Chapter 5 Nisha
five
nisha
I Love a Good Peach
Grabbing the three beanies I knitted this week from the drawer in my closet, I place them into the large tote I’m carrying.
I also pack my knitting needles and the work-in-progress sweater for Hector, just in case I get a chance to work on it between clients.
It’ll be light blue with a dark gray neck and hem that will make his piercing blue eyes pop.
Going over to the drawer next to the one with my knitting supplies, I throw in a few travel-sized deodorants and bottles of SPF. I remember someone—was it Janice or Becker?—said they had run out.
My eyes land on the time displayed on my phone. It’s still early, but sometimes the traffic to the shelter can be unpredictable on the weekends. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being late to anything.
Okay, it’s one of many things I can’t stand.
Like people who speak too loud, too close—or, hell—just too much. And if any of that talking is done while they’re eating, say, a banana, making that smacking-slurping sound like they’re trying to give oral to the fruit, I will self-detonate.
A shudder goes down my arms as I shake off a violent case of the heebie-jeebies at the mere thought.
I’m just walking down the hallway toward my living room when the doorbell rings.
I frown, checking my watch again before adjusting the strap of my tote bag over my shoulder. Who could it be at this time of the morning?
The sound of a man’s deep and admonishing voice fills my ears as I turn the lock and swing open my door, coming face-to-face with . . .
Wait.
Why am I coming face-to-face with my ex-husband?
Again.
My eyes take in the scene before me. Patton, with eyes as big as saucers under a Bay Area Blazer’s cap, is holding a cardboard box in one hand and a leash that leads to what can only be classified as a large bear in the other.
Said bear has one hind leg up, slightly shaking in mid-air, and is now peeing directly into my Thai Constellation Monstera—the same plant I’ve nurtured for the past four years with as much care as one would give a newborn.
“What—”
My shocked voice is abruptly cut off by Patton’s. “Nisha, hey! Shit.”
He flicks an embarrassed and desperate glare at his dog before tugging on his leash, but I’m still processing what the hell is actually happening on my patio.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as I watch droplets of urine trickle down the pristine white pot.
Four years.
Four years of devoting myself to its beautiful foliage.
Four years of following a regimented watering schedule, gently pruning and cleaning its beautiful green and white leaves like I was detailing a Rolls Royce, and this overgrown mutt has turned my prized plant into his very own toilet.
“Patton Luca Pierce, why is your dog peeing on my Monstera?” My voice is deadly calm as I bring my gaze back to my ex, making him flinch.
He knows this voice better than almost anyone. It’s the same one I’d use when he told me he’d once again miss Christmas or another anniversary because he was going to have to stay back for reshoots in Germany or Prague or Timbuktu.
Patton winces but quickly masks his face with a thoughtful expression. “Did you know that the Monstera is known to attract growth and positive energy in Feng Shui? Bob’s naturally drawn to positivity, you see. He saw it and decided to contribute to the vibe.”
“By peeing on it?”
“He’s a generous boy. A thoughtful boy.” Patton shifts on his feet, visibly sweating under my glare. “So, fun fact—the Thai Constellation actually became a status plant in the 1970s—”
“Are you seriously trying to distract me from the fact that your dog is still peeing on my plant with historical trivia?”
It’s widely known that there are very few Hollywood celebrities with as much historical knowledge as my ex. It’s both an extreme turn-on and a severe irritation.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Patton says hastily, shifting the box in his hand awkwardly while yanking on his dog’s leash once more with the other. “This got delivered to my house, so I came to drop it off. I probably should have let Bob do his business first.”
“You think?”
A flush settles on the tops of his cheeks, his dark scruff making it more obvious, and I force my eyes not to soften.
I know the man all too well: give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.
And right now, with him wearing those black, low-slung pajama pants that hug his trim waist and a white undershirt stretching around his chest and arms—doing little to hide the packs of abs I know are underneath—my eyes really want to soften.
But I won’t let them. I’ll keep them hard as steel. As cold as the Alaskan winter. As unmoved as a wall of concrete.
Still, how does the man manage to look more attractive every year?
Dragging my gaze from him, I look at the box in his hand. And that’s when his words finally register. His house . . .?
