Chapter 6
Warner
I blink twice, adding a third slow blink for good measure.
Surely, this can’t be real. I have a concussion, so I must be seeing things. I back out of the closet, close the door, and count to five before opening it again. It’s still the same—a fucking mess. But it makes no sense. How would it get like this?
I open the top drawer to find it empty. Am I losing my mind?
Looking lower, I see the bottom drawer sticking out, so I open it to find everything from the top drawer shoved inside it without care.
Nothing is folded. Nothing is organized.
There’s just a mess of black cotton crowding the drawer.
Irritation spirals through me, causing my head to ache more than it already did.
I work on a pair of boxer briefs, cursing myself for choosing underwear that’s difficult to get into, and then start searching for my other clothes.
I grab a T-shirt that’s fallen on the floor on the opposite side of where it normally lives and try to pull it over my head.
I’m only half successful. This broken arm business is really going to fuck with my day-to-day.
I spot a pair of sweatpants and tug those on.
I don’t bother trying to tighten the drawstring, since the cast hinders my maneuverability.
Looking around once more, I scratch the back of my head.
Delaney tries to come off innocent, but there’s more to this story than she’s sharing.
I still don’t fucking know what it is, and it’s doing my head in.
Well, the concussion is probably more to blame, but she’s clearly someone with a hatred for orderly closets.
Wife, my ass. There’s no way I would marry someone who lives in such disarray.
No fucking way. It would drive me to the edge of sanity looking at that mess every day.
I scoff, leaving the closet, cutting through the bedroom, and ready to return to my normal life.
As normal as someone who was just in a car accident can be.
My home office silently calls to me when I pass by, just as it did earlier.
Staring at the monitor while ordering what I need was enough to take a break from the blinding light.
It's probably wise to let the healing process take its course and leave business for tomorrow. Hey, look, I’m turning over a new leaf.
Guess that’s what nearly dying does to a man.
I stop when I spot her in the kitchen. Boppy music infiltrates the area around her, and she’s mouthing along, her singing here and there. I take a breath to keep calm. I won’t heal if my blood pressure keeps going through the roof.
Starting toward her, I say, “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”
Her gaze hits me, but then a smile works its way to the corners of her mouth. I can’t deny it looks like she’s struggling to hide her dislike of me. Maybe we were married. Still are . . . separated. Fuck. This is wild.
She comes around to stand so close to me that I can feel the heat of her body. Without me asking, she takes the cotton shirt and stretches to the side, carefully looping my broken arm through the short sleeve. I whisper, “Thank you.”
She drags the hem down over my abs, and without looking up, she whispers, “You’re welcome.” A glimmer of a smile appears when her eyes find mine again. “I couldn’t leave you all alone.” She leaves too quickly to appreciate the proximity.
“Well, you could have, but you chose to stay.” Stationed on the other side of the island from her, I eye the stovetop and the small stack of pancakes on a plate next to it. “I thought you’d be long gone by now. Not making pancakes for a man you supposedly hate.”
With an apron I didn’t know I owned, wrapped around the front of her, and a spatula held tight in her hand, she rests her hands on the counter between us. “Let’s get two things straight, Warner.” I settle onto a barstool, thinking this might take a while. “One. I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are we separating?”
“Because I find you intolerable. That’s not hatred. That's a lack of patience for your BS.” Eyeing the shirt wrapped around half my body, she adds, “Anymore.”
It’s impressive how she talks like she actually knows me. “I have my memory,” I say, testing to see her reaction.
Aside from her righting herself, the reaction is minimal.
A few rapid blinks are followed by panic widening the darker pupils of her blue eyes.
She licks her lips and then tugs the bottom one under her teeth to gnaw before releasing.
“Everything?” Shit, I was only teasing, but her reaction has me wondering if she is responsible for my accident.
“Everything.”
Turning around, she hides her face, cutting me off from studying and seeing her emotions playing out. When she drops her head down, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
The song changes, and the flitting tune doesn’t fit the mood. I get up and reach over the counter to stop it on the screen of her phone. Leaning my left hand on the counter, I ask, “Why are you sorry, Delaney?”
