Chapter Ten
Ten
On the night I decluttered the condo, I’d just finished sorting through the worst of my worn-out granny panties when Alex waltzed in holding the largest Tupperware I’d ever seen.
Panicked, I grabbed all the underwear I had within reach, planning to shove them beneath my butt before he could see them.
But I wasn’t quick enough, and instead of one pair of underwear, Alex caught me clutching a fistful.
“Oh,” he said, stopping short as soon as he stepped inside. “The door was open.” He scanned the living room. “Where are the girls? I thought they were supposed to help you with the decluttering.”
I hastily put the ugly underwear I was still holding into a nearby garbage bag. “They ditched me to have a shuffleboard tournament,” I said. “I believe Mia’s exact words were Decluttering is boring AF.”
“And they thought shuffleboard would be any better?” He slipped off his shoes and held up the Tupperware. “Lasagna. Plate it or fridge it?”
“Fridge it,” I said. “We had Pub subs for lunch, so I’ll be hungry again in about . . . a thousand years.”
He paused on his way to the kitchen. “Maybe I should order Pub subs for Thanksgiving this year and call it a day.”
“The weird part of that scenario isn’t the Pub subs. It’s the thought of you not cooking on a holiday,” I said.
“Hey, now. I’m more than happy to get takeout on Arbor Day.” He stepped around a heap of books, and when he disappeared out of sight, I hid the sexier bras and underwear beneath the nearest couch.
Two weeks had passed since the movie marathon, and it seemed as if every time Alex or Greyson came over they had food with them: mini beef Wellington, chocolate chip cookies, enchiladas, half a duck, and other foods I didn’t know the names of but that tasted like magic.
When Alex returned to the living room after putting the lasagna away, he found a clear spot on the floor and sat down opposite me. Between us was a pile of shoes, two cardboard boxes, and a collection of pens from various business offices around Palm Beach.
He picked up a pen from the pile. “Wow,” he said. “I think you have a pen-hoarding problem. Should I have written one of those intervention letters?”
I balled up a bleach-stained T-shirt and threw it at his face. “Pens spark joy, Alex.”
After throwing the T-shirt back at me, he inspected the pen in his hands. “Little Smiles Dental,” he read. “Why do you have a pen from a pediatric dental office?”
I swiped the pen from his hands and tried to look offended. “You don’t see me walking into your place and judging your . . . spatula collection.”
“That’s because I only own three spatulas.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Your spice collection, then.”
Alex clapped a hand over his chest. “Now that was personal, Florida Girl. A chef can’t have too many spices.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only got two.”
“And they’re salt and pepper. Essential, but not very creative.” Alex leaned back on his hands and swept his gaze over the mess of my living room. “I can’t believe you put decluttering on your list.”
Why did everyone have a problem with decluttering? This would change my life; that was what the book promised, anyway. I wasn’t sure exactly what was supposed to change, but whatever it was, I wanted it. “You sound like Nina.”
“Who is conveniently not here,” Alex said.
“Very convenient,” I said.
Alex had that almost smile on his face, the one that made it look like he might burst into laughter at the slightest provocation.
I turned my attention to the pile of shirts beside me, suddenly aware that outside of carpooling and work, we hadn’t been alone together since the morning of my failed run.
“I need to ask you something serious,” Alex said. I looked up at him to find that his almost smile had disappeared from his face.
“Yeah, sure.” The possibilities of what he might ask filled my mind all at once. I held tighter to the shirt in my hands, unable to focus on whether it sparked joy or not.
Alex sat up straight, then leaned forward, and I held my breath as he drew nearer.
His eyes were locked on mine again, and I felt I should look away, but couldn’t.
And then, Alex moved quickly, pulling something from the shoe pile and holding it up between our faces.
“Where did you get a pair of bedazzled Crocs, and why haven’t I seen you wear them before? ”
I snatched the shoe from his hands and hugged it to my chest, feeling the rapid pace of my heart beneath it.
“A Christmas present from Nina. She bedazzled them herself.” I put the shoe on my foot and lifted my leg in the air.
“And I don’t wear them because Nina says these ooze sex appeal, and I don’t think the world is ready for that. ”
“I see what you mean,” Alex said.
I took off the bedazzled Croc and swatted him on the shoulder. “You had me worried you were actually going to ask me something serious.”
