Ashley: Indeed.
Indeed.
Who talks like that?
Me: Six works.
I try not to sound too enthused, but the fact of the matter is, I’m kind of excited.
Ashley: It’s a date.
It’s not though. He’s being a brat.
Me: It’s macaroni and powdered cheese, not a date.
He’s not dressed yet.
Not entirely.
Sure, he’s wearing a shirt. And yes, he’s wearing pants—but the shirt is not buttoned and the pants are hanging perilously low on his hips, and I swallow at the sight of his damp hair.
The smattering of hair on his chest.
The bare feet.
The ink covering his smooth collarbone.
One scar.
Two.
“Hey.” He throws the door open wide enough so I can step inside, into an actual foyer.
Foyer?
It’s not a large one by any means, but it is unusual for any off-campus housing. There’s even a small table off to the side with a bowl for keys, mirror hanging above it.
“Was just getting out of the shower, excuse the mess. Kitchen is through there, give me a sec and I’ll be right back.”
Give me a sec—he’d sound like your average, typical American college boy if not for the posh accent.
Definitely doesn’t sound like Eliza Doolittle with her cockney, more like Prince William.
Refined.
Classy.
Instinctively I find the kitchen—it’s in the usual spot—through a formal dining room that’s loaded down with sporting gear that’s been tossed onto the dining table.
At the back of the house, I glimpse a view of his truck parked in the driveway next to the window.
I’m perplexed.
Why does he live here? Most college students rent shitholes—houses that should be condemned. Houses the landlords let fall to disrepair because…it’s college kids and they (the landlord) don’t give a rip.
One time, my friends Kath and Brooke had a bat in their house—do you think the landlord cared to come have it removed?
No.
They had to whack it themselves with a tennis racket with the help of a few brave fraternity boys.
This rental hasn’t seen an airborne rodent a day in its life.
I set the grocery bag in my arms down on the kitchen island, surveying my surroundings.
Dark woodwork.
Black stone counters.
Hardwood floors.
It’s not huge, but it’s super nice and only adds to the many layers that seem to be the onion of Ashley Dryden-Jones.
I unpack the grocery bag: three boxes of mac n cheese.
One half gallon of milk.
One pack of salted butter.
Hot dogs, because why not sweeten the full American experience?
I’ve also thrown in a small carton of chocolate milk and brought something else I doubt he’s had: orange push-up sorbet pops.
A childhood classic, at least in my house growing up.
The combo is a bit gross, I’ll admit, but he can eat them later, my treat.
Rooting around for a pot, I find one and fill it with water, light the burner on the stove. Start the water to boil, waiting for Ash to appear, fully clothed this time (except if I’m being honest, half-naked Ashley is one hell of a sight to look at).
My back is to the door when he enters the kitchen, and I pause, wooden spoon in my hand as I turn.
He shaved.
Not entirely—he still has hair on his face—but he’s definitely cleaned up the scruff on his neck and cheeks, his facial hair tidier than it was when he pulled open the door.
He’s removed the pants and thrown on board shorts.
Feet still bare.
Hair still damp, combed to the side.
Cute.
Very cute.
He grins at me, coming closer. “Make yourself at home,” he teases.
Ha ha.
“Sorry, but I wanted to get crackin’.”
“Crackin’,” he repeats. “Is that a Southern word?”
“No? It’s just a word.”
I blush.
He takes a seat at a counter stool. “Would you like a…some assistance?”
Assistance.
A regular guy would say Would you like some help?
So proper it makes me wonder more about his upbringing—where he’s from besides Surrey, England.
I don’t ask.
Instead, I go back to the pot of water. “I’m good—this is hardly labor intensive.”
And not at all healthy, I might add. The last thing either of us should be consuming if we’re watching our intake for sports, although he probably has to eat thousands of calories, burning them off during his matches.
“What are these?”
I turn to see him manhandling the pack of hot dogs.
“Hot dogs.”
“Ah.” He turns the package this way and that.
“Are you being serious? Everyone knows what a hot dog is.”
Besides, it’s written on the package. Or wait, maybe it says Ballpark Franks…
“I’ve never done” is his only answer.
“I didn’t think so—that’s why I brought them.” So smart of me. Too, too kind.
“They look bloody disgusting.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I didn’t say you look bloody disgusting—relax. I said the wieners do.”
I face him, holding the spoon out. “Please don’t say wiener.”
“Why?” He laughs, gap tooth playing a friendly game of peekaboo.
“You know why.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“Wiener, peen…” I can’t say penis, turning crimson when he watches me expectantly, waiting for me to finish my sentence.
Too bad I’m not gonna.
Water boiling, I crack open all three boxes of mac, remove the flavor pouches, and pour in all the elbow macaroni noodles.