“For lying to you.” I knew we weren’t married.
My gut told me what my mind can’t seem to remember.
She spins back and says, “I still want to be with you, Warner.” Planting her hands next to mine, she leans over the counter so close that I can smell that she’s already dipped into the maple syrup.
I start to wonder if her lips would taste as sweet as her breath. “I should have never moved out.”
I’m snapped out of that urge and back into this mess. “What do you mean?”
Her hands cover mine, and she replies, “I should have stayed and fought harder for us.”
Shit . . .
Is this real? Are we?
The doorbell chimes with our eyes still connected. “Expecting company?” she asks, returning her attention to the pancakes, and only briefly glancing back at me. “I can make more.”
I push off the counter, but before I leave, I ask, “What was number two?”
She laughs. “Who said these pancakes were for you?”
It’s best if I walk away before saying something I regret, like letting her still be here. While walking to answer the door, the chime goes off once more, but I ask, “Do you happen to know why my closet looks like it does? I swear it was in perfect order the last time I used it.”
I stop to wait for her response before rounding the corner toward the door. She looks at me square in the eyes without so much as blinking, and replies, “I was in a hurry to get my clothes when I left yesterday.”
She’s good, really fucking good.
Picking up my pace, I reach the door and look through the peephole. I open the door once I see the doorman standing on the other side. “Hi Baker, how are you?”
“Good, Mr. Landers.” Eyeing me, he asks, “You okay?” He’s older, closer to my dad’s age when he died, and has worked here longer than I’ve been a resident.
He’s the happiest guy in Manhattan. Never has a bad word to say about anyone or the day.
It’s always a good day when I see Keith Baker in the lobby.
He keeps things light when the rest of the world is heavy.
“I was hit by a car, so I can honestly say that I’ve been better.”
“Sorry to hear that. A broken arm isn’t too bad if you’ve been run over.” Always looking on the sunny side, he adds, “You’re here. So you must have more work to do here on earth.”
“Work is the last thing I want more of.”
He chuckles, moving off to the side of the door, angling toward the elevator. “It’s probably not your job that needs the attention. He hands me a box. “Lose your phone?”
“Yeah, never made it with me to the hospital.”
“Glad you got a replacement.” As he starts down the hall, he says, “Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Landers. Happy to help however I can and get you healed quicker.”
“I appreciate it, Baker. Have a good night.”
“You, too, sir.”
I close the door and look at the box. All it will take is for me to call anyone in my life to ask about the woman making herself at home in my kitchen, and I’ll know the truth. Or sound like I got hit harder than I initially thought. At least, I’ll get answers.
Answers!
I swing the door open to ask Baker about “my wife,” but he’s already disappeared in the elevator. I shut the door and lock it. I only take a few steps before Delaney appears at the other end of the hallway. “Who was it?”
Holding up the box, I say, “Baker delivering my new phone.” It almost feels natural to respond to such mundane things with her. I wish it didn’t.
“That was fast.” She smiles. “You’re such a workaholic. Are you hungry? I was only kidding about the pancakes. Of course, I was making them for both of us. I was starving. I’m sure you are as well.”
“I could eat. Are they safe?”
Her laughter fills the short hall and lingers after she walks away. “Don’t be silly. You think I’m going to spend all night at a hospital worrying about you if I had plans to poison your pancakes and force-feed them to you the moment you get home?”
“That’s a little too on the nose for my liking,” I note, following her back to the kitchen. “And I can’t say that sells me on eating your pancakes.” I open the box on the counter and start to set it up.
She laughs, a hint of a snicker in the resonant notes. She might be pretty, but she might also be evil. “Eating my pancakes.” She laughs again. “That’s so naughty.”
Naughty? I’m close to asking if she’s been drinking, but the more I look at her, I think it’s delirium setting in. “When’s the last time you slept?”
She sets a plate of pancakes in front of me and hands me a fork. “Not last night since I was stuck in that waiting room all night.” She places the syrup within my reach. “Eat up, Buttercup.”
I shake my head when I hear that nickname. It better not stick.
