Page 69 of Sidelined By Love

My insides twist, making me nearly drop my blanket-cape.

I snatch at the soft fabric before it slips off my shoulders and curl it into my fist before twirling it with a wide flourish as I turn to the front door. Even the Phantom couldn’t have done it better before a packed house.

“Let’s go, Bronco.”

His little nails clack against the steps as he follows me inside where we both collapse on the couch. Yeah, because hanging out at the scene of the last place Grant held me is definitely going to help me not think about him today.

I lean my head against the back of the sofa as Bronco rests his head on my feet, his mouth almost immediately vibrating on a soft snore. He cares enough to be here for me. Just not enough to stay awake for it.

“Thanks, boy.”

As the sun rises through the eastern windows, patches of light stretch across the floor. I can’t make myself move. I know I should shower and get going—but I literally have nothing to do. Nothing to work toward. This is new. And altogether unpleasant.

It’s well after eight by the time Nan shuffles out of her room, her orange tracksuit nearly glowing. Bronco lifts his head and pushes himself up to walk to her side.

Good to know where I rank in order of roommates. I’m useful for demanding to be let out early in the morning. A headrest when he needs one. But far from the favorite.

“Well, don’t you look like you just lost your best friend.”

“Good morning to you, too, Nan.”

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head to the side, pale eyes carefully surveying me. “I’m serious. You look terrible.”

I’d like to argue her assessment, but I haven’t risked a glance in a mirror yet this morning. Instead, I offer a lame excuse. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Does this have something to do with that handsome quarterback?”

“No.” It has everything to do with him.

“You’re a bad liar, Zoe Jane. You always were. Couldn’t pull the wool over on anyone.” Her gaze narrows on me. “All right. I guess you better tell me about it. Come on. I’m making breakfast.”

Nan’s voice brooks no argument, so I force myself off the sofa and shuffle after her into the kitchen.

“Chop the peppers,” she commands, so I set to work rinsing vibrant red and green bell peppers while she cracks eggs into the bowl. The motion of her whisk is smooth and strong. Though her eyes watch her hands, she clears her throat in an undeniable directive to start talking.

Somehow I’m already starting to feel better.

“Grant didn’t show this morning.”

She lifts one white eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Translation: she already knows that.

Slicing the stem off a pepper, I say, “He came over last night and we had a . . .” I have no idea what to call it.

“A fight?”

“No.”

“A disagreement, then.”

“Sort of.” If you call him wanting us to be us and me saying it’s a bad idea a disagreement.

It felt more like putting my heart through a cheese grater.

“Hmm.” The little sound in the back of Nan’s throat indicates the most interest she’s had in this conversation, and I can’t help but chuckle at her. The woman is unique. To say the least. “Well, what was it?”

My knife stills lest I lose a finger while relaying the story, but Nan makes a chop-chop motion with her hand before pulling out a skillet, setting it on the gas stovetop, and adding a pad of butter. So I focus on slicing even rows and then turn them to dice the pepper into small squares. They smell fresh and earthy as their skin cracks under my blade.

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