Chapter 4 Nick #2
She shuts the window again and peeks across with a rosy blush filling her cheeks.
“I was going to say no. Absolutely not. But lying for the sake of lying is dumb. So yeah.” Turning, she sets her hands on her hips.
“Speaking from personal experience. My room has the same kind of window, and bugs sure know which way to fly once the sun is setting. The central cooling system is busted, so we don’t have air conditioning, but lucky for us, it’s only April, so the fan should suffice.
Set your bag down, and I’ll show you the rest.”
Formal and stiff, she drops her hands again and crosses the room, passing me and stopping to wait in the hallway.
So I move to the bed and set my bag at the foot, and while I have my back to her, I draw a long inhale of her sweet perfume to combat the pleasant—but boring—scent of a just-cleaned room.
Then, turning again, I dip my chin and follow her back to the hall.
“Bathroom is in here.” She opens the next door to reveal a shared space—shower, bath, and toilet—a long, wooden vanity that should never have been installed in a steam-filling room in the first place, and a tile-design of blue water and yellow ducks.
Good lord, the designer should be shot. “Only one bathroom, as mentioned, and the toilet is in here, too, so we’ll have to get comfortable quickly and learn each other’s routines. Otherwise, that’ll become a problem.”
“You follow your routine as normal.” I wait in the hall so I’m not cornering the poor woman in a small room. “I’ll adapt mine to fit. Are you a two-minute in-and-out kind of woman, or a thirty-minute, turn Spotify up and dance your life away kind?”
Of course, her cheeks flame and tell me everything I need to know.
“Two minutes on a work morning. Thirty minutes with music on the weekends, especially when I’m shampooing my hair.”
And she shampooed today. The coconut smell is stronger than it was the last two times we’ve been in the same room.
“I’ll be in and out pretty quickly in the mornings this week, especially because you’re here, and my productivity will already be impacted.
So if you hear the shower running, you can be confident I’ll be done in a matter of minutes.
” Again, she comes through the door, turns right, and continues her tour.
“My room at the end. We share a wall.” Less enthusiastic now, she opens her door and reveals a room almost twice the size of mine.
Her bed is larger. Her rug. The window. Her entire space is grander, like she really took the time to make her bedroom feel like home.
But why, when I study her bed and the wall behind it, does my brain zero in on the fact we share a wall… like she said. But we share a wall. Her bed and mine, backed up against each other.
God help me.
“I like this space.” I don’t cross the threshold, purely out of respect for her privacy, but I duck my head in and grin at the Stairmaster set up in the far corner by the window.
And after that, I notice the sconces above her bed and the bamboo feature wall I know for a damn fact isn’t original to the home.
The high skirting boards with elegant curves and the perfect paintwork on the three remaining walls that proves she put a lot of effort into this space.
Or she paid someone to do it.
“The rest of the house is nice,” I admit. “It’s fine. But this room is where your heart is.”
“Yes.” She smiles and blushes, dipping her chin and avoiding my gaze when I glance across.
“This is where I’m most comfortable. I’ll continue throughout the rest of my home when I have the resources and time to do it well.
But my priority was always going to be here.
” And just like that, she comes back to the door, forcing me out and closing it behind her back.
“Linen is in here,” she points toward a cupboard, but doesn’t bother opening it, “and then my office.” She opens the third and final bedroom door to reveal a matching bamboo wall, but where I expect a desk, perhaps, and scattered paper and pens, I find a drafting table, a tall stool, and blueprints spread out in the natural light filtering through the third matching window.
“I’ll spend a lot of time in here this week, but if you need me for anything, you’re welcome to knock and enter. I won’t be mad.”
I spy the boombox on the floor beside the table—very nineties of her—and imagine her dancing away her Monday to Friday.
“Do you listen to music a lot while you’re drawing?”
“Sometimes.” She doesn’t do a walk-through like she did in the other rooms. This time, she merely stands beside me and folds her arms. “Sometimes not. When I do, it tends to be loud, and other times, I need silence. I can’t really predict it in advance.
I just go with whatever feels right each day. ”
“Is one or the other dictated by your mood?”
When she raises a questioning brow, I add, “I mean, if the music is on, you’re happy. Music off means you’re cranky or frustrated or something?”
