36. Graciella
THIRTY-SIX
GRACIELLA
I’LL UNCLOG YOUR PIPE…
The morning was still nice, not yet bogged down by July’s afternoon heat. I’d needed out of my apartment. Hopefully, working at a public coffee shop would force me to be productive rather than lying in bed re-reading all of Monroe’s texts.
Couldn’t kick my feet in the air and squeal like a love-sick teenager in public.
A buzz in my hand had me smiling before I even unlocked the screen.
Monroe:
You still in bed?
I snorted, rounding the corner to the café.
Me:
Why? You gonna judge me if I am? We don’t all love to be up at the ass crack of dawn.
The little dots bounced, taunting me. A woman walking her dog glared as I strayed into her path, too busy waiting for his response to pay attention to my surroundings.
Monroe:
So defensive. I was just going to tell you I wish you were in mine…
I pressed my lips together, heart skipping a beat.
Me:
You’re not even in your bed.
Monroe:
I would be if you were in it.
A laugh slipped out, and the grumpy lady glared over her shoulder. I didn’t care. Three days of this stupid, giddy feeling.
Three days of smiling like an idiot over texts that came in at odd hours. Before practice, after, sometimes a single line in the middle of the night that had no business making me feel the way it did.
Monroe:
I’m gonna be heading your way after morning training.
I frowned at the screen.
Me:
My way?
Monroe:
Your sink. Said it’s been dripping.
How did he—
The list. The one he’d torn right out of my notebook and taped to his fridge.
Me:
You don’t have to do that. I can just hire someone, like you said.
Monroe:
I know. But I want to be the one to take care of things for you, Graciella.
Monroe:
K. I’ll see you later, baby.
I stood there in the middle of the coffee shop’s entrance, customers splitting around me as I stared at the text. Butterflies started back up low in my stomach. Truthfully, I’d had them since he’d pinned me to that wall and said those words.
It’s okay, baby. You can run. I’ll chase after you.
I shook my head, trying to clear the blissful haze, and slid into a corner table tucked away from prying eyes between two walnut shelves stacked mainly with the cracked spines of well-loved romance novels, old and new. The place smelled like espresso and old books.
Perfect setting for poring over the calendar and wallowing in self-pity over all the things I had planned for Monroe and Itzel. The reminder hit me like a truck, and my head dropped into my hands, a curtain of black hair shielding me from the outside world for a moment.
I was jealous.
Not of anything going on between the two of them.
Itzel had sent me a long-winded voice message about how I shouldn’t be afraid to be happy with a man and how excited she was for me.
No, I was jealous because I wanted to experience these career highs with him.
By his side, cheering him on when so many others didn’t want to.
I straightened, stuffing down the self-pity. No, the most important part was to show the public the man I knew Josh to be. And if that meant I needed to do it from the sidelines with no one knowing, it was worth it.
He was worth it.
The Google calendar was lit up with colored blocks, and I ignored the little voice wondering when we’d be able to see each other during all these events. Summer conditioning was already in full swing for the players, and the Stars Developmental Camp started next week.
But it was the events at the start of August that snagged my attention. Bay Area Sports Awards and press day. I had a speech typed up for the awards, had drafted talking points for Monroe, and the list of approved questions to go out to reporters. But that didn’t keep my stomach from turning.
A lot was riding on those two events, with so many eyes there to observe the team—observe him.
I gnawed on my lip, reading over the speech lines I’d jotted down for him. A few weeks ago, my main concern was how these events would represent me and my work. Now…now that seemed to take second place to my hope that the world would see the version of Monroe I did.
The one whose heart was tender…loving.
By the time I made it back to my building, I’d managed to think about Monroe naked approximately forty-seven more times.
I shifted my bag to one shoulder and pushed through the front door, smiling at the lock he’d installed for me. God, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Afternoon light filtered through the front windows, their aged single panes already letting in midday heat.
I was two steps inside when I heard it.
A metallic clank and the distinct clatter of something rolling across the linoleum in my kitchen.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
I grabbed Monica without thinking, the shaft smooth and familiar under my palms as I snuck toward my kitchen, heart hammering.
I jumped out from around the corner, Monica poised at my shoulder like a bat. “Who the hell is ther—”
The words cut out when I spotted large, worn boots attached to a pair of muscled legs in light-washed jeans I’d recognize anywhere. The upper half of Monroe’s body was hidden under the sink cabinet.
