10. Reed
reed
I show up at the address Rose gave me with a takeout bag in my arms. She refused to give me a preference for dinner, so I ordered us curries and spring rolls from the Thai place on Second Street.
I overheard her rave to Troy about their curry once, but since I can’t remember if she specified a type, I brought three kinds.
She pulls her front door open and greets me with a smile. “You’re right on time.”
Good thing because I’m going to need a minute. Probably several. We keep the dress code casual in the coffee shop, but she always looks pulled together. Professional, but temptingly soft in her cute dresses and loose, billowy tops.
But like this? Her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, wearing shorts and an oversized graphic T-shirt with flowers on it that says Bloom where you’re planted? She’s every dream I’ve ever had.
But with the sour aftertaste of that pushy tourist a few hours ago still rattling through me, I don’t let my gaze trace across her exposed collar bone or dance up her long legs the way I want to.
“I brought Thai food.” It’s all I can manage to say with my mouth this dry.
She makes a yummy sound in the back of her throat that’s really not helping me right now. “Sounds perfect. Come on in.”
I follow her through the house into the dining room in the back.
From the street, the house looks like any other in town in the “mountain modern” style: neutral brown wood-look siding, wide windows, and a roof pitched at steep angles for winter snows.
Inside, it’s even more pronounced, with exposed beams, a stone fireplace, and honey oak cabinets in the kitchen. It’s a comfortable house.
But none of the actual stuff in here matches Rose’s more…
let’s just say, quirky style. From the faux cowhide rug to the metal donkey sculptures in front of the fireplace to the wall covered in paintings of cowboys, none of this looks like her.
Even the rustic vases and knick knacks on the sideboard look out of place next to her.
“Are you housesitting?” I open the takeout bag and set the containers of curry and rice on the table. She’s already got two plates laid out side by side, and glasses with a jug of milk.
“No. It’s my house.” She gestures for me to take one of the chairs. We sit, and I open up the food, letting the scents of lemongrass and coriander swirl in the air.
“I didn’t know you were such a fan of the old west.”
She laughs, pulling one foot beneath her as she spoons rice onto her plate. “That’s my parents. We moved down here from Seattle when I was ten, and they went a little overboard on the frontier chic.”
“I thought their traveling was a permanent thing.” She talks like they don’t plan on coming back to stay for several years at least.
“It is. They gave me the house before they left. They wanted me to have something now because they feel bad they’re ‘spending so much of my inheritance.’” Her sarcastic tone goes along with the air quotes she dashes in front of her.
“I told them to go live the lives they want and not worry about saving it for me.”
“That’s good advice.” I wish Harry had taken it. He lived like a hermit in his retirement, in a cabin worse off than mine. The only thing he spent his money on was bait, regular donations to the local food bank, and that coffee shop.
If I’d had any idea he had so much saved up, I would have told him to travel the world, too. Go fishing on every continent. Buy himself better waders, for cripe’s sake. But we didn’t talk about money. I never knew he had a dime until he was gone and it all came to me.
But I’m no better than he was. Now all that money’s sitting in my bank account, and I don’t know what to do with it, either.
“It’s not really my taste, but…” She lets her hesitation hang there, glancing around at the rustic wood decor.
“These walls are stark white.” A surprising find from the woman who’s been bringing me paint chips for Perk Me Up ever since I hired her on.
She exhales a cute little groan. “I know. I bought paint.” She flings a hand toward the corner. Two gallons of paint and a plastic bag with a foam roller sticking out are tucked next to the sideboard. “But Mom hates the idea of me changing things up.”
I might not want her to go color crazy in the coffee shop, but she should be able to do what she wants in her own home. I’m about to tell her so when she pokes me in the shoulder.
“Keep those frowns to yourself, mister. They paid an interior designer a lot of money to make it look like this.”
“You could take it all down for free.”
She laughs. “I know, I know. I’m working up to it.”
I want to tell her to stop worrying about her parents and do what she pleases, but I bite my tongue. Me telling her what to do isn’t any better than her parents telling her what not to do. I won’t add to those demands on her.
We eat in relative quiet. Aside from Sunday meals with my family, I’m used to eating in silence, but this one feels different. Comfortable. Less severe, just because I’m with her. I wouldn’t have ever said I was missing companionship, but I sure am slipping into it like a worn-in old flannel.
It’s a troubling revelation.
Then again, so are the assorted sounds Rose makes as she eats.
She’s not an obnoxious eater, but I clearly chose well with the curries.
Those soft sounds of satisfaction worm through my brain, digging in deep so I can recall them later.
How could I get her to make similar sounds of delight all on my own?
“We should figure out our history,” I say before I let my mind wander down paths where it’s likely to get lost. “Since people will probably ask.”
“People” being my family, who haven’t stopped texting me for two days straight. I don’t have to guess at the kinds of questions folks might ask since my phone is full of them.
“Right.” She puts down her spring roll and wipes a napkin over her lips. “Well, we’re coworkers, so things probably developed gradually. We were friends and liked being around each other, and then we realized we had deeper feelings. Easy.”
“Easy.” It’s hard to swallow around the truth of just how easy it would be to fall into a scenario like that. Like falling into bed at the end of a long day. Inevitable.
“How long have we been dating, do you think?” She pins me with her big blue eyes. “A few weeks sounds right, but I told Lucy we’re already official.”
“Why wouldn’t we be official after a few weeks?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Most guys seem to take longer than that before they want to define the relationship.”
“How long?” The subject sits like a stone in my gut, but the question chokes out anyway.
