Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FRANKIE
“How else could we dress up the donkeys for Thanksgiving?” I ask Grandpa. “Everyone loves the antlers they wear when they pull the Christmas sleigh rides. So what could they wear for the Thanksgiving event that wouldn’t bother them so much they’d knock it off?”
“Yes, it definitely needs to be something that doesn’t stress them out.” Grandpa puts the milk and eggs that I’ve just unloaded from the groceries I brought him into the fridge.
He’s getting around much better already. Another sign of the giant ticking clock hanging over my head counting down to when he comes home and I go back to Chicago, leaving him with whatever state I’ve managed to get the sanctuary into by then.
Whenever I think of how little time I have to turn this place around, my body goes clammy all over.
And despite how determined I am to sort it out, last night there was a part of me that was so mortified I wanted to sprint away from here at the speed of light.
I haven’t heard a peep out of Miller after what happened yesterday—after the kissing that made me forget about every problem, the groping that turned on a light in my body that has been dark for a long time, and the pressure of his erection against my leg that was about to make my clothes melt off.
He didn’t even come to the house for a shower. Or to use the bathroom.
I know he mucked out the stables this morning and refreshed the bedding because I saw him from the kitchen window.
Admittedly, I did wait until he’d finished and was out of sight before I went to do my morning round of hellos to the animals. So, to be fair, I avoided him as much as he avoided me.
But he can’t dodge me forever—he’s so fastidious about cleanliness that I can’t imagine him missing more than one day without a shower and, while he can pee outside, I’m sure that even mysterious hot strangers with mouths that kiss like they’ve graduated with honors from the Ivy League of kissing universities, do need to poop at some point.
To miss out on personal hygiene, he must think what happened was a giant mistake. And…maybe he’s right.
Maybe it was a terrible idea.
A delicious, knee-wobbling, panty-soaking, terrible idea.
But in the short time I’m here, I need to think only about making this place both physically and financially sustainable for Grandpa. I don’t have time to get distracted by strangers with chiseled features who’re handy with a screwdriver.
But something had obviously been building between us from the moment I opened the door to him.
Just thinking about it again now, my lips recall the pressure of his and the sweep of his tongue, my mouth waters at the thought of the delicious scent of the outdoors on his skin, and my nipples tighten remembering his touch.
“Are you going to pass me that packet of cheese or hold it until it melts?” Grandpa’s holding his hand out to me.
“How about pilgrim hats?” I ask him, as if that was what I was thinking about and not what that hardness in Miller’s pants might look like. “Small ones that sit between their ears. It could look hilarious. And they’re so good with the antlers, little hats shouldn’t bother them.”
“Perfect.” Grandpa turns to put away the cheese. “If you need anything sewed, I could ask Elsie to make whatever you need.”
“Elsie?”
“One of the residents.” He shuffles toward the sofa, his back to me the whole time. “She was a dressmaker. For a big designer. Diane…something German. Made a famous style of dress.”
Wow. Not in all my life have I ever heard Grandpa mention a single thing to do with fashion, or designers, or even dresses for that matter.
My nonsense with Miller fades away to be replaced with a warm fluffy feeling that Grandpa might have a twinkle in his eye for someone.
A designer with a German name known for making a certain type of dress?
“Diane von Furstenberg?” I ask him.
“That’s it,” he says, as he eases himself onto the sofa and picks up the TV remote. “Very talented apparently. Elsie, I mean. Though, I don’t doubt Diane von Thingummyding knew how to hold a needle.”
“How did you meet Elsie?” I turn to put away the rest of the groceries that Grandpa’s now abandoned either because his knees are hurting and he wants to hide it, or because he wants me to know about Elsie but is too embarrassed to talk about her while looking at me or standing anywhere near me.
“At music night,” he says, turning on the TV news channel.
“There was a male pianist and a woman singer. Afterward, one of the other residents was fairly critical of the playing, but Elsie and I agreed he was actually rather good. They did a wonderful performance of ‘The Great Pretender.’ You know, that song from the sixties. Or was it the fifties? Anyway, Elsie and I thought it was splendid.”
Elsie and I. Huh.
I dig my teeth into my top lip to disguise my growing smile. “I don’t know that song, no. But I’ll look it up when I get home.”
Home. Oops, that was a slip.
