Chapter 4
MILE FOUR
LET’S GET YOU OUT OF THESE CLOTHES
Garrett pulls into a driveway—specifically his driveway.
This isn’t my first time at his place. Over the last five years, I’ve been here for random dinners, game nights, or his annual Super Bowl party.
It’s less party and more he and Anker glued to the TV, while I play with Ditka, Garrett’s cat, between eating my weight in garlic knots.
This is the first time I’ve been here without Anker.
In fact, this may be the most prolonged period I’ve spent alone with Garrett.
I honestly don’t know why I agreed to this, but here I am.
The only clue Mr. Cryptic has given me thus far is that we’re going to tap into Feisty Jensen, as he calls my sassier side, which seems to only come out with him.
“I’ve not rearranged since you were here last, if you want to go caneless,” he says, unlocking his front door and ushering me in.
It’s sweet how nonchalantly he says that.
Anker does the same thing anytime I come over.
They both always let me know if they’ve changed furniture at their places.
Garrett organically took to some of the things Anker does around me like giving me heads up on room layouts and where things are on tables.
With most people, there’s a “training period” as they adjust to interacting with me.
It’s not that the visually impaired require a lot of adjustment, but just a few little tweaks here and there.
Just like my best friend Catherine, Garrett took to it in a way that never makes me feel like I’m a chore.
“Thanks,” I say, placing my cane in the corner near the front door before slipping my shoes off. “Is that my friend?” Smiling, I spin towards the sound of a bell jingling towards me. “Hey, baby boy.” I scoop Ditka up.
“He’s not a baby. He’s a fearsome attack cat,” Garrett grumbles.
“So fearsome,” I coo at the pudgy tuxedo cat that lies flat on his back like a rag doll, allowing me to stroke the soft fur of his belly. His purr hums in my ears. “Who’s daddy’s pudgy little attack cat?”
“He’s not pudgy. Also, I’m not his daddy. I’m his…human.”
His human? My mouth tugs up. That might be even cuter than the idea of Garrett as a cat daddy.
Though his feline parental origin story isn’t exactly voluntary.
Two years ago, the kitten fairy visited him in the form of Ditka being delivered to Garrett’s front door with a note from his mom that read This is my grandson, you best take care of him.
“Just his human?” I flash a knowing expression. “Says the man who has cat beds in just about every room of his place and an app he watches his cat on while at work like a feline stalker.”
“The app is just to make sure he doesn’t destroy the place. Don’t let the face fool you, he’s a furry little terrorist,” he mutters but still reaches over to offer ear scratches to Ditka, who leans into his daddy’s touch.
“Don’t let him fool you, Ditka, your daddy is just a big ole softy.”
“You say that now. Just wait until you see what I have planned for you.” The devilish curl of his mouth is audible.
No, no vagina. Ignoring that flutter low in my belly, I clear my throat. “What do you have planned?”
“Leave the cat, come with me.”
“Okay, but after whatever you have planned, I get more Ditka cuddles. And snacks,” I say, pressing a kiss to Ditka’s head before depositing him on the floor.
“But first we need to get you out of those clothes.”
“Excuse…me?” I choke out.
“Calm down, this isn’t one of your dirty audios.”
“Erotic,” I say with all the indignation of a snooty noblewoman from a Regency novel. “What exactly do you have in mind for me?”
“Follow me to find out,” he says, striding towards the hallway that snakes down to where the bedrooms and bathroom are.
I could just ignore his request and play with Ditka, but I hear his collar’s bell jangle behind Garrett. “Traitor,” I mutter.
“I’m in the guest room. Second door on the right,” Garrett calls.
Stupid curiosity. It won’t be the cat that dies, it will likely be me. Shaking my head, I trail along the wall, allowing it to guide me down the hallway. Even with how well-lit Garrett’s house is and my familiarity with it, I still like to use things to anchor me, so I move around safely.
Garrett’s house is similar to my brother’s.
It’s a midcentury house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a neighborhood near the hospital and university.
It’s quiet and residential compared to my building near downtown, with its rows of shops, cafes, and restaurants easily accessible for me to walk or take the bus.
In the guest room, Garrett presents a pair of shorts that his sister Lara left on one of her recent trips and one of his T-shirts to change into. “You have to tell me what we’re doing,” I whine.
“We’re channeling Feisty Jensen.” His closeness and the room’s light offer enough brightness for me to make out his lopsided grin.
