Page 36 of Enemies to Lobsters
“I’m so sorry, Marlow.” I spin toward her, lowering the toilet lid and pulling her to sit while she holds her nose. I nod from Ike to my friend. “Want to take a look at her nose? I hit it prettyhard when I was…” I’m not finishing that sentence. “Then she was bleeding and—”
“She pukes at the sight of blood,” Stevie supplies helpfully. Thanks, Stevie.
Ike nods as he examines Marlow’s nose. “I remember.”
Kill me.
He turns to Stevie. “Can you bring us some ice and a towel you don’t care about?” Then the corner of his mouth hitches when he tells me, “I’ll take care of her while you… work on that.” He nods to the brush swinging from my head.
Right. That. I turn to the mirror and cringe when I take in the situation. I look deranged. It might be easier to cut the brush out of my hair than to untangle it. But I go to work, gently unraveling the strands until I see some light at the end of the tunnel.
Meanwhile, Ike tends to Marlow, examining her nose and declaring it unbroken. “I can have August take a look, just to be sure.” He gently holds the ice and towel against her nose. “The ice will keep the swelling down, but you should take some ibuprofen.”
“Okay,” Marlow’s voice is muffled by the towel. Her cheeks are red as Ike holds it against her face. She takes over, pressing the makeshift ice pack in place and leaning back against the tank.
Ike nods, turning to me. “On to my next patient.” I feel his eyes on me in the mirror. “How’s it going over here?”
I sigh. The brush is almost free. “Almost done.” I can’t look at him. He’s too appealing with his damp hair combed. And his beard is short, accentuating his strong jaw. I wonder when he trimmed it. Usually I know when he’s shaving. His whistling gives him away. And he’s wearing a faded red t-shirt—taunting, Red Sox red. The conflicting thoughts and feelings are too much when I’m already dealing with the brush situation.
“One problem at a time,” I mutter under my breath as I unwrap a lock of hair from the brush. I’m so close, but my arms are wearing out. Every time I French braid my hair I promise myself I’ll be more dedicated to arm day. I hate arm day, and now I’m paying for it.
“Can I give you a hand?” Ike moves toward the mess like he’s serious. He examines the tangle with his big, brown, Boy Scout eyes. He is dying to fix this.
I let my tired arms flop against my sides in defeat. “Please.”
Then Ike’s fingers are in my hair. His gaze flicks to Marlow and back to me. “Let me see if I have this straight. You’re afraid of heights, you’re allergic to pineapple—”
“She’s pineappleintolerant,” Marlow corrects him, her voice nasally behind the DIY ice pack.
“Thanks, friend.” I wince as Ike frees a particularly snarled lock of hair.
“So you’re pineappleintolerant, afraid of heights, and you vomit at the sight of blood.” The corner of his mouth ticks up as his fingers work through my tangles. “Anything else I should be aware of as your husband?”
“She’s a hardcore Yankees fan,” Marlow stands. “It’s her worst trait.”
“I said I’m sorry for elbowing you!” I call after her as she leaves me alone with Ike in the bathroom. Marlow gets snarky when she’s in pain. I get it—I hit her hard. There’s no excuse for Ike, though. I arch an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “And there’s no need to track my flaws. I’m well aware of them. I’ll send you the spreadsheet.” This time I don’t bother hiding my snort laugh. We’re past Ike seeing me as anything but what I am—a dry-heaving hot mess with a brush hanging off her head who has a spreadsheet for everything. My walls haven’t come down, but my friends and grandparents pushed Ike through a secret entrance.I might as well clear some other things up while I’m at it. “I’m not a witch, though. I didn’t invent paper straws, either.”
Ike’s eyes fill with a tenderness that makes me fidget. I try to look away, but his brown eyes lock on mine in the mirror.
“I know,” he says, setting the brush on the counter and smoothing my hair against my shoulder. “There’s a lot I need to say to you. Can we get out of here?”
He holds out a hand. I stare at it for a beat, taking in the strength and gentleness in it. Am I really doing this?
Of course I am. It’s only a date. I don’t have to marry the guy—-er, stay married to the guy. Nothing has to change. I slide my hand into his, twining our fingers together with a squeeze. A friendly squeeze—nothing going on here. “Where are you taking me, Mr. Wentworth?”
Chapter 18
Ike
Do not skip. Don’t whistle. Don’t do anything to give yourself away, you giant, googly-eyed moron.
The internal reminders are accomplishing jack squat as I escort Diana to my truck. The dumb smile I’ve been fighting since I walked in on Diana and Marlow’s pre-date disaster is giveaway enough.
But Diana can’t know how much I’m looking forward to this. The subatomic scrap of trust I’ve earned from her is fragile. She’s not even on the fence about this marriage. She’s on the other side of the fence, barely peeking over the top. I don’t want to scare her off. The thinking, planning, shopping, weather-checking, and pit-digging I’ve done is between me and August, who is the only other person who knows what I’m up to tonight.
Opening Diana’s door, I guide her into the passenger seat and help her find the buckle. I move quickly around the truck, without skipping or whistling. I am suave, charming, cool… and grinning again. Shoot. I school my expression into something that won’t make Diana dive out of my truck and barrel roll down an embankment. Then I climb behind the wheel and—peaches.
The cab of my truck smells like her.
