Chapter 7
Itried to go back to sleep after Robin woke me up. For the third time in one night. The first to catch my philandering cousin, the second to drunkenly crawl into my bed, the third to accuse me of crawling into her bed.
There are only so many times a man can be woken up before sleep becomes an impossible thing.
Luckily, today is Sunday. I don’t work on Sundays.
That doesn’t mean I want to be tired for the whole day, but I choose to let Robin’s sleep disruption slide since my family member has fucked her over so terribly.
Now, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as my cousin’s ex showers.
His ex.
Daren, you complete fucking idiot.
At some point, I’m going to sit him down and ask what stupid ghost possessed his body to make him think this was a good idea.
Okay, we’re not going to sit. I’m going to tackle that motherfucker and get him in a headlock. We might be grown men, but sometimes, a guy needs to get the sense knocked back into him.
Not that anything is going to fix him up enough for Robin to take him back. She looked pretty done last night, hosing Daren down. If the situation wasn’t so devastating, I might have enjoyed a chuckle at that memory.
The shower shuts off, and I listen hard, trying to make out any sounds of crying. There’s none that I can hear.
Probably wore herself out last night.
I hope so. Seeing Robin like that . . .
Even the memory is more than I can bear. The way she crumpled into herself.
Daren broke something in her I pray can be fixed.
I go back to imagining beating the shit out of my cousin and am in the middle of one vivid fantasy when the bathroom door opens, letting out a billow of steam.
Turning my head, I spy Robin and swallow at the sight. Her wet curls hang long and stick to her bare neck and shoulders. All that covers her body is one of my towels, the green terry cloth hanging to her knees. She has the material wrapped tight enough to show the curve of her hips?—
Stop, I tell myself, shifting my eyes back to the ceiling.
I’m used to telling myself to stop noticing things about Robin. Ever since the first day I met her, when Daren brought his new girlfriend to Green Valley for Thanksgiving.
The day is still clear in my mind. All the wild Krauts gathered in a single house: my father, my uncle, my four cousins—all boys—and me.
And then she walked in, Daren’s arm around her shoulders. Robin was all big smiles, flashing blue eyes, and confident voice as she said hello and shook all our hands. Her fingers in mine surprised me. Palms rough with calluses. My eyes dipped to the low V of her tight red sweater.
Stop, I told myself.
When she joined in the flag football game in our backyard, my gaze went to the tight jeans stretching over her round ass.
Stop, I told myself.
When she laid out my youngest cousin, Stewart, feet from the end zone and stood up, laughing, my stare took in every inch of her gorgeous, badass form.
My body tightened.
Stop, I shouted at myself, loud enough to drown out what I refused to acknowledge might be happening.
I would not have the hots for my cousin’s girlfriend.
Daren might as well be my brother. Our fathers raised us that close. I would not let myself lust after his woman, even silently.
After that holiday, when she came around more, I instilled the habit of correcting myself with a firm, mentally spoken stop every time my mind reminded me Robin was a beautiful, sexual being. Eventually, the thoughts stopped coming. Or they became quiet enough for me to ignore them.
But something about her being in my bedroom, wet, wearing nothing but a towel, demolishes my hard-won self-control.
Doesn’t help that she’s not Daren’s woman anymore.
The sound of a drawer opening is odd enough to have me glancing her way again.
Robin is scrounging through my dresser.
“What are you doing?” I ask loud enough to make sure she hears.
“Looking for clothes to wear.” She comes out with a pair of my sweatpants, then moves to a different drawer and finds my second-favorite green T-shirt.
“You packed a bag,” I remind her. “You have clothes.”
Maybe the wildness of the previous night had her forgetting there’re two full duffels of her items in a room over.
“Those are Robin’s clothes. I don’t want to be Robin right now.” She faces me, a determined tilt to her brow. “I’m dropping the towel on the count of three. Fair warning.”
What?
“One . . .”
Close your eyes.
“Two . . .”
Don’t close your eyes!
“Three.”
I close my eyes.
