Page 65 of Tenderfoot

“I think I should—” I began.

I didn’t get any further because, while I was speaking, he angled off the bed, sauntered to me, got very close, and he said, “No. We’re on a roll. We’ll talk about this later.”

He then ran a finger from the dent between my collarbones up my throat to the point of my chin, all while I held my breath, before he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

I expelled that breath, put all my stuff in my suitcases, zipped them up, righted them and rolled them to stand beside the door.

I knew he wanted me to stay.

But I could barely get through a shower without losing my resolve to spend time getting to know him better, getting more comfortable with him, and definitely having the conversation we needed to have about all the hurtful things he said to me, before we got seriously busy.

I mean, I was sensing I understood what was behind all he’d said.

But he had to share it.

I went downstairs to find that he did, indeed, clear up. The coffeemaker was sparkling clean. There were no crumbs or sesame seeds from the bagels on the counter.

It was neat as a pin.

Most girls would see the guy they were interested in could clean up after himself and have to fight doing cartwheels.

Not me.

Seeing this, a chill swept up my spine.

Of course, I thought men should be capable of looking after themselves. Cleaning their own house. Doing their own laundry. Being able to navigate a grocery store with more than a small amount of expertise. Having more than a single signature dish their mom taught them to make in their cooking repertoire.

But, honest to God, it looked like the coffeemaker had just been taken out of the box.

I didn’t have time to dwell on that when I heard the shower go off upstairs.

I didn’t suspect Javi took a long time primping, and although we had plenty of time to get me to work, I hadn’t had my phone in my hand in nigh on ten hours, and I needed to catch up on my life.

I found my crossbody, pulled out my phone, and saw I had a ton of texts, mostly from the Angels, but alarmingly, there was one from my mother.

First (and yes, I was procrastinating), I went to my email in order to find the Google form so I could log in my nibbles for the Oasis meet tonight (I picked pigs in a blanket).

Then, with no small amount of trepidation, I opened Mom’s text.

As you know, your brother’s birthday is soon, so perhaps we can get together and plan?

She put a question mark at the end and included a “perhaps,” but it was still an order.

And the “as you know” intimated that it should have been me who instigated the planning.

My last birthday, they took me to Mastro’s (their favorite restaurant, it was lovely, but it wasn’t my favorite) and gave me a check for five hundred dollars, “Because we know you struggle to make ends meet considering your job.”

Easton’s last birthday, we went to Binkley’s, which was one of those one-seating a night, you-ate-what-the-chef-put-in-front-of-you, very-expensive (though, worth it) places because Easton was a foodie and had been dying to go there.

And they gave him a five-day trip to an all-inclusive on St. Thomas, “Because you work so hard, you need a break.”

Granted, when Mom handed him the envelope that included his travel details, Dad had a sour look on his face, and he avoided my eyes, because he knew I knew that all-inclusive didn’t cost five hundred dollars.

But that had been my life.

Harlow, The Disappointment.

Easton, The Golden Child.

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