13. Tasha
CHAPTER 13
Tasha
W hat. An. Idiot.
I spun on my heel and stalked back to the kitchen with my phone to my ear. “Thanks,” I told my landlord. “We’ll have the bubbles cleaned up by the time the plumber arrives.”
Nothing like getting an early-morning call from your sweet elderly downstairs neighbors about a ceiling leak in their kitchen on the rare morning I could sleep in. I’d quickly apologized, run to the kitchen and ended the call with them to dial the landlord.
“What happened?” Monty sauntered out of his room, bare-chested and sleepy-eyed, wearing those beat-up slippers.
“Floody bubbles! Go put a shirt on and grab all the towels in your bathroom. This better not make us late for practice! And where are all my hair ties?!”
I glanced up the bar. Parfait lay on his side, licking his paw like he had no care in the world.
Just like a cat.
“Barfy! This isn’t funny!” I marched over to him and ran my hand underneath his massive belly. He pawed at me but didn’t move out of the way. “Aha!”
I pinned him with a hard stare and retrieved three of the covered elastics while he glared at me like I was a lunatic.
Sighing, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and Parfait resumed licking his paw, completely uninterested in my frustrations.
It was only a little bit past eight. We had plenty of time, and we could always shower at the Plex if we needed to. But I didn’t want to.
The kitchen was a good two feet deep in sudsy bubbles. The dishwasher was running, which wasn’t good, especially if Monty had started it last night. In my urgent rage to get him up, I’d been too overwhelmed with panic that I hadn’t thought to turn it off until now.
I placed my phone on the bar next to an annoyed Parfait, whose food dishes were drowning under the suds, and waded through the bubbly clouds to turn the machine off.
But the blasted bubble maker had its own ideas and continued to ooze no matter which button or combination of buttons I pressed.
“Come on,” I pleaded with the button. “Turn off!”
This dishwasher was a bad listener and needed a time-out. Maybe Monty could figure out how to end its production of suds. Although, from the appearance of things and the familiar scent of my Tia Gia’s limoncello dish soap, I didn’t have high hopes since it appeared he couldn’t tell dishwashing soap from dishwasher fluid.
Frustrated and wet, I swatted the clinging suds off of me and carefully stalked across the slippery floor to the carpet and my room to get my own towels.
Back in the kitchen, I immediately set to work on my hands and knees on the tile. Lucky for us, it hadn’t reached the rug in the living area.
“Whoa.” Monty let the word drag like a surfer impressed by a bodacious wave.
“’Bout time you showed up!” I growled from the sudsy mess. I craned my neck to find him standing barefoot on the carpet at the edge of the tile, armed with a load of pink towels Penny left behind when she moved out. He’d donned his FireVolts Dri-Fit tee and pulled track pants on over his shorts.
Good. Still, my traitorous eyes lingered too long on him for my liking.
Wordlessly, he knelt beside me and imitated my movements. I was just doing my best to move the bubbles and trap them. If there was a better way, I didn’t get the memo. We moved side by side, corralling and popping the bubbles as best we could toward the offending machine.
Over and over, I pressed the now soaking-wet towel over the bubbles to tamp them down. Bubbles popped and suds flew, and soon I couldn’t see Monty, who had to be close by. I looked behind me at the clear path we forged and decided to venture back to the rug for a fresh towel. Carefully, I rose to my feet and traversed the slippery floor.
When I turned back, dry towel in hand, I hit a Monty wall. My feet began to slide … slide … slide…
“Eep!” Strong hands closed around my upper arms, but it wasn’t enough to keep me from going down … down … down…
It all happened so fast.
I slid.
Monty slid .
He twisted me around as we fell. We hit the floor—hard—and slid across the tile, coming to a stop, Monty’s head first, against the fridge and sending most of the suds we’d corralled in every direction.
For a fraction of a second, I registered my cheek coming into contact with his full lips; not a kiss, but a quick brush of featherlight contact. I immediately snapped to attention, mindful and mournful of the loss of the warm and unexpected caress.
My first aid training kicked into high gear. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” I pressed my hands to his chest and pushed myself up, trying not to think about the fact that I was straddling him in a very inappropriate position. But it gave me the best trajectory to examine him for a concussion.
His bright baby blues blinked up at me. Then a disembodied arm appeared through the suds and his hand found the back of his head. “I think so.”
I leaned in closer and held up my index finger in front of his face. “Follow my finger.” I traced the air in an arc.
He sighed and did as I asked. “I’m fine. Just a little bump.” He narrowed his gaze. “No concussion protocol needed. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Though my pride has taken a hit. Thanks for, um…” I gestured wildly. “Breaking my fall.”
He grinned. “It’s been a long time since I was there to catch you. And been in this position. Kinda miss having a mat under me, though.” Monty rubbed his head and grinned again.
So much grinning.
