19. June
JUNE
I’m not sure how long I sleep. Honestly, the night is a little fuzzy from every angle.
I remember Ford, though. The way he came into my apartment and laid me onto the couch.
I remember the medicine he gave me. I remember the way I rested my head on his shoulder, and the way his hand pressed against my forehead when he checked my temperature.
Yeah. That moment? I remember that moment a little too well.
My fever must’ve been really bad. It’s the only possibility to justify my recollection of the evening, or the way I can’t help but wonder if he’s still here.
I’m not sure why. It’s the next morning.
He wouldn’t stay the night. He isn’t my boyfriend.
Even Fireman Bryan—I really should stop calling him that—would’ve let himself out instead of spending the night.
I think I had a twenty-four-hour virus or something because I’m definitely feeling better.
My body doesn’t ache. My nose is still stuffy, but it isn’t running like a trickling faucet anymore, and the pressure in my head has shifted from a full-blown migraine to a dull headache.
I rub at the corner of my eye and sit up in my bed.
How in the world did I make it to my room?
I could’ve sworn I’d fallen asleep on the couch.
I peek at Violet’s untouched bed. She must’ve spent the night at Jagger’s.
I’m not surprised. The two are practically inseparable.
My lips press together as I slip out from beneath the covers and tiptoe into the main area of my apartment.
The scattered tissues are absent from the coffee table.
The kitchen counter’s been cleaned up. Any lingering burning scent from last night’s chili attempt has long since evaporated.
All of the dishes from said chili incident are on the drying rack in the corner beside the sink, and the throw blanket is folded neatly along the back of the couch.
Huh. Ford must’ve cleaned everything before he left.
Why would he do that?
Truth be told, I’m surprised he even knows how to clean.
I’m pretty sure the man hasn’t lifted a finger in his life.
Or at least, that’s the impression I’ve always had of him.
It’s not that he’s lazy. No, I think he’s one of the hardest workers I’ve ever seen.
But cleaning? I don’t know. It just doesn’t…
fit with the persona he’s so carefully crafted around himself since the moment we first met.
My attention catches on the microwave’s clock. It’s almost noon. Good thing I don’t have work today, or I would’ve missed half my shift. Finding my phone plugged in on the kitchen counter, I click on my texts and the handful of messages from Bryan.
Bryan
How was your date?
Bryan
You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.
Bryan
You there?
Bryan
Text me in the morning. I want to make sure we’re still on for the chili cook-off. My squadron is really excited to meet you and try your amazing chili. I’ve been telling them all about it.
Bryan
Good morning. I hope you’re okay?
Bryan
Look, if you’re not interested, I get it, just…let me know, all right?
Well, crap.
Talk about taking the worst possible scenario and running with it.
Maybe my date with Ford bothered Fire—Bryan more than he let on.
I’m not sure how that makes me feel. I guess it means he really likes me, so that’s something.
It also means he feels threatened. Should he feel threatened?
I’m not so sure. Add in my conversation with Lexie about Ford’s lack of boyfriend material traits, contrary to him taking care of me last night and cleaning my place at one point before leaving, and…
I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. I dial Bryan’s number and bring my cell to my ear.
Pick up, pick up, pick up.
He answers after the first ring. “Hey, June.”
Two words. Two simple words, and I can’t help but decipher them as if they’re the key to his soul, or at the very least, his thoughts. Is he mad? Happy? Nervous? At least with a text, I can reread it and search for clues. But those two words and no recording of them? I feel like I’m flying blind.
Brace yourself, June.
“Hey, Fire—Bryan,” I say, correcting myself. “Sorry, I didn’t answer your texts earlier. I slept in, and—”
“I heard. Ford told me.”
“Ford?” I pull my phone away from my ear and read the screen again. Yup. I’m most definitely connected to the right person. Why in the world would Ford have spoken to Bryan? Am I hallucinating or something?
“Yeah.” Bryan sighs. “He brought the chili you made to the house. Didn’t know when I’d need it, and said you passed out after your epic date, and the idea of waking up your angelic face to confirm the time I’d need the chili this morning felt like a sin. His words, not mine.”
My mouth lifts. “Sounds like you two had quite the conversation.”