“What do you mean, this box got delivered to your house? My stuff hasn’t been delivered to your house in ages . . .”
Having finally finished his plant-watering, Patton’s dog, Bob, sniffs a trail across my patio, coming to a stop at my feet, where he drops . . .
Wait . . .
I recognize that bra.
I’ve been looking for that bra!
But what if it’s someone else’s? Maybe it just looks like the one I used to have. What if it’s actually a trophy from the last leggy model I saw draped over my ex-husband’s arm in a tabloid photo?
“Is that my bra?”
Patton rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “He’s, uh . . . attached to it.”
My brows furrow. “Why do you still have it?”
But before Patton can answer, Bob’s nose wiggles, taking quick inhales of my black combat boots. He trails up my bare legs to the crotch of my ripped denim shorts before taking a long, shameless inhale.
“Wow. Oh, please,” I drawl. “Go right ahead. Make yourself at home.”
Patton’s lips pull into that infuriating grin that’s unlike anyone else’s, the one that’s haunted me since I was sixteen. “What can I say? Bob’s always had discerning taste, just like his dad. Plus, remember that bit I said about him being drawn to positivity?”
I wrap my arms around my chest, drawing Patton’s eyes to my breasts, before raising a brow. “He’s also clearly a pervert, just like his dad.”
Patton shrugs, unfazed. “Can’t blame the guy for going after what he wants.
” As if appreciating the encouragement, the droopy-eyed behemoth wags his tail, sniffing more fervently to find any spot on the bottom half of my body he can reach.
“Besides, you can’t open the door wearing those shorts, showing off that midriff, and expect a man, or his dog, not to notice. ”
Patton’s gaze follows a trail up my torso, taking in my cropped white tank top with the kind of appreciation that should annoy me. But my brain isn’t cooperating at the moment, acting no different than this dog at my crotch, desperate for every morsel of attention it can get.
And my body? It’s all too eager, swaying toward him like it’s being pulled by a magnet. When his eyes linger on my lips with an intensity that literally has me perspiring—and not because of the July heat—I stutter in a breath.
Get it the fuck together, Nisha. Remember why you left him? No? Well, let me remind you: Patton Pierce puts nothing before his aspirations, and that includes his wife.
And that’s when my brain reboots and I repeat my question, snatching the box from his hand with more force than necessary.
“Why would you get a box delivered for me at your house?” I inspect the name on the shipping label, confirming it’s mine, before realizing the seal has already been slit. “And if you knew it was mine, then why did you open it?”
I’m just prying open the flaps with one hand when Patton throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, the delivery person must have just gotten the house number wrong. You know, since I live right across the street from you now.”
My hand freezes mid-rummaging, and my eyes snap to meet my husband’s—uh, ex-husband’s—earthy brown ones. “Wh–what do you mean you live across the street from me?”
Having gotten enough from my crotch and clearly not giving a shit about my body going into fight-or-flight mode, Bob makes his way over to smell the other plants on my patio.
God, please don’t let him vibe with their positivity, too.
Patton tries to mask his smirk, turning to look over his shoulder at the beautiful mid-century modern we both damn well know he’s talking about. “I mean, I moved into the house across from you yester—”
“No.” My heart rattles inside my ribs like a caged bird, and I shake my head, cutting him off.
“No, that can’t be true. I didn’t even see a moving truck or .
. . or movers. How could you have . . .?
” My voice shakes, getting higher with each word.
“And why? Why would you move there when there are literally a million other homes in the city? Mansions, penthouses . . . castles with moats!”
You know, all the things he was working those long hours for. All the things he always wanted. More than he wanted anything or anyone else.
I look to the left and right, examining the quiet tree-lined street. “And do you know how absolutely insane it is for you to live here? You won’t have the kind of privacy and security you need. You’ll have paparazzi swarming—”
Patton leans in, bringing with him the scent of bergamot, fresh mint, and something familiar, something uniquely and devastatingly him, and the rest of my words die on my lips.
“Breathe, Little Borealis.” His eyes peer into mine before dropping back to my lips. “I get what this looks like—”
“What it looks like is that my ex-husband, who is possibly the biggest star on the planet, is hell-bent on ruining my sanity by showing up, not just to my dojang last night, but moving into the house in front of mine.”