Chapter 4 #2
“Still,” Gregg said. “Ease up, yeah? This is a practice session, no pressure to get everything right just yet. In fact, that’s the whole point of practicing. So, next—Dean. What makes Tay cry?”
“Pixar movies,” Dean said, straight-faced.
“Only the good ones,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help the way my lips twitched up at the corners. Nope, we weren’t perfect yet. Far from it. But, still—ulterior motive or not, it was nice to know he paid attention. By the time we arrived on the island, we’d be ready to fool them all.
I hoped.
We did… okay.
Even though Dean and I stumbled over half the questions—from our supposed first vacation to whether we’d talked about kids and who hogged the sheets—we found a rhythm that worked. He wasn’t relaxed, exactly, but he smiled more freely, words a little less guarded the longer we sat, ate, and talked.
I presented dessert with a flourish, only to repeat that most of the credit went to my roommate when Gregg heaped praise on me. “Really,” I said, “it was all Rory. They’re really into French cuisine right now. Me, I just followed orders, kind of like what I do at the hospital.”
“For now.” One side of Dean’s mouth lifted. “And it’s good—the mousse, I mean. So thank them from us. But, you know, I actually would have loved to try a Turkish dessert.”
“Should’ve said something,” I told him. “Not a big dessert guy, but pretty sure I could have pulled off a revani cake.”
“Next time,” Dean said as though we’d made plans already. It tripped me up a little even as I told myself not to read too much into it. Yeah, he’d made it sound normal, smooth, like this was more than just a means to an end, but…
But nothing.
The three of us polished off the mousse in a lull of satisfied quiet. Gregg was the one who got up first, with a groan. “All right, I’m off. Need my beauty sleep.”
“Pretty sure that’s a lost cause,” Dean said, at odds with the affection in his voice.
Gregg grinned. “Hey, at least my relationship isn’t fake.”
Dean swayed his head from side to side. “Or so you claim.”
“You know,” I said with an innocent blink. “It is a little peculiar that Gregg came up with the idea of a fake relationship. Almost like he was primed.”
“Coincidence?” Dean’s mouth quirked. “I think not.”
“You’re both hilarious,” Gregg deadpanned. “Really. If I ran a circus, I’d hire you in a heartbeat.”
It was only when Gregg laced up his trainers that I realized I should get going, too.
I rose from my chair, Dean following suit, reaching out to touch my arm.
“Hey, if you got a couple more minutes?” His hand dropped quickly, voice slightly clipped.
Cautious? “I should probably give you a quick tour. In case, you know, Charley asks where you keep your extra toothbrush. Because she would.”
Or which side of the bed I sleep on. I didn’t voice the thought—not that I needed to, because Gregg stepped in with open glee.
“More like how you like Dean’s mattress,” he said.
“She’ll grill you like a witness and laugh while she does it.
Calls me sometimes to double-check medical stuff for her criminal cases. ”
“If you’re trying to put me at ease,” I said, “you’re doing it wrong.”
“Eh, you’ll be fine.” With that, Gregg waved and left after a quick round of goodbyes and see-you-tomorrows, the door thudding shut behind him.
It felt instantly quieter. Well, hey—there’d be no Gregg-shaped buffer on the island, so might as well lean into this moment.
I turned to face Dean with a smile, hands shoved into my pockets.
“Lead the way.”
It wasn’t much—a bathroom branching off a short hallway, the most personal touch Dean’s rosy-hued electric toothbrush sitting out on the counter. “The color was on sale,” he said, and I nudged our shoulders together.
“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”
He didn’t react much to the nudge, just slid me a look that wasn’t cold, not exactly; more… contained. Like he either wasn’t sure how to respond or simply couldn’t be bothered.
Also, I needed to stop analyzing his every twitch.
The bedroom was as neat as the rest—the same pale walls, a blanket tucked in at the corners, and I was just about ready to bet it wasn’t for show.
So, okay. Bedroom. Dean’s bedroom. His bed.
Just a simple wooden frame, no headboard, white sheets.
It could have been a hotel room if not for a wide-ranging collection of books that offered a glimpse at his personality.
I stepped up to the shelf and ran my fingers along well-worn spines—critically acclaimed novels cozied up to humorous memoirs and bestselling nonfiction.
When I turned, I found him watching me with quiet eyes. Something tugged at my belly, not necessarily unpleasant. “We’re gonna have to share a bed,” I said, my tone light and easy—hopefully. “Aren’t we?”
