Page 60 of Maid For Each Other

“I think it’s more fun to have to get there two hours early and hang out with screaming children and outlet hogs than quietly fly in peace, don’t you?” I slid off my shoes and went into the kitchen, in desperate need of coffee.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, shrugging. “I haven’t been on a plane since I was a little kid.”

“Seriously?” I couldn’t imagine that. Half of my life was spent traveling, so it was hard to wrap my brain around not hopping on a flight at least once a year.

“Yeah, when I was little we went on a couple family vacations,” she said, leaning on the island. “But after my dad died we didn’t really do that anymore.”

“And you and your friends never went on a wild spring break?” I asked, wondering what her friends were like.

Actually, I was really curious what her daily life looked like.

She told me a little at dinner, but it’d only made me more interested because it hadn’t been what I’d expected. Initially, I thought she was just a girl who worked at a grocery store and cleaned apartments. Then, after I looked her up, I assumed she was someone who worked in finance and had a part-time job on the side.

But the fact that she wanted to be a writing professor, on top of all that, made her fascinating to me. I wanted to know what she wrote and what her slumlord jackass–owned apartment looked like.

Did she work extra jobs because she struggled for money, ordid she work extra jobs because she had financial goals and things she was saving for?

“No wild spring breaks for me,” she said with a shrug, not giving me any additional information.

We each went to our rooms to shower and change after that. I didn’t hear a nebulizer turn on, so I did what I knew she’d hate, and I texted her.

SHOULDN’T YOU BE DOING A BREATHING TREATMENT WHILE WE’RE HOME?

She instantly replied:I’m fine, Dad

I sighed. I knew it wasn’t my responsibility, and I didn’t want to be a control freak, but it’d only been a couple hours since she’d almost needed to take an ambulance to the hospital (even though she’d never admit it’d been that serious).

I texted:I KNOW YOU’RE FINE, BUT WOULDN’T IT BE A GOOD IDEA WHILE WE HAVE DOWNTIME, JUST TO MAKE SURE YOU’VE COMPLETELY RECOVERED?

I guess I’d expected a smart-ass response, because I was surprised to see her simple text:Thank you.

And a few minutes later—thank you, Jesus—I heard the sound of a nebulizer turn on.

I threw some things into a travel bag after my shower, even though I wouldn’t need them. I spent a lot of time in Manhattan, so my apartment in SoHo was fully stocked with everything I could possibly need. I changed into jeans—the brunch was always casual since everyone was preparing to leave—and then I was ready.

But I didn’t feel casual or remotely relaxed, mostly because Iwas leaving and something about leavinghermade me feel unsettled. This was just a game and we barely knew each other, but it felt strange that it was ending when we’d only just begun.

When I walked into the kitchen, she was sitting at the island, writing in her notebook. Now that I knew she was a fiction writer, I was even more intrigued to know what she was writing. What ideas were alive in her mind, vivid enough for her to be inspired to put them down on paper?

And Edward had done a hell of a job, because somehow she looked like her future. Abilookedlike an English professor. She was wearing jeans and a navy blazer, with a white T-shirt underneath and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses (that had slid almost all the way down on her nose as she wrote). Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a navy clip holding it together.

I was taken aback by how natural she looked that way. If I didn’t know better, I would assume this was the everyday version of Abi Mariano.

“What are you working on, professor?” I asked, and my heart kind of stuttered when she looked up at me and smiled.

Because she was so fucking pretty.

But it didn’t escape my notice that she quickly closed the notebook and a guarded look crossed her face.

“Just random thoughts that will probably equate to nothing,” she said, shrugging and waving a hand to brush it off. “I do this all the time, constantly jotting things down so I don’t lose the information even though I know I’ll probably never use it.”

“Makes sense,” I said, even more curious to know what she’d been working on. “Is this for class this week?”

A crinkle formed in between her eyebrows and I could tell she’d temporarily forgotten that she shared a little bit of her actual life with me last night.

And for some reason, I didn’t like the idea of her regretting it. Ilikedthat she’d felt like sharing, even though I knew it essentially didn’t matter since we’d be going our separate ways soon.

“Not specifically,” she said. “It’s the beginning of the semester, so I’m prepping, trying to figure out which story ideas will go into my capstone project. I’ll have to meet with my advisor soon for approval, so I need to get it all mapped out.”

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