Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
NICK
S wearing under my breath, I kick a stray boot out of the hallway and into Tanner’s room.
The house is an absolute mess again. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson from the last time I cleaned the place in a mad rush because Rachel was coming over—it’s only been a week after all—but the clutter crept its way back in.
I scrub a hand down my face, a little weary from the twenty-four-hour shift that ended at seven this morning.
I got in a solid four-hour nap earlier, but I’m still recovering from Monday night’s prolonged fire, too, which kicked all of our asses.
We’d finally gotten it under control, but it had been way too late by the time I got home to even think of calling Rachel.
I feel awful for bailing on her like that, but what could I do?
The front door opens and I have a moment of panic that it’s somehow her before I recognize Tanner’s deep baritone humming to himself.
“Hey, man.” He pauses, staring at me. “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?” He glances behind him, though there’s nothing there. “Am I the ghost?”
I shake my head. “Forget it.”
He shrugs and moves to the kitchen, grabbing a burrito out of the freezer to stick in the microwave. I don’t know why he doesn’t bring lunch with him to work, but he’s always come home for lunch as long as we’ve lived together.
I move around him to tackle the mountain of dishes in the sink. “I’m so screwed,” I mutter. This place is a disaster zone again.
“What are you… Oh.” Tanner leans against the kitchen counter, a smirk playing over his lips. “There’s only one reason you’d be like this.”
“What?” I ask, half-distracted as I open the dishwasher to find dirty dishes already in there. Damn it.
“Rachel’s coming over, isn’t she?”
Am I that transparent? “Maybe.”
He chuckles and pulls his burrito out of the microwave. “You’re so whipped.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not whipped.” How can I be? Rachel and I aren’t even dating.
“Uh huh. You suddenly care about doing the dishes for unrelated reasons.”
I shoot him a look, even if he has a point. “How about you help instead of taking digs at me? It’s your mess, too.”
He holds up his burrito. “Sorry. On a time crunch.” He takes a massive bite, then fans his mouth. “Ah, shit. Too hot.”
I throw a cleaning tab in the dishwasher and set it to run. “Serves you right.”
He gets himself under control and swallows his food, then says, “How about we make a deal? You clean the house and I’ll make myself scarce tonight while Rachel’s over.”
As much as I want help with cleaning, it’s a good deal. I hold out my hand for him to shake.
He does, grinning. “Ha. I was going out tonight, anyway.”
“Fucker,” I mutter, but his amusement is infectious. “Where are you going?”
“Some of the guys at work are checking out the new bar. Said I’d stop by.”
Maybe I should take Rachel there sometime.
I stop myself before I get too carried away making plans. I still need to make up for leaving her the other night. For all I know, she only agreed to come over tonight to tell me this isn’t working out. I mean, if I can’t even make it through the first date…
My schedule at the fire station was the reason my last girlfriend broke up with me. Mandy had hated that I didn’t have a normal weekend. That I was exhausted after my shifts. That I was unreachable when on a call.
I’ve figured out a sleep schedule that works for me now, but the other two I can’t do much about. Will those be dealbreakers for Rachel, too?
“Is Rachel cooking something here again?” Tanner asks, interrupting me from my thoughts. There’s a hopeful note in his voice, probably because he was the one who ate the majority of the chili leftovers.
“No, I am.”
His hope quickly turns to disappointment. I’d be offended, but my track record doesn’t exactly speak for itself.
“Hey, I practiced the other night.”
His brows shoot up. “That was dinner? I thought it was a science experiment.”
I ignore his comment and start washing up the pots and pans I’ll need again tonight.
“Why don’t you order takeout and pretend you made it?” he suggests. “You know, Mrs. Doubtfire -style.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not starting out this thing with Rachel by tricking her. I want to show her I’m making an effort.”
“To poison her?”
“Don’t you have to go back to work?”
He holds up his hands, burrito nearly finished. “What do I know? I’ve only lived with you for nine years.”
He at least takes his clean laundry off the couch and puts it in his room before settling in to play his farming simulator video game for the rest of his break.
Little does he know his bedroom will once again become the receptacle for all the…
extra things in this house once he leaves.
I don’t have time to actually figure out where it all goes.
What I need to focus on is dinner. When I’d texted Rachel asking for a makeup date, I’d promised to make her something at my house. Why I did that, I have no idea, but it seemed romantic at the time.
