Chapter 11
REID
Iread Laine's text three times before it sinks in.
She said yes. She wants to see me.
But she also wants to change the plans I've been obsessing over for the past twelve hours. The plans I've already mentally rehearsed seventeen times.
I've already made reservations at that French place downtown—the one with the tiny portions and the waiters who judge you for mispronouncing things.
A couple of women I dated talked about it like it was some kind of romantic holy grail.
I'd been planning to wear my good shirt, the one that actually requires ironing.
I'd even watched two YouTube videos about wine so I could pretend I know what the fuck I'm talking about.
And now she wants to cook pasta at my house.
In my kitchen.
Where she'll see how I actually live.
The fancy dinner was supposed to show her I'm serious about this, that I'm not just after casual. But the bigger part of me, the part that's been replaying every moment of our date at the camp, is already imagining Laine in my kitchen, making herself at home.
That sounds perfect. Saturday at six?
I hit send before I can overthink it. Her reply comes less than a minute later.
See you then.
I set my phone down and lean back against my couch, trying to figure out why I feel both disappointed and excited at the same time.
Blake emerges from the back of the house, sawdust in his hair and wood stain on his forearms. He takes one look at me staring at the ceiling and sighs.
It's long, and loud, and overly fucking dramatic.
"What the fuck is wrong with you now?"
"Laine texted back."
He grunts, leaning against the doorframe. "And?"
"She wants to cook dinner at our place instead of going to a restaurant."
Blake raises an eyebrow. "So?"
"I had reservations at the French place."
"Christ, Reid. You planning to propose?" He drops into the chair across from me. "Get down on one knee between the snails and whatever the fuck else they serve there?"
I flip him off. "I wanted to show her I'm serious about this. That I want to spend real time with her. I’m not fucking around."
"And you think she gives a shit about overpriced French food?" Blake shakes his head. "The woman volunteered at a homeless camp on your second date. She suggested cooking instead of getting dressed up. Pretty sure she's not impressed by that sommelier bullshit."
He's got a point. A really annoying, accurate point.
"Besides," Blake continues, "she wants to come here. To our house. That's not casual."
I hadn't thought about it that way. Laine wanting to see my space, my kitchen, my life. Maybe this isn't about keeping things casual—maybe it's about getting more real.
"What if she takes one look at the mess and leaves?
" I ask. Yeah, we've made a ton of progress on this place, but it's still a work in progress.
We tackled things as they bugged us, or as we found deals, so every room has some upgrades mixed with original.
The living room has refinished hardwood and a brand-new ceiling fan, but the trim is still unpainted.
The kitchen has gorgeous cabinets and a stone countertop but the floor is still the 70's lino.
It looks... eclectic. That's the nice word for it.
Ugly as fuck would be the other way to put it.
"Then she's not worth the fucking headache." Blake takes a sip of his coffee. "But she won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because she already likes you, and you're a bigger disaster than this house."
"Thanks, asshole."
"Anytime."
Saturday afternoon, I'm cleaning the house like we're expecting a visit from the health department.
I've vacuumed twice, dusted everything including the ceiling fan blades, organized the books on the coffee table by size (then by color, then back to size), and scrubbed the kitchen until it gleams. I've cleaned the bathroom three times.
I've fluffed pillows I didn't know we owned.
Blake finds me reorganizing the spice rack for the second time.
"Oregano before paprika," I mutter, swapping jars. "That's just common sense."
How did I not realize I organize when I'm anxious? I can't fucking stop.
"She's a nurse," he says, leaning against the counter. "She's seen actual shit. Human shit. She's not gonna lose her mind over your spice rack."
"I want everything to be perfect."
"It's dinner, not a fucking inspection."
"But it should be perfect before she makes a mess."
Blake stares at me. "Do you hear yourself right now?"
He's right, but I can't help myself. This feels important in a way that's hard to explain.
I've never had a woman cook in my kitchen before.
Okay. She who shall not be named cooked in the apartment.
But this is different. This house is our sanctuary and I've never wanted to share this space with anyone except Blake.
"What if I don't have the right ingredients?" I ask.
"Then go to the store."
"What if she doesn't like our wine?"
"Then drink beer."
"What if—"
"Reid." Blake grabs my shoulders and makes me look at him. "Shut the fuck up. You're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling."
"You've cleaned the same counter three times. You're spiraling."
