The distant rumble of a car catches my attention. This secluded neighborhood doesn’t get much traffic. Two cars at one time is practically a traffic jam.
Closing the door, I take the flowers to the kitchen table and admire them. It takes that long for me to process the wonderful scent.
I pluck the card from the foliage. It reads:
I’m sorry.
Carson
Sorry? For what? There’s another knock on the door. My head whips to the side. A pizza guy, based on the flat box he’s holding.
I return to the door. Did he tell me not to cook because he ordered pizza? I would have made one if he’d asked. There are a lot of things in my life that I don’t have figured out, but I’m a good cook. My parents had insisted on it. Cooking is a great people-pleasing skill.
Despite all of my frustration with my parents, they did what they thought was right. But if I’m being honest, culinary skills are a positive aspect of my upbringing. Many of my friends can barely boil water.
“Hang on, let me get my wallet for a tip,” I tell the delivery guy. Then it dawns on me that I don’t know if I should have tipped the flower deliverer. Too late.
“It’s okay, there was a generous tip left online. Thanks.” He leaves and I’m left with the box warming my arms and the scent of tomato sauce, herbs, and yeasty crust filling the air.
I hate to take it to the table and adulterate the scent of the roses. If we had different circumstances, I’d think an apology, roses, and a pizza would indicate a date.
The music from upstairs shuts off and their office door clicks open before footsteps trail down the stairs. With the weirdness of the conversation with the neighbor and subsequent apology, is it presumptuous to assume I’m invited to eat the pizza?
The guys head downstairs and Carson bee-lines for me, giving brief attention to the bouquet. He takes the box and heads to the table. “So, you got the roses. Are we okay about this afternoon?”
I follow him to the table and Nathan is behind us. I continue to get plates and napkins.
“We’re okay but I don’t understand what you’re sorry for.”
Carson ducks his head and glances at Nathan, who nods. Carson rolls his shoulders. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t know Jefferson had moved in. He has a reputation and it…I didn’t want you getting caught up in anything.”
“You didn’t scare me.” I grimace. “It was tense and a little uncomfortable, but you made me feel safe.” Did that come out wrong or just as I wanted it to?
The corded muscles of his neck flex. Nathan fidgets in his chair.
“I’ll always keep you safe.”
“Thank you. I know that being a maid can’t seem like much to successful guys like you, but this is huge for me. And your generous pay, while giving me a place to sleep, lets me save money a lot faster. I can’t screw this up. If I don’t live up to your expectations, please tell me.” My breaths are shallow. I want Carson and Nathan to protect me and tell me what to do. I want their praise.
“You’re doing a great job, and we love having you around.”
He’s soothing my worry about being alone. It’s natural for him. He can protect, I can nurture. Where does that leave Nathan?
Hungry, apparently. He flips the box open. “We’re happy to help. Better eat it while it’s hot.”
The mood shifts. In between all of my insecurities and fantasies, these guys are some of the easiest people to be around. We get each other.
And when I roll my neck to each side, Carson notices.
“Your neck hurt?” His eyes hold too much sincerity and interest for this to be a simple question.
“Mostly my shoulders.” Then I recall stuffing the rag in the blinds. I never finished cleaning them. I point to the ladder. “I was dusting the blinds when the deliveries came. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was time for a break.”
I get up to retrieve it, but Carson catches my hand. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t we watch a movie? I can give you a shoulder rub.”
There’s almost nothing on the planet that sounds better than Carson’s hands on my body. I look at Nathan and ask, “Is that okay?”
“We’re all adults.” He holds his hands up, moving them back and forth a little too enthusiastically. “Who am I to say no?”