
“It doesn’t matter to me. They’re fine as is. Stop stalling.” I walk over to my bed and strip the sheets off as well as the blankets and pillows while Posey studies my stacks and stacks of books.
“This might work.” He picks up a thick black book with no dust jacket.
I hate them and always Terracycle them when I get the book.
“What is this? A thriller? Doesn’t matter, it will go with the living room aesthetic.
” He takes off, and I clench my jaw, keeping my mouth shut so I don’t fly off on him.
I’ve been close with Posey for a while now, and you wouldn’t think that our personalities would mix well.
He’s kind of out there, odd at times, and a fucking monster while playing hockey.
He’s also an instigator but with a heart.
Hard to explain him. He’s all over the place, like right now, thinking he’s some sort of God’s gift to interior design.
Funnily enough, he reminds me a lot of my brother Holden.
He was the same way. Outgoing, always instigating shenanigans—something that used to get on our older brother’s nerves—but had a fucking heart of gold.
Levi Posey might drive me nuts, and I might want to murder him at times, but it’s almost as if Holden has pushed us closer.
Fuck, if Holden were still here, he’d be laughing his ass off in the corner, enjoying every second of my scrambling. He would egg Posey on. And he’d definitely be waiting off to the side, watching this entire circus unfold.
“The candle is set.” Posey walks back into the room, dusting off his hands.
“Well, thank God for that.”
“I also took Sherman out of his water because the dirt was saturated. His new home is on the console table behind your couch for better light. Which by the way, you have a console table, but you don’t have bookshelves? Make that make sense.”
“Just help me with this mattress.”
Posey grabs one end and tugs it toward him, grunting in the process. “Why the hell is this so heavy? Do you sleep on concrete as well?”
“It’s a custom mattress for my lower back. Use your fucking muscles.”
“I am,” he grunts as he tugs it across the floor while I push. “I was expecting something lightweight.”
“Well, it’s not, so keep tugging.”
“Are we going straight to the other room, or do you want to make a pit stop and move half of the bed so we can move the bottom and place it in the room first?” Why does he have to make things so complicated?
I swear to God, when you work with Posey, you need to be prepared for an extra step in everything you do, including talking about it.
“Just move it to the other bedroom.”
Together, we drag the mattress into the living room.
“Are you sure? Because if we do this properly, we could unravel the bed and put it back without being clumsy about it. We could be efficient.” He tugs; I push. “And are we really clumsy people? Or are we efficient motherfuckers?”
“Does it fucking matter?” I push hard on the mattress with my shoulder, scooting it a good two feet.
“Whoa, man,” Posey says. “You almost knocked me over.”
I shove again, sending him to stumble backward and hit the console table behind the couch.
“Ah,” he yells. “You almost made me knock over Sherman.”
“Grip the mattress and keep moving.” I push again.
“I am, but you’re being aggressive.”
“Because we have like forty minutes until she’s here, and you want to steam the goddamn curtains and talk about efficiency. Just get it the fuck done.”
“Don’t fucking get mad at me for setting standards.”