But I guess Grandpa’s house has always felt more like home than anywhere else.
And now that I think about it, I haven’t thought about Chicago since Miller kissed me yesterday.
God, it’s ridiculous that I’m so preoccupied with him. If we both think it was a terrible idea, then that’s fine. We just need to move on. I can’t let it become awkward.
I’ll go see him as soon as I get back, rip off the Band-Aid and make things normal. I can’t afford to lose the only help I have just because there’s a weird atmosphere between us.
I roll up the grocery bags and perch on the arm of the sofa. “It’s good that you’re comfortable here.”
“Got a lot going for it, this place.” He looks up at me with a smile that makes his eyes sparkle in a way I haven’t seen for a long time.
“Well, it makes me happy to know that whenever the sanctuary becomes too much for you, you’ll be happy to move in here.”
“Oh, I won’t be leaving those donkeys any time soon.” He pats me on the leg. “Don’t write me off just yet.”
“Not only am I not writing you off, I think those new knees might be giving you a new lease on life.”
My mind flashes back to feeling like I had a new lease on life myself when I walked from the barn to the house yesterday, my body still buzzing from Miller. I didn’t actually walk so much as float.
But that’s ridiculous.
I kiss Grandpa on the head and get up to go. “I’ll come back tomorrow evening and we can play some blackjack.”
“Don’t worry about coming tomorrow,” he says, turning back to the TV.
“I know how busy you are organizing the Thanksgiving open day. Which is a fantastic idea, by the way. So no, don’t you bother with me.
” He coughs. “Oh, and Elsie asked me to teach her how to play, so we might start tomorrow night.”
I feel like a parent, inwardly giggling at their teenager awkwardly trying to pretend they don’t have a girlfriend.
“Okey dokey, then,” I say, unable to suppress a smile. “I’ll give you a shout. In the meantime, just be sure to keep those knees moving, but don’t overdo it.”
“Love you, sweetie,” he says.
My throat tightens and my heart twinges at the phrase he always used when he said goodbye to me and Grandma, except that back then it was sweeties plural.
“Love you too, Gramps. Call me if you need anything.”
I close the door behind me, delighted he has something that’s put a spark back in his eyes.
Now to extinguish the inconvenient spark in mine and straighten things out with Miller.
I pull up into the driveway behind a white van with the words “Cross & Grain. A Family of Master Carpenters” over an illustration of a stack of wood on the side.
Who the hell is this?
I’m opening the truck door when Miller comes jogging over, a beaming smile lighting up his ridiculously handsome face.
The skip in my heart and the flutter in my belly need to behave themselves. I just need to smooth away the awkwardness, draw a line under what happened yesterday, and move on.
“Hey.” He grabs the top of the door and holds it open for me. Why does he have to be chivalrous as well as all the other perfect things? “I have something to show you.”
“It’d better not be another shitty developer.”
“The exact opposite. You’ll love these guys.”
He walks toward the big barn that now has a ladder resting against the side of it. Scattered around the bottom are various tools and workbenches.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” He places his hand in the small of my back to guide me forward, his touch sending a shiver up my spine to the base of my neck.
It makes me feel like I belong to him. Like it’s just a usual casual thing for him to touch me like that. And hell, that’s a good feeling. But it’s not a feeling I need. Feelings need to fuck off.
“Hey, fellas,” Miller calls out.
Three men, all in brown overalls, appear from around the back of the building—one maybe in his late fifties or early sixties, the other two younger, probably late twenties.
“Frankie.” Miller’s hand is on my shoulder now, which only gives me more of those annoyingly reassuring I’m-his feelings. “This is my dad, Russell. And my little brothers, Ethan and Luke.”
This is all incredibly confusing.
“Hi,” I say, though it comes out more like a question than a greeting. “Nice to meet you. And good to know that Miller is a real person with a real family. I was starting to wonder if he was in the CIA or a witness protection program living under a new identity.”
Miller flinches and slides his hand off me, the action sending a tingle right across my chest.
“Oh, he can be pretty secretive, this one,” Luke says. “When we were kids he’d always hide the best cookies.”
“For Mom,” Miller snaps. “I hid them so she could have them later because otherwise she wouldn’t take any.”
That sounds like one of those conversations they have over and over at every family gathering. Also, how damn cute is it that he made sure his mom got some of their seemingly limited cookie supply?