Chapter 10 #4
Nope, Zoey realised: Ainsley was simply grinding her teeth harder than Zoey did at night. (She’d ground through two nightguards this past year.)
‘Can you let me out here, Zo? I’ll … catch you at home.’
Ainsley furiously climbed out of the truck, grabbed a Romero Ro-mayor-O sign from the tray, and brandished it.
Nick shot a look at Zoey. ‘So, are we watching this, or are we making a getaway before we’re asked to join in the fight?’
‘Definitely a getaway,’ said Zoey. ‘Celeste has some serious fingernails, and I’m not getting involved in that.’
‘Maybe they’ll set aside their differences and ride off into the sunset together. On one of the scooters from that house on your street.’
‘Anything to stop me from winning the Lardo bet.’ Grinning, Zoey shook her fist at the sky.
They cruised off, pulling over here and there to pop up Romero’s signs.
Nick helped Zoey hammer them into the soft grass on the strip between sidewalk and road, which was something she could easily spend hours doing.
Mostly because it gave her an excuse to watch Nick’s muscles work beneath his plaid shirt, which was more of a treat to the eyes than a classic movie marathon in 4K at the Laurelhurst Theater.
‘You’re not a bad sign-digging assistant,’ said Zoey, wiping sweat from her brow as she regarded the bristling row of Ro-mayor-O signs.
‘Thanks for doing this. Supporting a cat’s mayoral campaign probably isn’t how you wanted to spend your afternoon.
Especially since said cat is probably going to be an absentee candidate. ’
Nick chuckled. ‘Are you serious? This is precisely the silly type of way I want to spend my time. You bring the whimsy, and I’ll bring the truck.’
‘Well, Ainsley brought the whimsy,’ admitted Zoey. ‘I just brought the boyf— the guy with the truck.’
She flushed, hoping that he hadn’t caught her blunder. She’d course-corrected quickly enough, hadn’t she?
‘The guy with the truck, huh?’ Nick stepped back, regarding her with dark, amused eyes. Zoey felt electric. ‘Is that who I am in your phone?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Zoey, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I’d never dehumanise you like that. You’re under Mushroom Guy, obviously.’
‘That’s Mister Mushroom Guy, thank you,’ Nick teased.
‘You’ll have to work for the honorific,’ she said archly, although she could hear the humour in her own voice. A humour that hid her mortification.
Sure, she’d said guy with the truck, but she’d come so close to saying boyfriend.
But how? They’d only been out a couple of times, and even then mostly under the guise of work.
Which was the whole problem, really. All this working together and spending time with friends together was confusing things.
She felt like … she knew him. But did she?
Could she? Could she ever truly know anyone?
She’d thought she’d known Kit, and look at how that had turned out.
Zoey forced her heart back into its little cage. No, not cage. Life preserver. Although immediately said heart jumped back out again, although this time from surprise.
For a group of twenty-somethings had rounded the corner and was lurching down the other side of the street, arms out and groaning in unison.
One, clad in a puffer vest and oversized glasses, was bumping along on an electric skateboard with a single, central wheel.
Wasn’t that the guy who’d taken over Nestor’s desk at the coworking space after the HR incident that Sascha had delightedly told Zoey about as she’d placed an order for a Drama Banana smoothie, extra cinnamon?
Biting. There’d been biting. Perhaps Zoey hadn’t been so far off with her whole serial-killer assessment.
‘The youth these days,’ said Nick. He leaned forward, adding in a whisper, ‘Were we that weird?’
‘Ah, it’s probably just an improv group on their way to Hawthorne.
’ Zoey did not want to go on the record saying that yes indeed, she had been that weird.
Was any of this lot wearing home-made velour flares or carrying a magpie puppet that quoted Auden?
Unlikely. ‘There are like ten comedy theatres down there.’
‘Yes, and?’ said Nick, shooting her a grin.
Zoey gave him a shove. ‘Yes, and we are absolutely not doing improv. Especially not after the slam-poetry thing.’
‘Well, then, how about dinner at my place? I’ll have you back in time for work tomorrow. Promise.’
Zoey bit her lip. That … actually sounded lovely. She was curious to see his mushroom greenhouses and his no-doubt extensive library and, perhaps, his bedroom. Just so long as he wasn’t a doomsday prepper. She wasn’t sure she could handle that.
‘Sure, assuming brains aren’t on the menu,’ she said, as the group shuffled past, grunting and moaning.
‘Figuratively only,’ he promised, watching them go with a furrowed brow. ‘Because I’m such a good conversationalist.’
‘Well then, sold.’ She glanced down at her grass-stained jeans. ‘Do you mind if I’m a bit sweaty and covered in dirt?’
Nick leaned on a Ro-mayor-O poster. ‘Mind? What more could a guy want?’