It’s hard to forget I have a concussion, but it’s been a feat to consider the possibility that she might be telling the truth.
Hearing her now, the honesty in her admission—that she waited all night to make sure I was okay— I begin to trust her.
Why else would she have stayed at the hospital all night?
No way, no how, am I trusting these pancakes, though.
She reaches over with her fork, cuts off a bite of the sweet stack, and shoves it in her mouth. “Happy?” She finishes chewing and swallows. “They’re safe to eat, Warner.”
As if on cue, my stomach growls, so I dig in.
I take a bite and add syrup while I chew.
They’re good. Fluffy. She knows how to cook, I’ll give her that.
I kind of feel bad now. She was there for me.
She made sure I got home safely and cooked food for me.
I don’t even know if that stove has ever been used before.
It hasn’t been by me. I’m glad she broke it in.
“Delaney?” She looks up at me with surprise shaping her expression, her eyebrows arching higher, and her pretty mouth rounding when she opens it. Was it hearing me say her name that caught her off guard? “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
When her smile rises at the corners of her mouth, it appears genuine. “You’re welcome, Warner.”
The gray smudged under her eyes is still there, her hair is not as controlled as it was earlier, and that dress . . . she really needs to get rid of that dress. Even the apron does a poor job of hiding the disaster it’s been through. “Hey, you should shower. I think you’ll feel a lot better.”
“I’m not feeling so bad, but I really would like to get clean.” She sets her fork down. “But I don’t have anything to change into.”
“You can wear something of mine.” I grin like we’re in on a secret together. “I think you know your way around my closet.”
“Our closet, and I do.” She laughs, but it’s softer this time like her voice. “Famous last words.”
“For us anyway.”
Her smile falls as she looks away from me. “I think I’ll take you up on your offer, and shower.”
She walks around the counter, passing me and heading down the hall, but stops to retrieve the purse she left on the counter, then her phone.
It’s almost like she doesn’t trust me. I don’t say what’s on the tip of my tongue because I’m invested in how this night will end.
Either she’ll sleep over or leave me again. I’m starting to root for the former.
Knowing I won’t be able to retire for the night with the kitchen a mess like she left it, I start by cleaning up the dishes, then load the dishwasher before running it.
I fill my glass with water from a pitcher and take a pill for my head and to help with the throbbing in my arm under this cast. It was too late to pick up the prescription.
That’s what I get for choosing the local pharmacy instead of a chain, so this will have to do.
I got hit by a car, so I can survive one night on Ibuprofen.
I lock the balcony door and double-check the front bolts.
Working my way around the apartment, I shut off the lights as drowsiness sets in.
I check the spare room to find the bed made up and ready for guests.
She can sleep in here for the night. Come tomorrow, she’s out of here—my bed, my apartment, and my life.
I walk into my bedroom to see her curled up on the bed under the covers.
Her hair is damp, and her face has been cleaned of old makeup.
She’s more beautiful like this, sleeping like an angel in my bed.
When I see the shirt that she chose to wear, I grin.
Of all the T-shirts in the closet, she chose one that represents me more than most—my alma mater.
Letting her rest, I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. Although it was a struggle to get on, I have no trouble pulling the shirt off over my head. I leave my sweatpants in a pile on the floor, which isn’t like me at all. I’m too tired to care.
I return to the bedroom to see her still lying in the same position. She might be more tired than I am. I can’t move her to the other room. That means I’m getting z’s next door. But I stop before I leave the room and look back. “Fuck it,” I mutter, then turn off the lamp and climb in next to her.
The bed is large enough for us to sprawl out and still never touch. It feels so good to be lying here again, and way better than that hospital bed. I look to my side again since enough moonlight has determined it’s also spending the night with us.
I reach over and run the back of my fingers over the soft skin of her exposed neck.
She doesn’t stir as if this comes naturally between us.
She’s not my wife. I know it deep down. If she were, I’d feel it in my bones.
I just know it. But she’s been nice company to have around, and she makes a great pancake.
We have a lot to discuss tomorrow, but here in this bed tonight, I’m glad she stayed.