“Months? None of my relationships have lasted super long, but most guys don’t even want me to call them my boyfriend until like five or six mon—” Her gaze meets mine, and she snaps her mouth shut. “The numbers aren’t really important right now.”
I hate to think what murderous thing my face must be doing.
She’s been dating guys who don’t know being with her is a privilege they could never deserve.
They didn’t want her to call them boyfriend?
They should have been on their knees every damn day in gratitude she spent any time with them at all. Her exes are idiots.
Which I already figured since they’re exes.
“Weeks is fine,” I grind out. “I wouldn’t need more time.”
She flashes a tiny smile. “Okay. Great. I wouldn’t, either.”
We clear away our dishes, and after some pushback on her part, I get her to tuck the leftovers into her fridge.
She moves into the living room and flops onto one end of the giant leather sofa.
I take the other end, brushing against the blanket laid out over the back.
It scratches my skin as if I rubbed against steel wool.
“What is this?” I touch the material I took for a blanket, but it sure isn’t meant for getting cozy. It’s thick and rough, with fibers poking up everywhere. I check my arm. “It scratched me.”
“Sorry about that.” Only now do I realize she’s up against the other couch arm, not touching the “blanket.” “The interior designer picked it up somewhere. My parents think it brings the whole room together.”
“Do you like it?”
She side-eyes the thing. “It’s unique.”
“That’s a no.”
She frowns at me but there’s no bite to it. “Do I get to go to your house and critique your decor choices?”
I raise my hands in surrender. She could do a whole reality TV show about how awful my place is. “I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”
She braces her hands against both knees. Her gaze skates my way but doesn’t hold there. “So. Um. PDA?”
I blink at her. “More context, please.”
“Well, you know.” She looks around like she’s searching for backup. “We should probably figure out how much PDA we’re willing to do. Are you a PDA kind of guy?”
I haven’t really been in the past, but that’s all out the window when it comes to Rose. I would accept any and every form of affection she wanted to bestow on me and still have “more” hanging on my lips. Who’s there to witness it wouldn’t enter into my wholehearted “yes.”
“I don’t mind it.” Simpler than going into all that.
“So like…what’s on the table? Touching? Cuddles? Kissing?”
Each scenario plays through my mind in vivid detail. An inferno rages through my veins, firing me up from my head to my toes.
“All fine.”
“Okay.” Her body relaxes, easing against the firm couch cushions. “I guess we should figure out the end date, then.”
It takes my overheated brain a minute to sort through those words. Right. This pretend relationship needs an expiration date stamped on it. It’s a good reminder to pause my frenzied imagination.
I’ve never been much for daydreaming, but it’s easy for my thoughts to drift when it comes to Rose.
“I was thinking…” She bites her plush bottom lip.
I have to study the metal donkeys in front of the fireplace, standing in descending size like nesting dolls, or that imagination will go into overdrive again.
“Maybe we should wait until the concert series is over. That will give the algorithm time to find the next new thing, and for town gossips to get bored of us.”
Two and a half months. It’s too much for me to be so close to her and won’t be nearly enough. But just like I know what will happen when Troy asks Rose to switch shifts, I know what I’m going to say to her before I fully think through her suggestion.
“Sounds fine to me.”
“Maybe we should practice—” Rose gasps. “Reed.”
“Yes?” Pretty sure my ears swivel toward her like satellite dishes to hear whatever it is she wants to practice.
She grimaces. “I mean Cat-Reed. He’s downstairs.”
She nods behind me, and I look over my shoulder. A fluffy white-and-gray cat sits at the bottom of the stairs, blue eyes staring at us like we’re the top slots on its hit list.
She’s right. He does look like a grouch.
“Is this unusual?”
The couch dips next to me as Rose slides over to sit directly beside me. She’s moving slowly, craning her neck to see the cat better. Her bare leg presses against mine, lighting my skin on fire.
“No,” she whispers. “He hates me.”
She named a cat with a permanent stink-face who she thinks hates her after me. The unflattering comparison clunks around in my gut. If she only knew the half of it. But if she did, she wouldn’t be discussing potential PDA in our pretend relationship—she’d probably be looking for a new job.
“I think maybe he was feral before, or almost.” She’s still whispering, speaking slowly for the cat’s sake. “He’s at least a few years old. I felt bad for him in the shelter. People mostly only want kittens.”
“They didn’t have any info on him?” He looks scraggly to me. Like he’s seen some things. A little thin, maybe, but it’s hard to tell with all that fur.
“No.” She leans even closer, reaching one arm across me to wiggle her fingers at him. He stares blankly as if he’s not interested, which defies all logic. “Maybe he’s learned that people hurt him, or they move and leave him behind. It’s natural it might take a while to get him to trust me.”
“It sounds like you’re doing everything right.”
“I’m trying to be patient,” she whispers. Then she exhales a soft laugh. “I’m really not, honestly. I want him to love me back so badly.”
She turns her head to meet my gaze. She’s so close, she might as well be in my lap. I’d barely have to move to touch her face. Hold her. Kiss her. We breathe the same air for a moment before she shifts away, putting a few inches of space between us on the couch.
“He’ll be devoted to you soon enough,” I tell her. “Just give him time.”
I’ve got a sinking feeling I could be talking about either male in the room right now.
Her smile works straight through my ribs. “I hope you’re right.”
A hurk-hurk sound breaks the soft moment. I turn as the cat loses its dinner all over the entry runner.
“Oh, Reed,” Rose sighs. Her gaze darts to mine. I lift an eyebrow. “Okay, you’re right. We’ll find him a new name.”