Page 43 of Kiss Me Now
“Everyone smiles,” she said. “They all say hello. And once you’ve done business with one of them, they know enough about your story to bring it up every time after that. But it’s a good thing. Like when I bought a can of paint at the hardware store and Grace asked what I was working on. Now she’s my unofficial renovation consultant. Or Bixby’s Bakery. Taylor Bixby knows my order as soon as she sees me walk through the door, and it’s ready at the register before I say a word.”
“What’s your order?” I asked. “Wait, no. Let me guess.” I considered her low-key style of dress, her drink preference the night at Gran’s house, the simple tastes she’d shown in her renovations so far. “Americano,” I guessed. “And a blueberry muffin.”
She appeared in the hall. “How’d you know?” Then her expression fell. “I guess that’s a pretty boring order, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that. I’d describe it as classic.”
“I think what you’re saying is that I’m predictable.”
“No.” I studied her, taking another inventory of her fine features, the light wash of freckles across her nose, her healthy summer glow. “You are anything but predictable.”
A tinge of pink rose in her cheeks and she disappeared into the bathroom.
“I’m getting something different tomorrow anyway,” she called. “I don’t like being predictable.”
“Let me guess, you’re going to switch it up with tea and a scone?” I laughed when she gasped and her head popped back out. “Don’t be so shocked. I do this for a living. I kind of have to know how to profile people. You do start to see patterns in types of people, but it doesn’t make you predictable.”
“It’s literally exactly what predictable means. You’re able to predict what I’m going to order at the bakery and then predict what I’m going to switch it to.” She was quiet a second. “Actually, that’s creepy. Instead of talking about how I’m lame and predictable, let’s talk about how it’s very suspect that you can do this.”
“It’s not,” I protested with a laugh. “It’s more like...think of that Sherlock series with that one guy, Benjamin Cummerbund, and—”
“Benedict Cumberbatch,” she corrected through her laughter.
“Right, that guy. The point is, it’s all just observation, deductive reasoning, and a working knowledge of human nature. I’m not creepy, I swear.”
“It’s creepy.”
I took a few steps until I was in front of the bathroom and sat on the floor. “Brooke,” I said, to her well-shaped butt.
She started and twisted around until she sat facing me. “See? You just creeped up on me. Now you’re literally creepy.”
“I did not creep up on you. I walked over. It’s not my fault if I move with the grace of a ninja.”
She reached out and plucked a piece of wallpaper clinging to my hair. “Yes, picture of grace.”
“I’m not creepy. It’s possible that I may have seen your coffee cup with your order written on the sleeve sitting on your kitchen counter last time I was here, and it’s also possible I noticed a basket of teas next to the sink and guessed that scones are the right thing to eat with tea.”
She looked mollified for a second. “Wait, but it’s weird that you remember that a week later.”
“Not for me, it isn’t. It really is a job hazard. My brain catalogues this kind of thing. Sometimes it’s annoying, but mostly it’s helpful. Sherlock Holmes,” I said, pointing at my chest. “Are you less creeped out?”
“That you were snooping on the contents of my kitchen?” She didn’t look reassured.
I wasn’t sure where to pivot here. I’d meant to show off a little.Of courseit would read as totally creepy to a single woman living by herself. I opened my mouth to apologize, but she broke into a grin.
“I’m kidding. You’re not creepy. That all makes sense. I notice stuff like that at people’s houses too. I’m not sure I buy your Sherlock Holmes claims given the fact that you got me totally, utterly wrong, but I definitely concede that you aren’t a creepy dude.”
“Thank you?” I wasn’t sure if I’d been complimented or insulted.
She flashed a cheeky grin that did nothing to clarify the issue and turned back to her tiling. When I stood to go back to my wallpaper, I caught a glimpse of her progress. She only had about two feet left of the bathroom, and then I hoped she’d come join me on the wallpaper project.
We worked in easy silence for the next hour as more of her slowly emerged from the bathroom as she filled in the tile, crawling backward as she went. I could almost guess how much tile she had left to lay based on how much of her appeared, bit by slow bit, until finally only her head and shoulders were inside the bathroom. At last, she backed all the way out and stood, glancing over the tile with a sigh that sounded very satisfied, like when I finished a full set of bench presses at a new weight.
“Done?” I asked.
“Yeah, come see.”
I joined her in front of the doorway and peered in. The bare concrete foundation was now covered in a pattern of small interlocking black and white squares. With the grayish blue—or was it blueish gray?—paint she’d chosen and the light gray vanity, the bathroom looked like a designer had done it.