Stop the grinning! Stop being so nice! Stop being so un-Monty! I don’t want to like you !
Cheeks flaming, I sprang to my feet. At a loss for words, I held out my hand as he sat up. He didn’t need my help to get to his feet, but he placed his fingers in mine anyway as we both stood up.
Monty didn’t let go of my hand, and the strangest zingy tingles shot up my arm and raced through the rest of me, like I’d been shocked by a faulty electric outlet.
Our gazes locked. He was so close.
I gulped for a breath of air.
Why was I reacting like this?
Monty squeezed my hand, and I hastily let go, stepping back from him instinctively. His arm shot out for the second time to stabilize me as I found my footing a good arm’s length away.
I covered my face with my hands. What a disaster.
“We should, um…” I slowly peeled my hands off my face and gestured to the floor.
“Yeah, let’s finish this up,” he agreed. “When’s the plumber due?”
I glanced at the clock on the stove. “Nine o’clock. We’re her first stop.”
It didn’t take much longer to clear the rest of the suds. The dishwasher continued to pump out more, but at a slow enough rate that made cleanup manageable. When the doorbell rang at nine, we were soaking wet from head to toe, and the dishwasher was continuing to pump out suds.
“Come on in, Yvonne.” I pulled the door open wide for the plumber, an old friend from high school.
Her eyebrows lifted as her gaze swept me from head to toe. “That bad, huh?”
I gave her a weak smile. “We couldn’t figure out a way to turn it off without cutting the power or busting a hose, so it’s still oozing bubbles like one of those fake snow machines you see in Florida.”
Yvonne snorted. “I’ll take care of everything.” She patted my shoulder and looked past me to where Monty was standing next to the bar. “Wow, he’s aged well. That’s your old partner, right?”
“Yes,” I said tightly. “We’re currently coaching together, unfortunately.” Yvonne was single, so it shouldn’t bother me that she was appreciating Monty.
Why did I care?
I swallowed. “Still single, too,” I added, loud enough for Monty to hear me. “But he’s a preener. Thinks he’s hot stuff. Super annoying. Counting the days till his house is done and he can move out.”
She chuckled as she tracked him. “He is hot stuff. Let him preen. He obviously works hard to look that good.”
I needed to end this conversation now.
“Kitchen’s all yours.” I stepped back for her to have a clear path to the mess.
“Does it come with him?” She winked. “Just kidding. Hey, Monty.”
Monty waved at Yvonne and skirted around her on the way to his room. I felt a twinge of satisfaction that he hadn’t taken the opportunity she’d so clearly presented to chat or get her number.
“Go get changed,” Yvonne said. “Then scoot out of here if you need water and electricity. I’ll be playing with both sources for a bit.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. Guess I was showering at the Plex.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing dry clothes and armed with my toiletries, makeup, and hair supplies, I headed out with Monty .
He handed me his keys. “I’ll drive. Start it up while I pick up our coffee order?”
“ Our coffee order?” I asked.
“Was I wrong to assume you didn’t get to make your morning pumpkin spice blah-te?”
“No, I?—”
“I’ll be at the truck in a jiff.” He flashed a smile and jogged in the direction of the Coffee Loft.
Shaking my head in disbelief at his kind gesture, I lifted my hand to my brow to shield my eyes from the sun while I scanned the parking lot for his vehicle. Our apartment came with two reserved spaces, but he’d told the trio of elderly sisters downstairs they could have his spot. Elaine, Janice, and Joy had been elated and left him a batch of jellied thumbprint cookies at our door. The next batch that arrived had come with a note: Monty, Tasha’s recipe substitutions made these even better! We hope you both like them. With love, Elaine, Janice, and Joy.
That was sweet of him to share my recipe and the cookies. And further confirmation he was poking around in my recipe binder again.
I located his truck in the back and trekked across the lot. After starting it up, I settled in the passenger seat to text Penny.
Monty used the dishwasher for the first time last night. I attached a picture of the kitchen in the state I’d found it when I woke up and hit send.
The driver’s side door opened, and Monty climbed in, balancing a drink carrier laden with two to-go cups and paper bag in one hand.
“That was quick.” I dislodged the hot cup from the tray and set it in the console’s cup holder, then did the same with his plastic cup.
“Thanks,” he said, lifting the bag and tossing the empty drink carrier into the back seat. He pulled a wrapped cylinder from the bag and held it out to me. “I ordered ahead. Bacon and avocado in a fried egg wrap?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, taking the proffered food and unwrapping it. This man’s generosity and memory were next-level. He’d make a great husband.
For someone.
Someday.
“It’s the least I can do after the Great Dishwasher Debacle.”
I almost chuckled. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“To call it anything else would reflect badly on me, so yeah.”