“And what does athletic wear have to do with Feisty Jensen?” I hold up the clothes.
“Get changed and you’ll find out.” He turns and heads towards the door. “I’m going to change. Meet you in the hall in five.”
“You suck!” I shout as he strides out of the room.
Still, I’m doing this. I trust Garrett, even when he annoys me, I know he wants what’s best for me. Also, I don’t want to go home and sit in my apartment—alone and stewing over tonight.
“See, it’s already working.” He laughs, shutting the door behind him.
Hands on my hips, I stand in front of the door leading into Garrett’s garage.
Like most houses in Southern California, the garage isn’t for storing cars.
As adorable as this house is with its blue shutters, open concept layout, and plush evergreen carpet that makes my bare feet feel as if they are in cozy slippers with each step, there’s limited space.
Anker’s house is similar, but he uses his garage as a hangout space and storage. Garrett uses his for torture.
“You monster. You’re going to make me exercise, aren’t you?” I poke his chest.
His very firm chest, which is part of his chiseled-out-of-marble physique.
All of which he gets from his healthy diet and commitment to exercise.
I may do yoga with Catherine and hit the elliptical in my building three times a week, but I’m not at the “has a home gym” fitness dedication level the way Garrett is.
“It will be fun,” he says.
“Fun? This may be why your only friend is technically your employee.” I shake my head.
“I have friends.”
I make a dismissive noise.
“Ditka. You. My family.”
“I stand corrected.” A smirk twists my features.
“Come on… I’ll make you snacks after.” He opens the door and clicks on the light.
“If you make me eat broccoli after this, I’m going to get Ditka a sibling.”
Offering me his arm, Garrett guides me to a boxing bag near the center of the room.
A few mats lay beneath it, making me grateful for their cushy warmth compared to the garage’s cool cement floor.
I’ve only been here once, so he describes the space’s layout to me.
A treadmill, weight bench, and shelf with various dumbbells are tucked up against the far-right wall.
The left wall is made up of shelves full of boxes for storage.
It’s neat and clean. A light aroma fills the room from the dried eucalyptus leaves in a tall wooden vase in the corner, which combats the garage’s stuffiness.
“Put your hands flat in front of you. Palm down and thumb out,” he commands.
“What are you doing?” A crease forms at my brow’s center as he starts to unravel a thin strap of fabric that reminds me of an Ace bandage.
“Wrapping your hands to protect them in the gloves.”
“Are we boxing?” I gape.
“We are not, but you are.”
“How? Are you just going to stand there and let me punch you?” My mouth ticks up. “That actually sounds fun.”
“Not me. The bag, Jensen.” He huffs a laugh.
“Oh. That makes more sense.” I tip my gaze towards the large bag dangling from the ceiling. “How is this helpful?”
“Just trust me.”
“I thought we established I trust the wrong men,” I say, my tone teeters between snarky and self-deprecating.
“I’ll endeavor to prove you wrong.”
“Wrong for trusting you, or wrong about trusting the wrong men?” I nibble on the corner of my mouth.
I’m being sassy, but I do wonder. Do I trust all the wrong people?
Will Garrett prove to be just like so many others in my life?
Friends who ditch me. People who use me.
Men who manipulate me. I am the common denominator in every single one of my heartbreaks.
Whether I’m too much or not enough, I’m the one picking these people.
“These are as tight as I can make them. Are they okay?” he asks, tapping the boxing gloves he put on me.
“Yeah.” I wrinkle my brow. “My glasses. Can you take them off? I don’t want to accidentally break them.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Let me…”
His fingers comb into my hair, brushing it behind my ears. For the briefest of seconds, his thumbs rasp against my cheeks before he takes hold of my glasses. I bite the inside of my cheek in hope the twinge will stamp out the impulse to melt into his touch.
“I’ll put these on the weight bench.”
“Yep,” I breathe.
This is not why I am here. I’m not here to indulge in my crush.
This isn’t a sappy romance where he kisses me and declares it’s always been you, or whatever foolish story my internal self is writing.
I’m not here to get under Garrett. Not that he’d want that.
I’m here to get over Miles, and the string of other poor choices I’ve made for my heart.
He guides me into a fighting stance. My left leg forward, and right leg back about half a foot.
“Let me show you.” He moves behind me, his body’s heat awakening my nerves as his strong hands land on my hips.