Page 26 of Love in Mission City: The Shorts

“I can get them.”He squinted.“But thank you.For all of it.”

I backed out of the bathroom and headed toward the kitchen.When at a loss for things to do?Cook.

Chapter Eight

Spike

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Mom said don’t call yourself stupid.

Mom’s not here.

No, she wasn’t.And that hurt more than anything.Sometimes I missed her a bit, and sometimes that absence was a gaping hole that no companionship could fill.She constantly nagged me when I was a kid to wear sunscreen.She was ahead of her time amongst her sun-worshipping compatriots.And yet she’d been the one to die.She hadn’t smoked either.Nor drank to excess.Was just one of those things, the doctors said.I worried back then that my father might die, but no way.He drank, smoked, and lived hard.Especially after Mom died.Didn’t they say the good died young?Never more true than for Mareike Marlowe.

I drank the water Bookstore Dude gave me.Dickens.The guy’s name was Dickens.I owed him that much—to remember and use his name.I owed him a whole lot more…and that rankled.A lot.

Sorting through my clothes, I selected a T-shirt and sweatpants.Despite my earlier high temperature, I was cooling down.Almost chilled.As I stood in my bedroom, I contemplated just crawling into bed and staying there forever.I would, except I’d left everything unlocked downstairs, and anyone could come in and steal the bikes.I slid the clothes on and eyed my feet.Fuck it.Putting on socks was too much work.I snagged the empty water bottle and headed into the kitchen to refill it and drink more.

I came up short.

Dickens sat on my sofa reading one of my books.

From this distance, I couldn’t tell which one, since it was a tome from my Harvard Classics series.Nice to look at, impossible to read.A rash eBay purchase one day when I’d been feeling low and missing Mom.I should’ve resold the set but never could quite bring myself to part with them.

Dickens laid the book aside and rose gracefully.

He advanced toward me, and I held my ground.

When he was directly in front of me—in my personal space—he reached up to place the back of his hand on my forehead.

I bristled.

But I also let him do it.

“Just hold still,” he ordered.

I growled.

“Well, Dr.MacCauley said he would come here and stick a thermometer up your ass if I was worried you weren’t cooling down.Or we could go to the hospital.”

Shock was the most prominent emotion that ricocheted through me.“I’ll, uh, pass on the thermometer.There’s only one thing I want in my ass.”I gave him a lascivious once-over.

He cocked an eyebrow, and he also removed his hand.“You seem cooler.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed the water bottle and headed to the faucet.

“I can do that.”My protest sounded weak, even to my ears.I liked he was taking care of me.Mom died when I was nine, and I didn’t remember anyone else ever taking care of me.

“I’m quite sure you can, but you should sit down.”

“I’d rather lie down.”

“Well, that’ll work as well.On the couch or on the bed?You need rest.”

Truthfully, I felt okay.Probably better than I deserved.I still couldn’t believe I’d been that stupid.But I wanted the Kawasaki tuned perfectly before the potential buyer came to see it tomorrow.And I’d gotten to cleaning it and…time got away from me.“Look, I’m really sorry.”

He turned back, handed me the water bottle, and indicated the bedroom.

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