9. Ledger #2
“Maybe it’s because I’ve had to be many for so long. I’m tired.”
I nod.
“Mollie-Mae asked about you,” Shiloh says, abruptly changing the subject.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, I think she’s interested,” Shiloh says quickly.
“How do you come to that conclusion? Mollie-Mae is pretty, but I’m spoken for.”
Her cheeks turn pink and she pushes her food around.
“Has anyone asked you about your ring?”
“Yeah, Mollie-Mae did. We uh … we got to talking, and she noticed it so I told her she didn’t know you.
But I changed the subject, asked her why she was interested, and then she started talking about how amazing your ass looked in your jeans when you came in that day.
Then … what did she say?” Shiloh asks herself.
Then she snaps her fingers. “He has a mustache she’d like to ride.”
A snort burst from my nose, and I rub my face, hiding the embarrassment.
“I can hook y’all up if you want,” she says.
I rub my mustache and look her in the eye. “I’m flattered, but I’m not interested, and real or not, I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Shiloh smiles and leans back in her chair.
“I appreciate that, but I’m well aware of what we are, ring or not.
” Then she sobers. “Wait, were you dating someone before all of this?” she asks a little more shrill, wiggling her finger.
“Am I the other woman? Or is she? Am I cockblocking you?” she asks, eyes wide.
I chuckle dryly and look at my hands. “No, I’m not dating anyone, and there’s no blocking going on. I’m simply not interested.”
“Do you have someone else you’re interested in?”
I frown. “Why?”
Shiloh grins, leaning forward, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “I love a juicy gossip sesh. Who’s the girl? Do I know her? I promise my lips are sealed.”
“Uh, it’s none of that,” I say, abruptly standing from my seat.
“Okay, well, I’ll let her down easy.”
“No, I can do that. I don’t need you to handle my business for me,” I tell her.
She hums and drags her eyes over my body, and I stare at her while she’s occupied with taking me in.
I like the way she looks at me, but I don’t like the way that I want to puff my chest out when she does.
And I one hundred percent don’t need to feel anything about my roommate-wife. I need to be professional.
“I have another question for you,” she says.
“I’m bracing myself,” I mutter.
Shiloh snorts. “So why is your bathroom pink?”
I roll my eyes. “June. She thought it would be funny when I bought the house to help me paint. I wasn’t paying attention, she chose the pink, and the towels, obviously. Then I never changed it.”
Shiloh giggles and shakes her head. “It’s pretty funny.”
“I try not to think about it,” I mumble.
“A bachelor with a pink bathroom is…” she trails off, realizing I’m not a bachelor anymore.
I’m a married man.
My stomach twists uncomfortably. “I’ll clean the kitchen,” I mumble, shuffling to the sink.
“No, no, I’ll get it,” she says, rushing to the sink.
I puff out a breath and try to rein in my irritation, but it’s hard to do when I’ve been doing it for two weeks.
“No, Shiloh, I’ll wash the dishes. You don’t do it right,” I mumble the last words under my breath.
She huffs and flips the hot water on anyway. “There’s more than one way to do things, Sheriff stick-up-his-ass.”
I glare at her, and she smirks at me.
“You don’t load the dishwasher right.”
Her brow lifts in challenge. “Then how about you show me, master dishwasher.”
I throw her a look, and it’s clear to me that she’s enjoying messing with the way I do things, but it’s how I do them, and this is my house.
“You put the plates in the wrong place. They fit better here,” I say, pointing to the right place.
“When you load your silverware, do it from back to front so you don’t get old food on your hand for trying to reach in the back.
Coffee cups go on the top right of the rack.
Small bowls and other things on the left.
It’s really not that complicated,” I say and check to make sure she’s comprehending what I said.
She throws her head back and laughs so loud, so obnoxiously, I can’t help but smile.
I like her laugh.
“Owe, owe,” she sighs and takes a deep breath.
“Why is that funny?” I ask her, watching her hold her side.
She shakes her head and turns the water off. “Honestly, it’s kind of cute the way you’re so particular about everything,” she says, gesturing out to the house and simultaneously slapping me with bubbles from the dish soap.
Her eyes widen, and mouth drops into an O. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and wipes the suds off my face with a hand towel. She drags the cloth slowly over my face, paying special attention to my mustache, and my heart picks up.
I grab her wrist to stop her, and catch her pulse thundering under her skin. “Let me do the dishes, Shiloh,” I rasp.
“Or what?” she says, but her tone is different. It’s heavy as if she had to work to say it.
“Or … I don’t know, I’ll wash your clothes you put in the washer, but don’t actually wash right away with a red sock,” I tell her matter-of-fact.
She gasps as if I’ve offended her and her ancestors before her. “You wouldn’t.”
“You forget I grew up in a family of four, on a ranch, with nothing else to do but mess with each other. I can and I will.”
Shiloh’s infuriating, beautiful mouth splits into a smile, and she giggles. “I think I like you, Sheriff.”
I huff. “That’s a relief,” I mutter.
She shakes her head and puts a measuring cup in the water with a couple of knives. “Really woman? Did anyone tell you not to put knives in water because you can’t see them under the bubbles?” I ask her.
“I know where they are.” She shrugs and sets the measuring cup in the empty sink next to the full one.
I sigh. God, give me strength.
“I don’t know why you’re so concerned. I’m used to doing the dishes. I have my own method.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you washed dishes at the diner too,” I mutter, rinsing the cup before drying it off.
“I don’t. Grey never helped. I’m used to it is what I’m trying to say.”
“I think we’ve already established that Grey sucks, so his lack of dishwashing skills is hardly surprising.”
Shiloh snorts. “Among other things.”
She sets a bowl in the sink. “Fine, you rinse, dry, and put away.”
“Deal.”
She washes a couple of dishes. I rinse them, then she pauses.
“I don’t know what I saw in him. I don’t know why I stayed so long regardless of what he does. I didn’t know he was capable of what he did,” she whispers, looking down into the bubbles as if they hold the answer.
For a second I don’t know if she’s talking to me or herself, then she peeks at me under her lashes and my chest twists.
“I think we’re capable of a lot of things when it comes down to it.”
“A part of me wanted to kill him,” she whispers.
I know my first instinct should be to tell her that’s a bad idea. But I don’t because she already came too close.
“I don’t blame you. But I think you already got a glimpse of the outcome.”
Her eyes water as she looks at me, scrubs a skillet harder than necessary, but I don’t miss the tears dropping into the dishwater.
“Why are you wearing your ring?” I ask her, hoping to distract her.
She stops scrubbing and frowns. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m married, aren’t I?”
“I mean, yes, but I figured you wouldn’t want anyone to know.”
She shrugs and bumps my shoulder. “You already said it. The town will find out soon enough. Plus, I like it, it’s pretty, and it keeps anyone from hitting on me at the diner and the bar. It’s a win-win.”
“So it’s like a shield?” I ask.
She nods. “Sort of. I don’t know why I never bought myself a fake one earlier.” She pauses, and her expression closes up. “I think I was still waiting for him to get me a real one.”
“Well, now you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
She goes back to the dishes, and when we’re done, she disappears into her room. Turning in for the night, I pass her door and hear her soft cries behind it.