“No.” She drags her poor, abused lip between her teeth and nibbles.
“Music is for happy and sad. Silence, too. Usually, no music means I’m overwhelmed.
Like I can’t focus. But that doesn’t mean I’m cranky.
It just means I know how to help my focus issues and act accordingly.
” She pauses and looks me up and down. “Do you work while listening to music?”
“Mm. Often.” I reach up and tap my ear. “But it’s usually in my headphones.
I normally have one in, to jam out, and one out, so I can still hear the environment around me.
Safety and all that.” My stomach audibly rumbles, so loud Mel’s eyes sling wide, and the blush she wore drains away to pale cheeks.
But I pat my stomach and chuckle. “That was rude. Sorry.”
“Are you hungry?” Already, she moves. “I could make you something.”
“I skipped lunch,” I admit, “but I can wait for dinner. It’s not a big—”
“You said you have no allergies.” She strides along the hall and bursts into the kitchen a dozen steps ahead of me, bustling toward the fridge and opening the door to peruse its contents. “But what are your likes? Your dislikes?”
“Food?” I come to a stop at the doorway and lean against the frame, crossing my ankles and enjoying the show she and her Daisy Dukes put on. “I have no dislikes. You could feed me literally anything, and I’d enjoy it.”
“None at all?” She snags a full head of lettuce, tomatoes from the crisper drawer, and cheese from the shelf above.
“How can you not have dislikes? Even thinking about tuna makes me want to gag, and avocado is like eating cardboard. It’s not bad.
” She snags a plastic container of… something, and tosses it to the counter.
“I’d eat cardboard a million times before tuna, but everyone sings their praises to avocado, and I just…
” She hip-bumps the fridge closed and carries her supplies pressed against her belly.
“I don’t get the hype. Is there literally nothing that you wouldn’t turn your nose up at? ”
I fold my arms and enjoy watching her fuss.
Fuck, I just enjoy that it’s me she’s fussing over.
“Nick?” She grabs a long, sharp knife from the silverware drawer. “Nothing?”
“Nothing I can think of off the top of my head. When you’re a hungry kid, you eat what you’re given. When you’re a grown ass man and a woman is holding a knife,” I glance down at her weapon and grin, “you eat what you’re told. It’s pretty simple from where I stand.”
“I’m making you a ham salad sandwich.” She cuts through the tomato with a fast, easy slice.
“If you see me adding something you don’t like, speak up.
Alternatively, if you’re shy like I would be and unable to say something, feel free to eat on the porch.
I won’t look if you pick something off and toss it in the yard. ”
She’s cute. She contradicts herself. And she’s going to cut her finger off if she’s not more careful. So I drop my smile and—hopefully—make it easier for her to concentrate.
“I already told you, I’m pretty comfortable telling folks how I feel, so if you’re fixing to add something to my sandwich that I don’t like, I promise I’ll let you know.”
“How about spice?” She cracks open the plastic container and peels out thick slices of ham that make my mouth water. “Do you like spicy food?”
“I brought my own bottle of pique sauce, just in case.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “It’s in my bag. You?”
“Not nearly as adventurous with my food.” She carefully assembles my sandwich, towering ingredients and colorful additions, and when it tilts, she fixes it again, reassembling the layers to make her creation structurally perfect.
Then heading back to the pantry and taking out salt and pepper shakers, she adds both when I nod my approval.
“I have my set menus and things I enjoy. I try new recipes now and then so I can add things to my go-to list. But mostly, one could probably predict what I’ll eat on any given night. ”
“Mmhm.” I slide the tip of my tongue along the front of my teeth. “So if I were to cook for you, would you freak out and feel bad because secretly you don’t want it, but you’re not brave enough to speak up, or…?”
“Probably.” She adds the top slice of bread and runs her knife through to cut the sandwich in half.
But when it tilts again, she stabs the blade through and uses it as a stabilizing method.
“But if you tell me your plans ahead of time before you’ve put effort into them, I’d probably be comfortable enough to say something. ”
“Spice levels?”
She pushes the plate across her counter and peers up to meet my eyes. “White-girl spicy. I’ll choose the mild sauce every time. Eat.”