I try to shrug out of his grip, but Blake holds on. "Let go of me."
"Not until you stop being insane."
"I'm not being insane, I'm being thorough."
"You reorganized the spice rack. Twice."
"It wasn't alphabetical."
"It doesn't need to be alphabetical!"
"Everything needs to be alphabetical!"
I make another attempt to break free, and somehow we end up grappling like we're twelve years old.
Blake's got me in a headlock, I'm trying to elbow him in the ribs, and we're both laughing despite ourselves.
We knock into the counter, nearly take out a chair, and end up stumbling into the living room.
"Say you're being ridiculous," Blake demands.
"Fuck off."
"Say it."
"You're covered in sawdust and you're getting it all over my clean kitchen."
"Our kitchen. Say you're being ridiculous or I'm not letting go."
I manage to get my arm around his neck, making him choke. "You first."
"Jesus Christ, we're not kids anymore," Blake wheezes, but he's still laughing.
"You started it."
We finally break apart, both breathing hard and grinning like idiots. Blake's hair is even messier than usual. I automatically smooth mine back down. Yep, it's just as bad.
"Better?" he asks.
"Actually, yeah."
"Good. Now go take a shower. You smell like the fucking cleaning aisle."
I'm about to argue when the doorbell rings. We both freeze.
"What time is it?" I ask.
Blake checks his watch. "Five fifty-eight."
"Shit. She's early."
"By two minutes. Answer the damn door."
"But I haven't showered. And I was going to change my shirt. And my hair—" I reach up and feel the disaster zone Blake created. "I look like I lost a fight with a leaf blower."
"You look fine."
"I look insane."
"You are insane. Go."
I run my hands through my hair, trying to make it look less like I've been wrestling, and head for the front door. Through the window, I can see Laine standing on our porch, holding a grocery bag and looking around at the property.
When I open the door, she smiles that easy smile that makes my chest feel warm.
She's actually here. She's standing on my porch, holding a grocery bag, looking like the best thing I've ever seen. I half expected an apology text. A last-minute cancellation. This shit is too good to be true.
But she didn't bail.
"Hey."
God, I can't stop the smile that covers my face. I don't want to. "Hey yourself. You're right on time."
"I'm actually two minutes early. I was sitting in my car trying not to seem too eager." She grins. "It didn't work."
She's fucking adorable. "I'm so glad to see you."
She's wearing jeans and a soft-looking sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looks comfortable and real and beautiful, and Blake was right—this is so much better than some stuffy restaurant.
She holds up the bulging shopping bag. "I brought supplies."
"Come in," I say, taking the bag and stepping aside. "Welcome to our place."
Laine steps into the living room, looking around. "Wow, this is really nice. I love the original hardwood."
So do I. I didn't while we were sanding, and cursing at each other. But it does look pretty spectacular. "Thanks. Blake's the guy with the skills. I just do whatever he tells me to do."
"Don't let him fool you," Blake says, appearing from the kitchen.
Blake's cleaned most of the sawdust off himself, though there's still some in his hair and a smear of wood stain on his jaw he missed.
"He's got decent— aw fuck. I'm sorry. I can't lie.
It's like doing a project with Tigger. He's all over the fucking place. "
"Asshole! You didn't have to throw me under the fucking bus."
Laine laughs and steps forward, hand extended. "Blake, right?" Laine says. "I've heard so much about you."
"All lies."
"I doubt that," she says, laughing. "Reid told me a little about your work. It sounds incredible. I have absolutely zero artistic ability, so I'm kinda jealous of your skills."
Blake grunts, shifts his weight. "Keeps me busy." He takes a step back. "It was nice to meet you Laine. I'll get out of your way. Have a good night."
She throws both hands out, like she's going to physically yank him back. "Wait! You're not eating with us?"
Blake's brow furrows. "Wasn't planning on crashing your date."
"When I suggested this, I kind of thought you'd be here too. I don't want to kick you out of your house. That wasn't my plan at all. God, I'm sorry. I should have thought this through." Laine's face is red and she keeps glancing at the door. She's going to bolt.
My heart stutters. She wanted Blake to be here. She wanted to meet him. That's some next level shit.
I am so here for it.
"Stay," I tell Blake, locking eyes with him, trying to tell him not to blow this for me. "It would be good for you two to get to know each other."