He hesitated for a fraction too long, awkwardness creeping in around the edges. When he answered, it came out almost too smooth, as if he’d somehow rehearsed it in his head. “Likely. Think it would raise eyebrows if I asked for a two-bedroom villa.”
Right.
“Cool,” I said, aiming for casual and likely missing by a mile. “Anything I should know—do you snore? Steal pillows?”
“I don’t,” Dean said, all dignity. And then paused. “That I know of. At least no one’s stuck around long enough to complain.” His delivery was dry enough to rival desert dust, and it made me wonder if it was by choice or design. Not that it mattered.
“I don’t,” I said. “Snore, that is. Apparently, I toss and turn a bit, though.”
“All right.” He moved to pointlessly straighten the blanket, smoothing over a corner that didn’t need it. I watched him, suddenly tempted to poke and prod at the control he seemed to wrap around himself like a well-worn cloak.
“Question Twenty.” I rocked back on my heels, gaze pinned to him. His turn today to go first. “What does friendship mean to you?”
He paused, thumb trailing the seam of the blanket. “We’re actually doing this? In person?”
I raised my head. “Yes.”
“Mutual blackmail material,” he said after a beat. A flicker of a smile. “Okay, no. More… knowing you’re not an obligation. Someone you don’t have to explain yourself to. Or apologize for being difficult, or tired, or quiet.”
“Good one,” I said, voice low.
One side of his mouth hitched up. “You?”
“Someone who makes you feel like they’re never gonna be too busy for you. Like you belong.” I let out a breath, and right, yeah, this had been my idea—guided vulnerability and all. “Even if it’s just over a shared bag of chips at two in the morning.”
“Yeah.” It was all that he said, more breath than actual response.
For a few seconds, silence settled between us. Then I exhaled. “It’s nice, your place. Minimalist.”
“Right, yeah.” He glanced away, scratching the back of his neck. “Been meaning to put up some pictures, but it’s… you know. Too busy, too tired, that sort of thing.”
“Still, though—you’ve clearly got your shit together. That’s cool.”
“Not sure I can trust the judgment of someone who labels fridge items like a territorial gremlin.”
Something about it made me laugh out loud—the wry delivery or his bright glance, maybe even just exhaustion that weighed down my bones and blew details up to elephant size. “On my best days, I’m about as scary as a throw cushion with opinions.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Dean said. “Imagine every time you sat down on your sofa—”
“Don’t have one,” I interrupted.
Dean continued, unperturbed. “—the blue-striped pillow went like, ‘Man, you need a fucking haircut,’ and the floral one chimed in with commentary on, like, your choice of porn the one time in a week you want to indulge.”
Well. Now, if that didn’t come with a nice set of images. I blinked them away. “Rude. If you ask me, they should be cheering you on.”
“What if they’re the prudish kind of throw pillow?”
“Do you even own a throw pillow?”
His mouth twitched. “Are you judging my interior design?”
“No.” I pursed my lips. “Actually, yes. Tell me, Dean—are you allergic to color?”
For a second, I worried I’d overstepped.
I did that sometimes, trying to lighten a conversation and nudging things just a little too far because growing up in a family where everyone was all up in everyone else’s business didn’t exactly teach you about boundaries.
News flash: Not everyone wanted their personal quirks dragged into casual banter.
Then Dean grinned, his entire face changing with it. “Hey, my curtains are navy. That counts.”
I grinned back. “It really doesn’t.”
“Everyone’s a critic.” He must have caught the yawn I’d tried to stifle because his expression softened as he nodded towards the door. “Come on, time for you to get some sleep. I’m surprised you’re still upright.”
“Coffee, good food, and inspiring company,” I said, only for another yawn to catch me unawares.
“Seems like the magic is running out,” he said with an upward hitch to the corners of his mouth.
“Seems like,” I agreed, and yet somehow I lingered, as though waiting for something I couldn’t quite name. Just tiredness clouding my mind, probably.
I finally moved, forcing my body to cooperate as I put my sneakers on and said goodbye. Dean gave my shoulder a brief squeeze, and after another flash of his smile, I stepped out into the corridor, blinking into too-bright hallway lights like I’d just left a cinema mid-movie.
Odd, how the apartment had felt like a pocket of suspended time, and now the world rushed back in all at once—the citrus scent of some floor cleaner, my own pulse louder than it should be. I shook my head, exhaled slowly, and told myself to get a grip.
Just… tired.
Another morning after a night shift, my mind slow and a bit fuzzy as I moved around our cramped kitchen. Bread toasting, eggs sizzling. Maybe best to skip coffee before I was bound to crash.