The hours go by quickly, and before I know it, I’m lighting the candles on the dining room table.
The flames flicker gently, and I set out the plates with more care than I’ve ever put into anything domestic before.
The scent of garlic and roasted chicken lingers in the air, and I’m just thankful I didn’t burn it, convinced I was going to ruin it all.
Rachel will be here any minute, and my stomach dances with something that’s not quite nerves, but close to it. This isn’t simply dinner. This will set the tone for our entire relationship.
Or what I hope will be a relationship.
A car pulls up outside, and I run a hand over my shirt, smoothing it down, then rake my fingers through my hair to make sure it doesn’t look like I’ve been pacing like a love-struck idiot.
I steel myself for a moment, exhaling. Rachel told me she likes me. I don’t need to worry so much.
Opening the door, I get lost for a moment in her eyes, forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing. She’s not as dressed up as she was the other night, but she still looks beautiful, the fall of her hair shining under the dim porch light.
She gives me a soft smile. “Hey.”
The nervous energy that’s been buzzing around me all afternoon fades. “Hey.” I move in to kiss her, the act so natural, I barely realize what I’m doing until my mouth is on hers.
The enthusiastic way she returns my kiss does more than she knows to relieve the last of my worry.
“I missed you,” I murmur against her lips, loving the way they quirk up in response.
“Me, too,” she admits after a moment, ducking her head down shyly.
“Come in.” I lead her inside and hang her purse on the hook by the front entryway.
“It smells good,” she says, peeking into the kitchen. “Wait. You actually cooked?”
“I told you I would.”
“I thought you meant you’d pick up dinner.” She turns, her gaze landing on the glowing candles, table settings, and vase of flowers I’d picked up earlier. She looks back at me, her lips parted, expression going from amused to something softer. “You did all this?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, self-consciousness creeping over me. Does she think I’m trying too hard? I mean, I am. But I don’t want it to be too obvious. “Yeah. Don’t get too excited, though. Who knows how dinner will taste.”
She steps closer to the table, her fingers trailing lightly over the flower petals. “It’s really sweet. The effort means as much to me as the outcome.”
Well, A for effort, then. “You deserve it.”
She gives me a look I can’t quite interpret. Like she wants to believe me, but doesn’t know if she should. But before I can question it, she smiles and asks if the food is ready.
I plate our food and send up a silent prayer that everything is edible as we sit down. She takes a bite and tells me it’s good, teasing me about how I said I couldn’t cook. I defend myself good-naturedly, relieved it turned out okay, despite what Tanner said.
We exchange some funny stories about our work—my favorite being when she mistook salt for sugar one time as a kid helping her mom and dad at the bakery—and I love hearing her laugh, her demeanor open and free. It’s lightyears away from the shields she was putting up at first.
She spears a bite of chicken and pops it in her mouth, eyeing me with an amused smile.
“What is it?” I ask.
Her lips twist wryly. “I was thinking about how you said you’ve had a thing for me for a long time.”
Ah. I wondered if she was going to bring that up. “Yeah.” No sense in acting embarrassed by it. It’s the truth.
“How long is a long time, exactly?”
I pretend to ponder her question. “Ninth grade algebra,” I finally admit.
Her grin widens. “I knew it. I swear I could feel you watching me.”
Now that surprises me. “You knew?”
Her head tilts to the side. “Well, no. I didn’t know you liked me. But I was very… aware of you. I didn’t understand what it meant at the time.”
Aware of me. God, I was sure she barely knew my name. “Imagine if I’d had the guts to ask you out back then. We could’ve been in a thirteen-year relationship by now,” I joke.
“Ah, yes. Because teenage relationships are known for their maturity that stand the test of time.”
I chuckle. “Fair point. Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t reconnect until now.”
Her smile turns more somber. “Why didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Ask me out. Back then.” She traces a nonsensical pattern over the surface of the dining room table, looking down at it. There’s a sense of vulnerability around her I’ve rarely seen.
“I didn’t think you noticed me. You were so pretty and smart. Untouchable.” I shrug. “And honestly… I’m glad I didn’t make a move then. I would have fucked it all up. More than I already did, I mean.”
“Why would you have messed it up?” she murmurs, looking at me now.