I shook my head. “And we wouldn’t want that. My gosh, if the people knew you were only human…”
A funny look crossed his face. “You’re being awfully gracious about this. I disrupted your morning and probably lost you your security deposit.” He paused, and the sincerity in his expression nearly undid me. “I emailed Yvonne to send me the bill.”
I shrugged, doing my darnedest not to react to another kindness from the man I had to keep reminding myself I was supposed to hate. “Management—and I—appreciate that. Thanks.”
He nodded and turned back to his breakfast, same as mine, and quickly wolfed it down. And two more after that.
The cheer coaches’ locker room/bathroom was co-ed, which normally no one minded, as the shower and changing stalls featured eight-foot-high walls and doors with double bolts. Today, after the tense morning with my unwanted house guest, I was both aware and on edge to be getting ready three stalls down from him.
Always one to put his talents on display, Monty treated me and the coaches who popped in to his rendition of “I Hate Myself for Loving You” while he showered and dressed.
“Behind my back you wanna mess around … so not jealous but he’s a clown. You’re on my mind ev’ry night and day, stealing my heart and pride ah-way-ee-ay-ee-ay-ay-ay.”
It only got worse from there.
“Hey, woman, it’s not right, and you know that I missed you last night. C’mon over and we’ll drink some Sprite…”
The effort might be endearing if it was anyone else. He could sing, but he really should learn the lyrics if he was going to bust into song in a public place.
“Hating myself for my love of you, there’s no breakin’ free from chains to you … can’t walk away so I tumble to you…”
The words ended, and he hummed the rest of the song. When he joined me at the sink to brush his teeth, the quiet in the room was both welcome and … unsettling.
“Terrible rendition,” I announced. “Those aren’t even the words.”
“So?”
I rolled my eyes, and when I glanced his way, he caught me looking. With his best Finnick Odair smirk impression, he found my eyes in the mirror as he inserted the high-end electric brush into his mouth.
I almost swallowed my toothpaste under the intensity of his stare.
I quickly looked away and finished up, anxious to dry my hair and get out from under the weight of his presence.
Aware that he’d stopped brushing his teeth and was watching me section my hair and clip it up, I found myself wishing he was singing again, if only to keep me distracted from watching him watch me.
Why was he watching me?
“Why are you watching me?” I clipped the last section and reached for my hairbrush to smooth out the strands of hair I’d left loose. “You’re creeping me out.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and he seemed to remember he had a mouthful of toothpaste. He bent at the sink to spit it out and turned on the water to rinse it away. “I don’t know, Tasha. Sorry.” He zipped his toothbrush into his case and pulled out his shaving gear. “Want me to do this somewhere else?”
I suddenly felt bad. Had I spoken too harshly? If so, he should be used to that. But he was acting as if I’d hurt his feelings. He hadn’t even offered a snappy comeback.
Monty was being very un-Monty-like today.
It was unsettling.
As he shaved, I dried my hair one section at a time, trapping each long lock between the brush’s base and the barrel of the hair dryer.
The air was thick, and not just with humidity.
Monty and I snuck glances at each other as we did our morning rituals, but neither of us spoke. Getting ready next to him felt intimate yet comfortable, despite the fact that I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. With anyone else, I probably would have taken them up on their offer to shave elsewhere.
But I’d known Monty since we were four years old. We’d been the best of friends and respected and taken care of each other. And these last few years, even though we hadn’t gotten along because he’d hurt me deeply and I hadn’t been able to forgive him, he’d never disrespected me or ogled me in the ways other guys had.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed what we’d had until this moment.
“That’s an awful lot of work for cheer practice,” he commented quietly after I turned off the hair dryer. “Looks nice.”
I shrugged, not sure how I should react to his compliment and still keep a cool head. “It’s Saturday.”
“You’ve rocked a pony on Saturdays before.” He pointed to the FireVolts cheer bow clipped to my backpack.
“I might go out later, and it takes a flat iron to smooth out a ponytail bump. If we don’t have electricity?—”
“Ah. Right.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair. “You have plans tonight?”
“No, but I might.” It was none of his business, but I answered him before I thought.
“Well,” he said slowly. “If nothing comes up, would you like to join me and Nana for dinner? It’s steak night at Mountainview. And they can accommodate any food requests.”
My throat tightened at his offer. I’d missed seeing Nana in the Coffee Loft and was sure he knew it. “How do you know?”
“I asked.”
Now there was a lump in my throat. Had he been planning to ask me before this moment? Why else would he have inquired about dietary options? Unless Nana had more issues than I knew about?
I breathed in through my nose for a count of ten before I answered. “Okay, then. Thank you for the invitation. I’d love to see Nana Booboo. ”
Well, that hadn’t come out as chill as I’d hoped.
“Great.” He settled back on his heels and tried to play it cool, but I knew him well enough to tell that he was pleased I accepted his invitation. “We’ll stop home after practice to change and then head over. That work for you?”
I nodded. What in the freshly ground beans was happening between us?