CHAPTER 10
Remy
Chocolate-covered cake balls. I stop at the recipe in my newest dessert cookbook, deciding they sound like an appropriate breakfast food.
I’ve already sworn I’m going to live in these sleep pants for the rest of my life, or at least the weekend.
Since they have an elastic waist, I should be able to accommodate the entire batch.
The coffee maker beeps that my second cup is ready.
Hopefully, the machine conjured magical powers over the last hour and brewed more invigorating properties into this cup than the last one I had when I gave up on sleeping.
You can only lie awake in bed watching so much Dawson’s Creek before you’re in danger of getting bedsores.
Side note, that show really is timeless. I’m just as impulsive and indecisive as Dawson.
Dropping my face into my hand, I let out a groan. God, I can’t believe I actually pitched old TV shows in my About Me speech to Chris last night. That…among other embarrassing things.
Additional side note: never speaking again.
Picking up my Sunshine Diner mug, I clod over to the coffee maker.
I’m glad Jamie showed no interest in taking it when he visited.
I wish I could be more unattached to memories like him.
For now, however, I’ll just cart it around the house with me like a scarlet letter.
Maybe doing so will remind me of my terrible decisions.
Eyeing the cookbook, I decide my ambition meter isn’t quite full enough for baking. They say emotions go into cooking. If that’s true, it can’t be wise to do so while you’re disgusted with yourself. No one likes disgusting balls, cake-filled centers or not.
A survey of my living room makes the couch look tempting, but I know if I sit my ass down on it, I’ll end up binging the life and loves of Sookie Stackhouse because fuck Dawson right now. Except, watching hours of horny vampires having sex probably isn’t a wise choice either.
Crap. What’s a healthy alternative to watching vampire sex?
Sunshine?
Vitamin D is supposed to be a mood booster. And can you really say you’re part of a neighborhood until you’ve been seen in your pajamas drinking coffee on your porch?
Despite my cynicism, I’m grateful the sun is barely up as I step out my front door and breathe in the morning air.
The only sounds I hear are the chirping of birds, telling me that my neighbors are normal people who sleep in on a Saturday rather than spend a Friday evening toying with the emotions of their former college crush.
Tromping toward the rocking chair and little patio table I bought, I take a small comfort in the fact that I’m finally going to put them to use.
“Morning.”
A deep voice I’d know anywhere has the hair on my neck standing at attention.
I spin around so fast my coffee sloshes over the side of my mug.
I let out a yelp at both the throbbing sensation in my hand and the sight of Chris at the bottom of my steps.
The mug clonks to the porch flooring, spattering my stocking-clad feet with lava before cracking into at least four different pieces.
“Shit!” I hiss, but I’m not alone in uttering the expletive.
“Sorry,” Chris adds, lumbering up the steps. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, you—” I’m about to say he didn’t, but I’m still startled. What is he doing here? “Hey! Hi. Um…good morning.”
“Are you all right?”
Lines of concern etch his face as he gestures to my hand. I shake it out, flinging droplets of coffee off it and schooling my features.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He frowns down at the mess between us, so I try to make light of the situation.
“But I guess my Sunshine Diner mug has seen its day. Just, uh, wait here a second and I’ll go get a broom and the dustpan.
” Tiptoeing over the fractured pieces, I do a double-take as he gets to a knee. “Careful you don’t cut yourself.”
“It’s just a few shards. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I talked myself into thinking his whole ‘good thing I know where you live’ comment was just talk since he hadn’t bothered to show up earlier in the week.
Now that he’s here, though, I’m not sure what to do with at-my-front-door Chris.
At-my-bedroom-window Chris—no brainer. But this is what I asked for. Wasn’t it? And he delivered.
“Are you going to keep them?”
“Huh?”
“The pieces.” He gestures, setting another into his cupped palm.
“No. I don’t think any amount of glue will fix that.”
He nods, frowning at the collection of fragments in his hand as though he’s mourning the loss of my mug. Looking up at me, his face is comparable to a child asking for forgiveness.
“Do you mind if I take them?”
“You want my broken coffee mug?”
“That’s what I use for my mosaics. Broken dishes, ceramics…”
“Oh! Right. Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Um, let me go get you a grocery bag or something.”
