Chapter 5 Nisha #2
I don’t mention the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about his parting words—“Either way, it’s to chase you.” They were a nod to the question I asked him that evening a year ago—why didn’t he chase me if he missed me so much?
Patton pulls his cap off his head, sliding long fingers through his disheveled dark hair before placing it back on again. I know him well enough to know he’s using the time to think about his response.
“Look, you know I’m going to be working with Troy at that old baseball field nearby. A lot of the shooting for the movie will likely be there as well, so I’ll be in town longer than I expected—”
“How much longer?”
He shrugs again, but there’s something in his eyes. Something less nonchalant than the casual gesture he’s trying to mask it with. “Months. A year, possibly.”
“A year?!” The panic surging inside me can’t be stopped from rising to the surface. “Patton—”
“As I was saying . . .” He tilts his head, but I don’t miss the flicker of hurt that passes over his features in response to my outburst. “I’ll be working nearby—on set most days—so I figured I’d find a place around here instead of living out of hotel rooms and trailers the entire time.
When Troy told me the house across from yours was on the market—”
“Troy told you about the house?” My mouth hangs open.
Why would Troy do that? My soon-to-be brother-in-law might be crazy about my sister, but he’s not crazy enough to meddle in anyone else’s life.
Sure, I haven’t given him the details about my and Patton’s separation, but he knows enough.
I’m sure my sister has filled him in, too, given she practically lived through the ordeal with me.
My sister . . .
My thoughts whirl as dots connect inside my head. Troy wouldn’t have told Patton about the house, unless . . .
That little traitor! She always had a soft spot for my ex-husband. As did my dad. As did Piper. And most of the female—and some of the male—population in the world.
Honestly, if my mother were alive, I bet she’d bake cookies and take them over to his house to welcome him to the neighborhood.
Basically, everyone I love is a backstabbing Brutus and will be hearing from my lawyer. Or at the very least, they’ll be getting an earful from me later.
“Yeah.” Patton clears his throat. “Actually, I need to head back to get ready. I’m meeting him and some of his friends for brunch.”
Oh, dear God. This just keeps getting worse.
“You’re meeting the Six Schlongs for brunch?”
“Pardon?”
I shut my eyes and take a calming breath.
He’s meeting the Schlongs. At this point, he might as well become a part of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Those guys, namely Dean Meyer, are worse than a pack of gossip-hungry hyenas.
“Right.” I force my voice to sound normal, given everything I’ve had to process in the past ten minutes. Speaking of which . . . Dammit, I’m going to be late! “Well, don’t let me keep you. I need to get going, too.”
Patton’s gaze shifts to the bag at my side, but if he’s wondering where I’m headed, he doesn’t ask. Instead, he nods toward the box, that mischievous smirk barely in his control.
“I have to ask . . . seven vibrators, Neesh? Is it like one for each day of the week, or does Michael need mechanical assistance?”
“Michael? What are you—” I start, my head snapping back and my brows furrowing in confusion.
But then, like a movie where the dubbing is off, my brain catches up with what he’s just said and the blood drains from my face.
Seven vibrators.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no.
My eyes dart to the box in my hand and then to the smile on his smug face, and I realize that the asshole isn’t just making an assumption; he’s seen the contents of the box.
“It’s one thing to accidentally open someone’s mail,” I grind out, mortification staining my cheeks. “It’s another to inspect it.”
Patton’s smirk widens. “What can I say? After I saw the ‘Peachy Cream’ edible underwear, my curiosity got the best of me.” He winks. “You know how much I love a good peach.”
My face flames so hot I’m shocked my hair doesn’t catch fire.
“You’re disgusting. And those aren’t—it’s not what it—” I take in a fortifying breath, dropping the box on my entryway chair. “Those aren’t for me. Well, they’re not all for me. They’re for Sarina’s bachelorette party.”
Patton’s brow quirks. “So, which ones are for you? Let me know if you need help giving them a go.”
I roll my eyes, pretending his words don’t affect me, pretending I don’t remember what it was like to say yes to him. “I don’t. But thank you for the generous offer.”
“Why? Because of Michael?”
My eyes narrow slightly, picking up the tick in his jaw and the way his fist balls at his side. But I don’t dignify his question with a response. Because if he wants to think there’s something going on with me and Micah, then let him.
“Thank you for dropping by, Patton. It’s been a real treat. But if there’s no other surprise you need to drop on me”—I look pointedly at the dog, now snoring with his tongue sticking out on my patio floor like a hungover frat boy—“or if your dog is—”
“Bob,” Patton cuts in, mock-offended. “His name is Bob. Not ‘Bob’ like your seven battery-operated-boyfriends, but Bob, like the World War II hero who received the Dicken Medal for his bravery.”
I blink at him, and then at said dog, with his leg twitching in deep slumber. The only medal he looks like he’s earned is “Outstanding Achievement in Couch Potatoing”.
“Right. Well, unless Bob needs to relieve himself on more of my plants, I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Those are all the neighborly surprises Bob and I had planned for you today.” Patton pulls on the bill of his cap. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
As if knowing we’re at the end of our conversation, Bob bolts upright with energy I didn’t know he had. Capturing my bra in his mouth, he gives me a droll look before trotting off the patio.
Patton trails after him, but just before he steps off the last stair, he looks over his shoulder at me, the previous humor in his tone completely gone. “Oh, and Nisha?”
“Yes?”
“Get rid of Michael.”
I suppress the need to throw something at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The fucking nerve of this guy. If he thinks he can just show up here and demand I “get rid” of someone seven years after our divorce, he must be certifiable.
“No, I clearly didn’t. I don’t know a Michael. I know a Micah.”
“Sounds like a guy who drinks oat milk and uses rosemary as deodorant. Like I said, get rid of him.”
My mouth drops open.
Before I can even formulate a response, Patton continues down the path, putting distance between us. But then, halfway to the sidewalk, he glances back at me once more.
This time, that hard edge in his jaw softens, and that same smile—the one that has me thinking about kisses under a warm sun and whispers in bed—graces his face.
With a lazy salute, he winks. “See you around, Little Borealis.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I close the door slowly, like if I shut him out, this will all have been something I’d just imagined.
But I know it’s not.
Because he’s here. Living across the street. For possibly a year.
A year of watching him come and go every day. A year of him parading women. Because if the tabloids are to be believed, the man has dated everyone except Siri.
A year where I slowly lose my peace, my sanity, and possibly everything I’ve worked to regain.
And this time, I won’t get to leave first.