“We did,” he confirms, though it’s as cryptic as the rest of our conversation. “Look, uh, I appreciate the effort you made to donate the chili, and my boys are really excited to taste it, but…I just, I don’t want you to feel obligated to be with me if you’re into Ford or—”
“Ford?” A squeaky laugh escapes me as I tread to the couch and sit down. Is it hot in here? Maybe my fever’s back. Yeah, that’s definitely a possibility. “No, I’m not into Ford.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Then why did he mention being around you while you were asleep?” The hesitation in his voice kills me. “That’s kind of…intimate, June.”
He’s right. It is. And if the roles were reversed, I’d be every bit as hesitant. Maybe even more so. Bryan’s a good guy. Or at least, it’s the only side I’ve seen of him. Kind. Genuine. Boyfriend material through and through. So why is last night messing with my head?
Pushing my messy hair away from my face, I explain, “I was sick. We didn’t even go on the date, actually.
I made your chili and passed out on the couch.
Then, Ford showed up for our date, and after seeing how crappy I was feeling, he got me some medicine, tucked me into bed, then offered to drop off the chili for me in case I wasn’t feeling well today.
” I don’t know why I lie. Why I corroborate most of Ford’s story when I most definitely didn’t make whatever chili Ford dropped off at the station.
Nope. Mine went right into the trash, thank you very much.
So, why corroborate his story? I can’t help it.
Maybe I want it to be true. Maybe the idea of disappointing Bryan by dropping the ball, even if I had a good reason for it, is too much to bear.
Or maybe the idea of tattling on Ford after he bent over backward to make me look good to my non-boyfriend is the real issue. I’m not sure which motive is worse.
“Well, shit,” Bryan murmurs. “You feeling any better now?”
“Yeah.” I drop my hand to my lap. “I think it was a twenty-four-hour thing. I’m feeling much better.”
“That’s good.”
“I think so,” I agree.
“So, you up for tonight still? Or…”
Relief settles on my shoulders, and I lie back on the couch, tilting my head up toward the ceiling. Tonight. The chili cook-off. A simple date night with a cute guy I actually like. One who has made his intentions clear, unlike a certain someone else I know. “I’d love to come if it’s on the menu.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I smile. “Yeah, of course.”
“All right.” He hesitates. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
“Sounds good. See you in a few, Bryan.”
The call disconnects, and I set my phone on my lap. Okay. Okay, I guess we’re good. He’s not mad. I didn’t drop the ball on the chili. I’m feeling better. And we’re still on for tonight.
Another gentle wave of relief washes over me as I replay the conversation.
Bryan likes me. He really likes me. And I…
I think I could really like him, too. I tuck my messy hair behind my ear, then check the time again.
I should probably shower. But first, I need to clear up one final tidbit from last night.
Picking up my phone again, I pull up my very short message thread with Ford and type up a text before I can talk myself out of it.
Me
Thanks for last night.
I delete the message and try again.
Me
So…I heard I made chili?
I click the backspace.
Me
Didn’t know you were a five-star chef AND a doctor. What other talents do you have?
Nope. That won’t work, either.
Me
Speaking of serious topics, and no, I don’t mean ED…
No, what am I thinking? Bringing up erections to a guy like Ford? Talk about opening the flood gates for awkwardness.
Come on, June.
Tapping the edge of my phone against my chin, I consider my options, then set my cell back in my lap. So, he helped me. So, he took care of me and cleaned my apartment and made some chili and dropped it off for Bryan, fulfilling my obligations even though they had nothing to do with him.
So…what?
We’re kind of moving from friend-of-a-friend territory to friend territory. It’s not a big deal. So, why does it kind of feel that way?
Puffing out my cheeks, I leave my phone on the couch and head to the bathroom, refusing to let myself overthink last night or Ford’s actions.
It doesn’t work. Not in the slightest.
Maybe the fever has made me delusional because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the infamous Ford Harden has a heart. But that can’t be true. Can it?
The same question haunts me as I finish getting ready and drive to the chili cook-off a little while later.
I’ve never been to one of these before, but clearly, I’ve been living under a rock.
The parking lot is packed, and the line to get inside is at least five minutes long.
When I finally reach the front, the volunteer explains how the cook-off works while I fight the urge to take notes.