Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
I sleep like the dead. There were many mornings as a child (and as a teenager, if I’m being honest) when Lovie or Grandpa Bobby had to shake me awake. Forcibly. Liss thinks it’s incredibly unhealthy, but I think it’s great. I’ve never been awoken by upstairs neighbors screwing at three in the morning or an early-riser roommate banging pots and pans.
To be fair, I’m usually that early-riser roommate. Since I sleep so well, I don’t mind getting up with the sun.
Unless I’m up late the night before, fighting and bed-wrestling with annoying men who wear socks to sleep and make me take the couch. Then I sleep until—I grab my phone— nine thirty? That can’t be right.
I blink at the clock on the wall, but the hands don’t change.
“Shit,” I murmur, jackknifing up. I should have charged my phone after all.
Has Lovie eaten yet? I don’t smell anything burning (which is good, because I’ve slept through a fire alarm more than once). What if she usually sits on the couch in the morning and I ruined her routine? Consistency is one of the most important factors for Alzheimer’s patients, and it will already be enough of a shake-up to have me back home. Especially when she told Mr. Grumpy Socks that I never visit anymore.
Soft noises carry from across the front hall.
The kitchen is a hodgepodge of colors and patterns, Lovie’s eclectic style clashing violently with Grandpa Bobby’s practicality. The windows above the sink and behind the table feature green-and-pink valances, perpetually pinned open. Blinding morning sunlight refracts off the oak cabinets and makes me wince, so it takes a second for the rest of the details to come into view.
The vinyl floor, a checkerboard of tan and brown, is so well loved, the pattern is worn away in front of the stove and sink. Opposite that is the refrigerator, which is so small I can see every dusty inch of the top. The other, smaller appliances breaking up the U-shaped counter are also brown. The island, with a gap underneath that serves no discernible purpose, is free and clear of clutter aside from a bowl of fruit in the corner. That is also, perpetually, brown.
Adam turns toward me from the stove. He’s changed out of his pajamas and into scrubs, a light-blue matching set. It reminds me of a tracksuit I used to wear in middle school. It was blue velour with a rhinestone butterfly on the left tit. Liss had a pink one with a heart, and we switched jackets every morning to let other girls know we were Hot Shit.
“Good morning,” he says. His voice isn’t rasped from sleep the way mine is. Honestly, how dare he be anything less than dead on his feet.
“Where’s Lovie?” I ask instead. “Has she eaten?”
With another yawn, I’m forced to move toward the cabinet. I dig out my favorite mug from the back, a purple, butterfly-shaped plastic one I’ve used since I was old enough to be trusted without a lid. When I started drinking coffee in high school, Lovie always made sure it was washed and ready to use.
I wipe dust from the inside now. How long has it been since I’ve used it?
Adam’s head tilts at the sight of my questionable drinkware. “She’s up, in the bathroom. It takes her a while.”
“You should have woken me. I could have helped.”
He chuckles, a beat of laughter gone as quick as it came. “I tried, but you were completely unconscious. I did make sure you were breathing, though. It was touch-and-go for a minute.”
“What, did you check my pulse?” The thought of his fingers on my neck sends a crawling sensation down my spine.
His dark brows dip toward each other, mouth tugging down. “I wouldn’t do that unless I had to.” His disgust is clear.
I shoulder past him to get to the only chance I have of making it through this morning—caffeine. I eye the ancient coffeepot with hesitation, mug in hand. It’s no Breville, that’s for sure. I pour a lukewarm mug anyway.
“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes. “We’ll get this straightened out, and you won’t ever have to touch me again, since it was so traumatizing for you.”
Adam lets out a scoff under his breath, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as if it were nails on a chalkboard. “Well, I was going to suggest starting over, but that’s clearly not going to happen.”
My hand would be tightening into a fist if I weren’t holding the mug. Still, I think the plastic creaks. I turn toward him, less than impressed, and throw on a smile so fake and sweet it hurts my teeth.
“Hi!” My voice drips with sarcasm and just a sprinkle of fuck-you. “My name is Elle Monroe. Lovie is my grandmother,” is what I say. She raised me is what I don’t. “I hired AngelCare to handle her Alzheimer’s. That’s the company you work for.” A reminder about who’s in charge here shouldn’t hurt. I hold out my hand. “It is so, so nice to meet you.”
Adam straightens, adding another few inches to his already massive build, and shakes my hand. His fingers are warmer than my mug. “I’m Adam Wheeler. Lovie is my patient. You hired AngelCare to handle her Alzheimer’s. That’s the company I work for. Nice to meet you too.”
I roll my eyes, pulling out of his grip. “Fine. Sure.”
“You look so much like her,” he murmurs. “Your grandmother. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you last night.”
That, for a change, sounds sincere.
I shrug, bringing my mug to my mouth. Without the caffeine fully in my bloodstream, I can only return the bare minimum of hospitality. “Then I’m sorry about your testicles. I guess.”
“My—” He coughs, and a tinge of pink lights his cheekbones. Or maybe that’s from the curtains. “Well, thank you. I guess.”
I take another sip. “You know, for a second I thought you might apologize for being so rude last night.”
Adam blinks at me, his mouth falling open. “ Me , rude? You threw yourself at me—”
I scoff, taking a step toward him. “Because it was my bed.”
He spears a hand through his hair, messing some of the strands near his forehead. “Who shows up somewhere in the middle of the night?”
“I missed the train!” I set my coffee down on the counter so harshly some of it sloshes onto my hand. And maybe his socks.
Good.
“And then you assaulted me with sex toys—” he continues over me, his volume rising just like the throbbing vein in his neck. Splashes of red crawl up from it to his jawbone.
“It slipped out of my bag!”
“And made me show you personal identification—”
I take another step. If we were animals, bucks or bulls or, I don’t know, lions, our foreheads would be pressed together in our face-off. I could count his eyelashes. If I wanted. “You did the same thing.”
“You did it first!” He matches my step with his own. The color covers almost his entire face now, bleeding from the five o’clock shadow and lighting the corners of his expressions that remained hidden last night. All the way up to his eyes.
With the natural light, they’re brighter than before. More … peacocky.
It’s fitting. Because he’s a giant dick.
Giant is the operative word. I didn’t get the full force of his build last night. At five foot ten I’m used to looking down at people or standing on even ground. But with Adam my gaze stretches up . It’s just another thing about him that pisses me off, especially considering the catch in my neck from sleeping on the sofa.
“You …” Adam fills his lungs completely, taking several extra seconds to hold in the breath before letting it out in one strong gust. We’re close enough that it blows some of my baby hairs. A frown transforms his face into more dark shadows, and the remaining flush on his face gives him a ruddy complexion. His voice drops an octave the next time he speaks.
“You are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”
“Joke’s on you.” I glare up at him. “I take that as a compliment.”
Another muscle in his jaw tics, like he’s about to say something else unsavory, but a door opening in the hall smooths his face into a neutral and unreadable expression. “Lovie’s coming.”
So much for starting over.