It’s definitely a nice house. A really nice place, in fact. Not that it’s a mansion—just a simple, two-story craftsman with a small, walk-up porch leading to the front door—but it’s redone, beautiful, well-kept, and the front and back yards are green.
I set the box down and walk to the window, peeking between the blinds. An actual yard. Cole’s mom’s living situation wasn’t always great, so it’s nice to know he has a clean, safe neighborhood here whenever he needs. I wonder why he always made it seem like he needed someone to take care of him when he had this anytime he wanted. What is up with him and Pike Lawson?
Someday I’m going to have a place like this, too. My father, unfortunately, will die in that trailer I grew up in.
Cole walks in, swinging a couple suitcases onto the bed, and immediately leaves again, digging out his phone on his way out.
“Do you think your dad will mind if I use the kitchen?” I call, following him out of the room. “I got stuff to make burgers.”
He keeps walking, but I hear his breathy laugh. “I can’t imagine any guy, even my dad, is going to say a woman can’t use his kitchen to make him a meal, babe.”
Yeah, right. I shoot a look at his back as he takes a right into the living room and heads outside. I keep going straight, into the kitchen.
I used to like doing things for Cole. Being there for him better than my mother was for my father. Keeping a clean house—or apartment—and seeing him smile when I made his life a little bit easier or made sure he had what he needed. It’s gotten one-sided over the past few months, though.
His father is doing a lot for us, though, and cooking a few nights a week is part of the arrangement, so I have no problem keeping my end of the deal. Well, our end of the deal, but Cole isn’t going to cook, so I’ll leave the yard work to him, which his father also stipulated was his responsibility to keep up.
Pike Lawson. I’ve had to make an effort to not think about the theater the other night. It’s still hard to wrap my head around the randomness of the whole situation.
I keep thinking about the matchstick in the donut, and the pep talk he gave me about going after what I want. Part of me, though, feels like he was saying those things to himself, too. Experience and maybe a little disappointment laced his tone, and I want to know more about him. Like what he was like as a young father.
And so I thought he was cute. So what? I think Chris Hemsworth is cute. And Ryan Gosling, Tom Hardy, Henry Cavill, Jason Momoa, the Winchester brothers… It’s not like I had sexual thoughts, for crying out loud. It doesn’t have to be awkward.
It can’t be. I’m with his son.
Walking over to one of the chairs at the kitchen table, I dig my phone out of my bag and start my app, Jessie’s Girl immediately playing where it left off after my run this morning. I do a scan of the kitchen, as well as a quick peek back into the living room, making sure none of our things are laying around. I don’t want his dad inconvenienced any more than he already is.
I walk to the fridge, running my hand over the island countertop as I pass by. While the other counters are a tan granite with accents of black, the island top is made of butcher block. The smooth wood is warm under my fingertips, and I don’t feel any grooves from carving. The whole kitchen looks recently redone, so maybe he hasn’t used the cutting board much. Or maybe he isn’t a big cook.
A practical, bronze metal light fixture hangs over the island, and I do a little twirl before reaching the refrigerator, laughing under my breath. It’s nice to be able to move without bumping into something. The only thing this kitchen needs that would make me go from an impressed nod to fanning myself in heat would be some backsplash. Backsplash is hot.
Reaching into the refrigerator, I pull out the ground beef, butter, and mozzarella, kicking the door closed with my foot as I turn around and set everything on the island. I pick up the two onions I left on the counter before and bob my head to the music, sliding and swaying, as I grab a butcher knife from the block and start chopping both into the thin slices.
The music in my ears builds, the hair on my arms rises, and I feel a burst of energy in my legs, because I want to dance, but I won’t let myself. I hope Pike Lawson is okay with 80’s music in his house from time to time. He didn’t say he didn’t like it in the theater, but he didn’t also bank on us living with him.
I stick to lip syncing and head banging while I form five large patties in my hands and start to add them to a clean pan, already heated and layered with melted butter.
My hips are rolling side to side when I feel a tickle making its way around my waist. I jump, my heart leaping into my chest as a gasp lodges in my throat.
Spinning around, I see my sister behind me. “Cam!” I whine.
“Gotcha,” she teases, grinning ear to ear and jabbing me in the ribs again.
I pause the music on my phone. “How’d you get in? I didn’t hear the bell.”
