Evie
When I opened my eyes and saw the sun poking through the curtains this morning, I was devastated. I thought I’d missed Brandon. He comes by once a week to have breakfast with me and Grandma, and it’s always the highlight of my week.
He told me she was downstairs, turning over the laundry—while still looking at me in a way that made my skin prickle.
But the feeling was short-lived. I ran to the edge of the stairs, worried about Grandma.
Her diabetes makes her feet numb, and she shuffles a lot.
I take care of the laundry for that reason.
Brandon grabbed my hand as I was about to hustle down the steps.
We hadn’t touched since our hug on my would-be wedding day, so that simple form of contact sent tingles racing up and down my body, pausing me in my tracks.
His hands settled over my shoulders, anchoring me in place.
He told me to relax, that he’d watched her go down.
I just know she did it while I wasn’t around on purpose.
When I said that, Brandon just laughed and said, “You don’t think I know that?”
Begrudgingly, I followed him back to the kitchen. To distract myself from how nervous I felt around him, I set another pot of coffee to brew.
“Nice pj’s,” he teased when I joined him at the table a minute later, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. When he winked, I had to look away.
Grandma appeared then, thank goodness. I didn’t waste time telling her what I thought about her sneaking around behind my back. She only kissed my forehead and told me to “let her live her life.”
When I looked back at Brandon, he gave me one of those quelling looks that said, “See? Everything’s fine.”
Ever since Teddy was born and I moved in with Grandma, we’ve gotten a lot closer.
I spend a lot of time at his place, helping out where I can.
I’m so proud of him, but I can tell he’s struggling.
The sleep deprivation coupled with the grief over his dad’s death—while adjusting to being a new dad himself—has been rough on him.
To do my part, I’ve made sure to bring him and Cora lots of freezer meals.
When Rebecka had Isabelle, she said postpartum was one of the most emotionally isolating experiences of her life.
People kept taking Isabelle from her, thinking she wanted a break from the baby, when really, all she wanted was to hold Isabelle while everyone else took care of the chores.
So rather than taking Teddy from Brandon, I cook, clean, run errands—anything he needs. And I can tell he appreciates the help.
The only place I can’t help him is at work. Apparently, he’s drowning there, too. It seems like he’s always between help.
When Grandma asked if he’d managed to find a replacement for his last assistant yet, he said no.
I asked him what happened this time, and he explained that he fired her for a “number of things.” But when I asked him to elaborate, he could only seem to cite that she was disorganized and took too much time off.
Oh, and that he’ll allegedly be getting a bill from her optometrist one of these days because her vision was declining after staring at a screen all day.
Utterly ridiculous, if you ask me.
Grandma said exactly what I was thinking at that moment. “You sound like a bit of a tyrant at work.”
Of course, he staunchly denied it.
“He who doth protest too much?” I joked.
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I narrowed mine right back. We’ve been doing that a lot lately—these silent staring matches that are way more titillating than I want to admit.
“I'm not a tyrant,” he said eventually. “I just like things how I like them.”
“Said no laid back person ever,” I quipped. He smirked. “There’s a difference between running a tight ship and suffocating your crew.”
Rolling his eyes, he insisted he was a good boss . . . then said I could “come and find out.”
Sputtering on my coffee, I set my mug down.
I wasn’t prepared for his strange proposal, nor was I prepared for Grandma to roast me to ash.
She said I wouldn’t last a minute as his assistant because I’m too stubborn, and Brandon likes to micromanage his assistants out of work.
When I made the mistake of laughing, she turned on me again and said, “Oh, but why are you laughing, Evie? You make ten dollars an hour, and your resume could fit on a note card.”
I think my jaw actually dropped. Like, DANG, GRANDMA. Brutal, much?
Then she made some cryptic comment about how life is too short not to be blunt. Or to not tell people how you really feel about them. All while shifting her dark, meddling gaze between me and Brandon—as if she actually expected me to confess how badly I was into him right there at the table.
Brandon looked at me, then arched a conspiratorial brow. But I could hardly look at him after getting hung out to dry like that. Turning his attention on Grandma, he joked that it’s unwise of her to pick on the person who manages her medication.
Snorting, Grandma rose from her seat. When I asked where she was going, she said, “The restroom. Think I can make it there and back without keeling over?”
Brandon and I ducked our heads to hide our laughter.
The second Grandma was gone, the atmosphere shifted.
Unnerved by the sudden silence, I hopped up and booked it toward the coffee pot.
It was empty again, so I set another one to brew.
When I turned around to sit back down, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Brandon was right there behind me, crowding my space. Breathing my air.
My eyes traveled up to his as he leaned against the counter next to me. My stomach did that thing it always does when he’s giving me his undivided attention—cartwheels and backflips galore.
Then he asked if it was true that I only make ten dollars an hour.
When I shrugged, he insisted that I should be earning much more than that.
Something I already know, of course. But there’s not much around here as far as job opportunities go.
I mean, sure, I could move somewhere else where the pay is better, but I live here. With Grandma.
Of course, I told him all of this, but he was adamant that I should be making more money as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Men . . .
I appreciate his concern, but I've exhausted all my options. I did confide though that I’d maybe like to go back to school and get my nursing degree one day .
. . but that I need to save up the money first. But even if I did have that money right now, I wouldn’t be able to go back to school right this second.
“Because of Maggie,” Brandon concluded.
Ashamed, I explained that it’s a joy to be living with Grandma, to be taking care of her. But that it’s also . . .
“Exhausting?” he finished. “It sounds like you never get a break, Spitfire. That’s no good.”
I insisted I didn’t want a break, but that’s not true.
I am desperate for a week-long vacation where I do nothing but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and sleep.
But Grandma won’t accept help from anyone but me.
And she never stops trying to do what she shouldn’t—like today, with the laundry.
The deal with my parents was that she wouldn’t have to move to Sunny Days if I took care of things like that, but she’s . . . defiant, to say the least.
I was caught off guard when Brandon lifted my chin. His voice was softer than velvet. “I know you love what you do, baby, but rest is important. You can’t do it all, nor should you have to.”
When we heard the bathroom door open, I jumped.
Unphased, Brandon continued to try and persuade me to come and work for him so I can “catch a break,” but I shushed him violently.
Grandma might be old, but she has the ears of a bat.
He chuckled at that, swiping my hair off the back of my neck.
That simple, tender gesture soothed all my aching muscles far better than an entire week’s worth of rest might have.
Then he tried to sweeten the deal by insisting that we’d get to see each other every day if I worked for him.
I turned him down in the end—mostly because he’s interested in me. He has to be. I can feel it in the way he looks at me, the way he flirts, the intimate way he touches and speaks to me. He wants me.
And I want him.
So, working together? No, thanks. Grandma was right; I don’t like being micromanaged, and Brandon sounds like a taskmaster.
Besides, I’ve got other plans for us.