We hauled his collection of goodies into the kitchen. It had cool vintage-mosaic-style blue and white tiles on the floor, dark blue cabinets, a stainless-steel farmhouse sink, and a white stone countertop. A similar sleek but vintage aesthetic to the parlor. And there were a whole lot more dirty plates, glasses, and silverware, along with an empty bottle of scotch or two.
“Shit,” he muttered as he cleared some space at the long wooden table. “Sit. Please.”
I did as asked, and Gene promptly settled down for a nap atop of my feet.
“I’m just going to . . .” And he started gathering up all of the dirty dishes and loading the dishwasher. Like he was actually embarrassed at me seeing the state of his place. I was going to ask if I could help, but watching him work was kind of nice.
Then, out of nowhere, he ordered, “Tell me something personal.”
“What?”
“Anything. I don’t care.”
“Why?”
The man actually seemed flustered. “Because, as you might have guessed, I’m a little fucked up about trusting people. And I feel like we’re still trading personal information, and I want to tell you something. But it’s your turn to give, so . . .”
“Um. Okay,” I said, and took a deep breath. “My favorite teacher was my third-grade teacher, Miss Reyne. She was cool. We read a lot of books and did interesting art projects.”
“That’s not very personal.”
“You said anything.”
“Yeah.” He finished filling the top tray of the dishwasher. “But you can do better than that.”
“How about, I tell people my favorite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, but it’s actually this one that involves monster fucking called Ice Planet Barbarians.”
“That is interesting, but no. Try again.”
“God. I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’m wearing violet-colored underwear. Will that do? Is that personal enough for you?”
His brows rose. “You pick your underwear to match your Chucks?”
“Shit.” Damn me and my mouth. Because of course he had to go and make the connection between my sneaker and panties. “Maybe. Sometimes. Fine. All of the time. It’s like a good luck thing. I’ve been doing it for so long I feel weird if the color of my shoes and panties don’t match. Let’s stop talking about it now.”
He considered this information for a moment. “Okay.”
“So glad I passed the test,” I mumbled, my face as hot as a forge.
“I feel guilty about you.”
“You . . . what? You feel guilty about me?”
“Yeah,” he said, and continued packing the plates. “I know we’re not doing anything. Just being friends, but I feel guilty about you, and that’s the first time that’s happened.”
“All right.”
“This information doesn’t require anything of you,” he said. “I mean, the fact that you only want to be friends kind of makes you safe. But I’ve been doing some thinking, and you and I are getting to know each other and I’m attempting to show some trust. If I disappear or go silent or whatever, just give me time, yeah?”
I nodded.
“I’ll be honest with you: my life would be simpler if we didn’t hang out.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye as he kept on being busy. “But as Smith rightly pointed out, the last few years have been shit and not much of a life at all. Isolating myself . . . it’s not good. She, ah . . . Grace would have called bullshit on me a long time ago. That’s the truth.”
I nodded again.
“Say something.”
“Ah. I hear you. I find feelings regarding pretty much anything to be deeply confusing, so I understand that time and space are often required to process them.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, leaning his hip against the kitchen counter. And the sudden speculative gleam in his gaze was not comforting. “Can’t believe you told me the color of your panties. That really came out of nowhere. Do you normally tell people that?”
“No. No, I do not. Nor will I ever again, rest assured.”
“Interesting,” he said, sounding way too fucking amused. “Are you hungry? Want some chili and cornbread?”
“Yes, please.”
“Matching shoes and panties,” he muttered, moving around the kitchen. And strangely enough, he almost sounded kind of happy.
But I still said, “Shut up, please, Garrett.”
Mornings were slow once the early-morning coffee rush was finished. Seeing Garrett standing in the general store doorway dressed in a loose muscle shirt, cut-off sweatpants, and sneakers on a Tuesday was surprising, to say the least. With a sheen of sweat glistening on his tanned skin in the morning light, it became obvious to me that this whole friend thing might be trickier than I’d first thought. My hormones were all but rioting at the sight of him. I had adapted to his general hotness being all up in my face. But this . . . holy shit.
Though, he had been made aware of my fangirl status and said he didn’t care. Now if I could just ignore the rush of dopamine he inspired.