Page 54 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“Ayearago. And he was the valedictorian of his high school graduating class. Went in with a load of credits. So you probably don’t know what he majored in, either?”
I hate that I can’t deny him the pleasure of being right. But also…Alistair?
He shakes his head. “No? Of course not. Because that wouldrequireasking. Going beyond what you think you know about them, based on, what, exactly? A shitty bathroom and an empty fridge?”
Again, I have nothing.
“You’re telling me that I don’t have faith in the guys, wheneverythingyou’re doing is based on assumptions you’ve made about them! Honestly, Hayes, what is your deal? Did that ass with the bike really turn you into this? Is this any different from the ‘you’ you were with him? Still ‘filling in the cracks’?”
The words cut in so many ways. “This is nothing like that,” I snap. “I am not that person!”
“Yeah, well, you’re not their goddamnmother.”
The air pulls from my lungs in a rush.
Intellectually, I can see this for the revelation it is. His mom died. I’m living with his brother, filling in a lot of blanks that a mom might. This is the extension of his grief and loss and so many complicated feelings that time will never heal.
But he’s laid me out with the one-two punch of my oversights and assumptions and the reference to the role that my scarred, ravaged insides will, statistically, barring significant medical intervention, never allow me to experience.
I don’t know how to react to that.
So I don’t.
I just cross the room and walk out the door.
20
I SCRUB AT THE DIRTbeneath my nails, working to dislodge a bit of grit from the cuticle of my right index finger. Rage-weeding hadn’t been on my list today, but I needed somewhere to direct my energy. When I stormed into the house earlier, I’d hoped that the guys would have left something for me to do, but all of the common areas were tidy. Even the kitchen, where I found that one of my gold-rimmed bowls had been used. Not only had whichever roommate who’d enjoyed itnotleft it in the sink with pasta detritus, but he’d hand-washed it and placed it in the rack to dry. Like an adult.
I lift my chin. I am making a difference,Ian. Not “fixing” them.
I wouldn’t use that specific verb, anyway. Sure, moving in with them was influenced by my desire to mold them into men who know better than to mistreat bespoke dinnerware. But it’s not like that’s abadthing. It’s about expecting more from a person because you know they’re capable of more. So what if it’s largely based on observations about the three of them and not especially tailored to their specific wants and interests? It’s all baseline stuff!Everything we’re doing at the Dawghouse is something they had the capacity to do on their own; they just needed someone to light a fire under them.
Which is exactly what Ididn’tdo while I was with Cole. With Cole, I was the enabler. TheIan.
Ian, who can bite me. Andnotin a sexy way.
But…I sag against the sink. He can also bite me in a sexy way. Presuming that he ever gets his head out of his butt and acknowledges that I’m right.
Which Iam.
And so is he.
Once again in a huff, I dry my hands and return to the bedroom. A hulking shape fills the doorway to outside. I let out a yelp at the same moment I realize it’s Ian. Because of course it is.
“Shit, sorry!” he says. He makes to step into the room but stops short of entering.
I hold a hand to my chest, heart still thundering from the fright… andhim. “It’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting you.” I check the time. “Shouldn’t you be coaching?”
One meaty shoulder rises and falls. “Diego’s covering. I need to apologize. I was a dick.”
While not quite the white flag that would qualify him to bite me in a sexy way—not that I entertained that image for a portion of the time I spent weeding (Lies! I did!)—it is sufficient to grant him entry. I gesture him forward, and he comes in.
Toeing off his sneakers—ugh, the consideration!—he does a slow scan of his former dwelling. “It looks good,” he says, pleasantly. “The plants make a difference.” When his eyes meet mine,his smile drops. His brows draw together. “Grant’s told you about living with me when he was younger, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, not bothering to feign ignorance. I gesture toward my throne, tucked between Kronk the fiddle-leaf fig and the bookshelf in my reading nook. “Have a seat.” I pull up my desk chair for myself.
He sits, tugging off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “I was twenty-seven. And living with me meant thathestarted living the bachelor life at fourteen.”