But that doesn’t stop my ears from hearing the damp towel hitting the ground or my mind from envisioning a naked Robin slipping on my sweatpants and T-shirt.
What does her not wanting to be Robin mean?
“Okay. I’m decent.”
My lids pop open, and I bite my lip to hold back a groan. A groan that makes no sense because she looks ridiculous.
Robin isn’t some tiny, elfish woman, but my clothes make her look like she is. In her normal outfits, she’s got more than a handful of hips and is at least average height for a woman.
My clothes engulf her. The shirtsleeves hit her elbows, and the collar shows her collarbone. The pant legs would pool over her toes if she wasn’t currently cuffing them. Robin straightens, then proceeds to tightly tug the drawstring at the waistband and knot the thing to keep the pants from slipping down over her hips. The crotch still hangs low.
“What’s this?” I ask.
Robin spreads her arms and smiles wide, eyes a touch wild. “I’m Arthur.”
She’s lost it.
I don’t say the conclusion out loud. Instead, I grunt. I find much can be conveyed with a grunt. And the noncommittal noise also gives me plausible deniability.
“Robin’s life has gone to shit, so she’s taking a time-out,” the woman explains as she gathers her hair on the top of her head in a messy bun. Without the curly mass around her face, she looks even smaller. “I am Arthur now.”
I raise a single brow. “Identity theft?”
“Identity borrowing,” she clarifies. Robin clears her throat, then speaks again in a lower tone. “I’m Arthur Kraut. Fuck off.”
I won’t laugh. Laughing will only encourage her. Instead, I grunt and roll onto my stomach and try to forget how cute she looks, pretending to be me.
“Arthur?” She sounds close by.
I grunt again.
“What do we eat for breakfast?”
We. As in the two Arthurs in this room.
It’s Sunday, so that means one thing. I say the answer into my pillow. There’s a sharp poke to my shoulder blade.
“Speak up.”
I twist my head in her direction but keep my eyes closed.
“Banana pancakes.” The words are a reluctant grumble.
“I don’t know how to make banana pancakes.”
“Arthur does.”
Robin lets out a growl that’s a good imitation of a noise I’ve made a time or two.
“Arthur,” she says, “knows how to make coffee. If Arthur brings Arthur coffee, will Arthur make Arthur banana pancakes?”
Too fucking cute.
Stop.
She’s not cute. She’s your friend, and she’s in pain, and she’s annoying.
“Deal,” I say clear enough for her to hear, then bury my face back in my pillow and hope that Arthur finds herself a bra on the way to the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in front of my stove, flipping flapjacks and halfway through a damn good cup of coffee. Robin—sorry, Arthur—found the French press she’d gifted me last Christmas in a back cabinet and brewed a batch with it, claiming the taste would be richer. The identity thief was right.
I was surprised she’d found the thing, with it being shoved in a back corner on the top shelf of a cabinet even I would need to reach for. But when I started mixing pancake batter, she hopped up onto the counter next to my workstation as easily as settling in a chair.
Apparently, Robin is like a cat. She sees the world not only horizontally, but also vertically.
I stack three pancakes on a plate and pass them to her. I expect her to give up her perch and move to the table. She doesn’t. And she doesn’t wait for me to hand her utensils. Robin/Arthur folds the top flapjack like a taco and takes a bite.
“No syrup?” I ask.
She hums a thoughtful noise as she swallows. “Does Arthur eat peanut butter on his pancakes?”
There’s one right answer in this situation.
I grunt.
Then, I fish out a jar from the pantry and stick a butter knife in it before handing the topping to her. Robin/Arthur slathers the peanut butter on her breakfast before resuming her taco-like consumption.
The kitchen stays quiet for a stretch as I work, and I don’t mind the lack of chatter. But I don’t trust it. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Robin got definitive proof her partner of two years was cheating on her. You don’t just sleep something like that off. Plus, she put her hearing aid on at some point, which I know she doesn’t usually wear around the house.
Robin faces me and asks one of the last questions I want to answer.
“Why is Arthur Kraut single?”