Alex grinned at me as he rubbed his shoulder. “What did you think I was going to ask?”
I opened my mouth, fumbling for something to say that wasn’t related to kissing, or being alone together, or how my heart had nearly stopped when his face was only a few inches from mine, but finally landed on “I thought you were going to ask which Pub sub is my favorite.”
“That is a serious question,” Alex said.
I stared down at the bedazzled Croc against my chest and closed my eyes.
Joy. Definitely. When I opened my eyes, Alex was watching me with the same expression he made whenever he got lost in cooking, and I wondered what it could mean.
That I was difficult? A problem to be solved?
I tossed the Croc into the keep pile with its mate and glared at Alex’s raised eyebrows.
“They obviously spark joy. Just look at them,” I said.
“And my favorite Pub sub is the chicken tender one, by the way.”
After explaining the ins and outs of the KonMari method, I put Alex in charge of maintaining the keep, donate, and trash piles.
Whenever he passed me an item, he’d give me exactly two seconds to decide if it sparked joy or not.
I’d toss the item back with my answer, and he’d set it in the appropriate pile.
The clothing was easy enough, until he spotted the bras and underwear I’d stowed away under the couch, so I exiled him to the kitchen to make margaritas while I sorted through them.
“And make them fancy!” I called out after him.
“Oh, this will be the fanciest margarita you’ve ever had. By the time you’ve finished it, you’ll feel like a guest on the Serendipity.” He disappeared into the kitchen, then reappeared seconds later, hands on his hips. “Your provisions are disappointing. I need to run to my place.”
When Alex returned, he had his shirt stretched out in front of him, using it to carry items I couldn’t see but that clanged together with each step he took.
I tried to ask about it, but Alex said a genius at work couldn’t stop for conversation, so I continued deciding which of my bras and underwear sparked joy and which did not.
A few minutes later, I told Alex it was safe for him to return, and he walked into the living room with two margarita glasses, each with an upturned beer sticking out of it.
“Seriously? A beer margarita?” I said, laughing as I took the glass. “Wow, I really feel like a Florida heiress now.”
Alex clinked his glass to mine before sitting down. “The proper name is beergarita. And you’re welcome. Try it.”
I took a sip of the margarita and blinked in surprise. “What did you put in here?”
“If I told you, you’d have to make a blood oath,” he said.
“Honestly, this is so good, I might be willing to do that.” I took another sip. “Is that . . . Maggi seasoning?”
Alex tipped his head to the side. “Actually, yes. That’s one of the secret ingredients.”
“Don’t look so surprised,” I said. “Do you know how many drinks I make a year? Did you think I’d guess something ridiculous like nutmeg?”
Alex shook his head. “Why does everyone guess nutmeg as a secret ingredient?”
“Wait.” I pointed down into the glass. “Is there Worcestershire in here too?”
Alex made to take my drink from me, but I pulled it out of his reach. “You know too much. Now we have to do the blood oath.”
“I knew it!” I said, spilling some of the margarita on my shirt when I lowered my glass.
“Settle down, Heiress Jo. Shouldn’t you be getting back to work? We haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet.”
“What’s the good stuff?”
Alex shrugged. “Yearbook photos. Secret diaries. Love poems.”
“You’re about to be sorely disappointed.”
“No love poems?”
I shook my head and glanced at the two cardboard boxes.
Alex took out his phone, and Rihanna’s “Work” rang out in the condo. “This is my cleaning playlist,” he explained. He grabbed a garbage bag and danced along to the music, singing as he helped bag items, making me laugh so hard I had tears streaming down my face.
“That’s quite the Rihanna impression,” I said, handing him my copy of Northanger Abbey for the keep pile. “I thought you didn’t bust out the dance moves until the third date.”
“I said choreographed dance moves. This is pure improvised talent.”
“That’s one way to see it.”
“And this is not a date. If I took you on a date, you’d know it. We wouldn’t be decluttering. You sing the Drake part.”
I looked down at the book in my hands. It was a coffee table book of North Carolina Beth had sent a few months after I’d moved here.
What Alex had said was a hypothetical, of course.
He wouldn’t really think of taking me on a date.
Though I wondered what sort of date he’d take me on if he were interested in dating or in me.
He didn’t seem like a dinner-and-drinks kind of guy. “No thanks. You can do both parts.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” he said.