She walks back around the island and sits at a stool, resting her elbows down and picking up an onion ring. “I passed Cole outside,” she explains. “He told me to just come in.”
I arch my neck, peering out of the window and seeing him and a couple of his friends circle my grandma’s old VW that Cole’s dad paid to have towed here since it doesn’t run right now. I couldn’t leave it at the apartment, and Cole looks like he’s finally making good on his promise to fix it, so I can have a car.
The sizzle of the meat frying in the pan hits my ears, and I turn around, flipping the burgers. A speckle of grease hits my forearm, and I wince at the sting.
I know Cam’s here to check up on me. Old habits and that.
My sister is only four years older, but she was the mom our mom didn’t stick around to be. I stayed in that trailer park until I graduated high school, but Cam left when she was sixteen and has been on her own ever since. Just her and her son.
I glanced at the clock, seeing it was just after five. My nephew must be with the sitter by now, and she must be on her way to work.
“So, where’s the father?” she asks me.
“Still at work, I suppose.”
He’ll be home soon, though. I transfer the burgers from the pan to the plate and take out the buns, opening up the package.
“Is he nice?” she finally asks, sounding hesitant.
I have my back turned to her, so she can’t see my annoyance. My sister is a woman who doesn’t mince words. The fact that she’s guarding her tone says she’s probably having thoughts I don’t want to hear. Like why the hell am I not just taking the higher-paying job her boss offered me last fall, so I can stay in my apartment?
“He seems nice.” I nod, casting her a glance. “Kind of quiet, I think.”
“You’re quiet.”
I shoot her a smirk, correcting her, “I’m serious. There’s a difference.”
She snickers and sits up straight, pulling down the hem of her white tank top, the red, lace bra underneath very well visible. “Someone had to be serious in our house, I guess.”
‘In our house’ growing up, she means.
She flips her brown hair behind her shoulder, and I see the long, silver earrings she wears that matches her glittery make-up, smoky eyes, and shiny lips.
“How’s Killian?” I ask, remembering my nephew.
“A brat, as usual,” she says. But then stops like she remembers something. “No, wait. Today he told me that he tells his friends I’m his big sister when I come to get him from daycare.” She scoffs. “The little shit is embarrassed by me. But still, I was like ‘Whoa, people actually believe that?’” And then she flips her hair again, putting on a show. “I mean, I still look good, don’t I?”
“You’re only twenty-three.” I top the burger with shredded mozzarella, add another patty, and top that, as well. “Of course, you do.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She snaps her fingers. “Gotta make that money while I can.”
I meet her eyes, and it’s only for a moment, but it’s long enough to see the falter in her humor. The way her bemused smile looks like an apology and how she blinks, filling the silence as her awkward words hang in the air.
And how she pulls the hem of her top down to cover as much of her stomach as she can in the presence of her little sister.
My sister hates what she does for a living, but she likes the money more.
She finally turns her attention back to me, her tone sounding almost accusing. “So, what are you doing, by the way?”
“Making dinner.”
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “So not only do you not cut loose the male you’re with, but now you’re waiting hand and foot on another one?”
I place a couple onion rings on the first double cheeseburger and top it with a bun. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
I glare at her. “We’re staying here—in this fabulous neighborhood, mind you—rent-free. The least I can do is make sure we keep our end of the bargain. We clean up and share some of the cooking duties. That’s all.”
Her right eyebrow arches sternly, and she crosses her arms over her chest, not buying it. Oh, for crying out loud. I actually think we’re getting the better end of this bargain than Pike Lawson, after all. Central air, cable and Wi-Fi, a walk-in closet…
I reach over the counter and pull the blinds up, barking to get her off my back, “He has a pool, Cam! I mean, come on.”
Her eyes go wide. “No shit?”
She pops out of her chair and scurries over, peering into the backyard. The pool is perfect. Shaped like an hourglass, the multi-colored tiles on the deck are Mediterranean-style, and it has a walk-in entry with a mosaic floor. Cole’s dad must be still working on it because there’s a display on the far end of the pool with flowerless flower beds and spouts for mini waterfalls that aren’t yet running. There’s a table and chairs placed haphazardly around the perimeter, and the rest of the grassy backyard has various lawn furniture not yet set up in any discernable way. A table umbrella lays to the right, next to the hose, and a barbeque grill sits covered with a tarp to the left.