Hurrying inside, I slide into my kitchen in a very Dumb and Dumber version of Tom Cruise’s move in Risky Business, windmilling my arms to keep from face-planting.
Bag. Bag. Bag, I chant silently. Fortunately, my brain starts working enough that I locate a freezer bag that should serve as a viable means of transport.
I stop sprinting in time to prevent myself from running smack into my door and walk back outside at the speed of a calm adult. He drops the pieces inside while I hold it open. My skin prickles with gooseflesh when his fingers brush against mine.
A stilted smile shapes his mouth, and he takes the bag, raising it momentarily. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I smile back because I don’t know what else to do. That, and I hope it’s the equivalent of a white flag of peace. Remy, threat-level zero. I can appear in control of my emotions and drama-free… as long as he doesn’t touch me or, as Jamie so eloquently put it, ‘eye-fuck’ me again.
Shifting in place, he scratches the back of his neck and glances down at my pajama pants. I wish I’d worn sexy pajama pants…or owned sexy pajama pants. Not that I want to have sex. Sort of. But looking sexy is better than looking like you’re having a midlife crisis.
“I take it you’re not working out today? I’m sorry I just showed up unannounced. I guess I should have asked for more details.”
I take in his attire, similar to what he wore to the center that day—gray sweatpants, a faded blue T-shirt, and worn tennis shoes. That’s why he’s here?
Okay. I can work with that.
“No!” I blurt so loud he flinches. “I mean, yes. Yes, I was just about to get ready.”
Side note number three—I am a liar. A dirty, dirty, pajama-pants-wearing, Dawson’s-Creek-watching, crying-over-cake-balls liar.
“I don’t work on Saturdays, so I got moving a little slower and decided to have some coffee first,” I explain, but that sounds like a horrible way to hydrate for a workout. And I wonder why he never took an interest in something more when we were younger.
His shoulders relax despite my verbal diarrhea, and I get another flicker of a smile. “Okay, great.”
“Um…why don’t you come on in? Just make yourself at home, and I’ll go get changed.”
I leave him in the open space between my kitchen and living room with an awkward wave before I try to walk at a leisurely pace to my bedroom. Closing the door softly behind me, I think I breathe for the first time in minutes as I scramble over to my dresser, kicking my pajamas off on my way.
“Chris is in my house. Chris…is in…my house.”
I should probably shut up until I find out how soundproof my walls are. Where is Jamie when I need a slap? Maybe he could air one to me via video chat.
No, he’s an hour behind me, and there is no way I’m telling him about this. I’ll just have to slap myself.
After triple-checking that I don’t have my running shorts on inside out or backward, I make my way back down the hall.
My steps falter at the work of art standing next to my island counter.
Head cast down, the little smile at the corner of his mouth is the kind someone wears when they spot a baby babbling cute noises or an elderly couple holding hands.
His face looks so much softer than recently.
Fingering an earmarked page of my cookbook with one of his thick fingers, he handles it more gently than one would expect from hands his size.
Does he find my love of making sweets amusing?
Moving forward, I clear my throat, and he snaps his hand back.
“Okay! I’m ready. Thanks for waiting.”
Working his jaw, he takes in my attire from head to toe—gym shorts and an old T-shirt. His grimace makes me wonder if I actually did put my shorts on inside out.
“I can’t go far,” he mumbles, bracing his hands on his hips and staring at his shoes. “I haven’t jogged in years.”
I’m over here all up in my head while he’s wondering if I’m going to put him through physical torture. I guess I should have clarified.
“Of course not. Impact exercises are the last thing your body needs.” There are exercises he could do, but we’ll have to work our way up to them.
I’ve seen this plenty of times before in people with permanent injuries.
They go through their initial therapy, but there’s no accounting for aging, and when they get back to their everyday life.
“I thought we could work on some stretches in the backyard.”
When I gesture to my patio door, he glances outside and then back to me.
It must be degrading for someone who was once at the pinnacle of fitness to be taking instruction from a former wallflower like me.
I’d take him to the gym down the street, but I have a feeling he’s not up for an audience.
When he nods, it feels like a small victory.
I lead him out onto the little deck and down the steps to my yard. It’s a third of the size of his, but we don’t need that much room.
“How long ago did you say you moved in?”