“I told you I was coming,” he said, voice muffled by cabinetry and the clanking of whatever the hell he had under there with him. “But if you forgot, you better not have charged in here with my hockey stick again instead of calling me about an intruder.”
I set Monica down, leaning her against the corner before he could spot her.
Not that I thought it was possible in his current position.
“Well, seeing as how you’re the intruder, that wouldn’t have done a lot of good either.
How the hell did you get in here, anyway? Did I forget to lock the door again?”
“Had a key,” he said. “And I’m not even going to address the again part of that. Already irritated enough at these ancient fuckin’ pipes, don’t need to think about your lack of survival skills.”
“From when?” I ignored the rest of his complaining.
“When I fixed your lock.”
“You kept a key to my apartment?” I crossed my arms, eyebrows raised. “Stalker much?”
He grunted. “You’re one to talk. You stole one from my front yard.”
I couldn’t see his face, but I’d bet money he had an eyebrow quirked up, daring me to argue with him.
“Did you a favor really.” I hopped up on the counter. “That rock didn’t even look close to real. So I saved you from a nefarious person getting to it.”
The counter was cool under my thighs. I kicked my feet and inspected the sprawl of tools laid out.
“You are the nefarious person. Hand me the adjustable wrench on the counter,” he said, holding a slightly dirty palm out.
“Umm…” There were two things sitting on the dish towel that looked identical to me. I held them out and squinted. “Which one’s that? I don’t know what any of these are... Oh! I lied. I know which one’s the screwdriver.”
“Everyone knows a screwdriver,” he deadpanned.
“Yeah, well, I use mine to shove the cork into a wine bottle when I can’t find an opener.”
Monroe let out a string of curse words, but I only made out something about falling for a difficult woman. I stifled a laugh.
“Gimme the one with the red handle,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Wow. So helpful. They all have red handles, tonto.”
An exaggerated sigh emanated from under the cabinet. “The one with the little nut in the middle to make it bigger or smaller.”
I shoved the wrench into his hand. His fingers brushed against mine, sending my pulse spiking, and then went back to work.
The sounds coming from under there were not particularly encouraging. A lot of grunting, another string of curses, some sloshing I wasn’t sure was supposed to happen.
“Pretty sure I’ve seen a movie just like this,” I said, filling the silence. “Usually it’s the chick stuck under the sink.”
“God, you’re a menace.”
I bit the inside of my cheek at the playful irritation in his tone.
My eyes were glued to where the hem of his shirt bunched up, showing off that strip of hair I loved running my tongue along. I’d do it right now if I didn’t think he might give himself a concussion moving too quickly in that space. It was clearly not designed for a man his size.
“Oh, no, Mr. Plumber, you’re stuck under my sink, and only a blow job will set you free? Sure, I can unclog your pipe for you, like you do mine.”
A deep rumble echoed from the cabinet.
“Stop it, Graciella. I move too much, and I legitimately might get stuck under here. Pretty sure I lost circulation to my left arm thirty minutes ago.”
“That was funny. Admi—”
The pipes gurgled. A rush of water, loud, moving through them.
I grabbed the edge of the counter. “Did you really fix it?”
“Give it a go.” He was already crawling out, grime streaked across his jaw, a smear of something dark on his forearm. He jerked his chin toward the faucet.
I twisted the cold handle and held my breath.
A clean stream shot into the basin.
I grabbed him by the collar of his filthy shirt and kissed him.
He kissed me back before pulling away and cupping my face. “I like that we can do that now,” he said.
The warmth in my chest flickered.
“Can we?” The words came out quieter than I meant. “I know you said friends with benefits is off the table, but kissing like we’re a couple—that’s really on the table?”
I hated every word out of my mouth. But they had been sitting in the back of my throat since we’d crossed into whatever unmarked territory this was.
“You’re mine, Graciella.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “I don’t have an answer for all the rest, and maybe we don’t try to figure all of it out right now, but I do know I want you.” His palm came up to my cheek, warm and a little rough, and I turned into him.
My stomach knotted in a strange mix of satisfaction and worry.
I was the poster child for no definitions, no timelines, no messy conversations about what anything meant. Built an entire philosophy around it…so why did I want all of those things with Monroe?