Page 11 of If the Suit Fits
Of course, her cheeks flame and tell me everything Ineed to know.
“Two minutes on a work morning. Thirty minutes with music on the weekends, especially when I’m shampooing my hair.”
And she shampooed today. The coconut smell is stronger than it was the last two times we’ve been in the same room.
“I’ll be in and out pretty quickly in the mornings this week, especially because you’re here, and my productivity will already be impacted. So if you hear the shower running, you can be confident I’ll be done in a matter of minutes.” Again, she comes through the door, turns right, and continues her tour. “My room at the end. We share a wall.” Less enthusiastic now, she opens her door and reveals a room almost twice the size of mine. Her bed is larger. Her rug. The window. Her entire space is grander, like she really took the time to make her bedroom feel like home.
But why, when I study her bed and the wall behind it, does my brain zero in on the fact we share a wall… like she said. But weshare a wall. Her bed and mine, backed up against each other.
God help me.
“I like this space.” I don’t cross the threshold, purely out of respect for her privacy, but I duck my head in and grin at the Stairmaster set up in the far corner by the window. And after that, I notice the sconces above her bed and the bamboo feature wall I know for a damn fact isn’t original to the home. The high skirting boards with elegant curves and the perfect paintwork on the three remaining walls that proves she put a lot of effort into this space.
Or she paid someone to do it.
“The rest of the house is nice,” I admit. “It’s fine. But this room is where your heart is.”
“Yes.” She smiles and blushes, dipping her chin and avoiding my gaze when I glance across. “This is where I’m most comfortable. I’ll continue throughout the rest of my home when I havethe resources and time to do it well. But my priority was always going to be here.” And just like that, she comes back to the door, forcing me out and closing it behind her back. “Linen is in here,” she points toward a cupboard, but doesn’t bother opening it, “and then my office.” She opens the third and final bedroom door to reveal a matching bamboo wall, but where I expect a desk, perhaps, and scattered paper and pens, I find a drafting table, a tall stool, and blueprints spread out in the natural light filtering through the third matching window. “I’ll spend a lot of time in here this week, but if you need me for anything, you’re welcome to knock and enter. I won’t be mad.”
I spy the boombox on the floor beside the table—very nineties of her—and imagine her dancing away her Monday to Friday.
“Do you listen to music a lot while you’re drawing?”
“Sometimes.” She doesn’t do a walk-through like she did in the other rooms. This time, she merely stands beside me and folds her arms. “Sometimes not. When I do, it tends to be loud, and other times, I need silence. I can’t really predict it in advance. I just go with whatever feels right each day.”
“Is one or the other dictated by your mood?”
When she raises a questioning brow, I add, “I mean, if the music is on, you’re happy. Music off means you’re cranky or frustrated or something?”
“No.” She drags her poor, abused lip between her teeth and nibbles. “Music is for happy and sad. Silence, too. Usually, no music means I’m overwhelmed. Like I can’t focus. But that doesn’t mean I’m cranky. It just means I know how to help my focus issues and act accordingly.” She pauses and looks me up and down. “Do you work while listening to music?”
“Mm. Often.” I reach up and tap my ear. “But it’s usually inmy headphones. I normally have one in, to jam out, and one out, so I can still hear the environment around me. Safety and all that.” My stomach audibly rumbles, so loud Mel’s eyes sling wide, and the blush she wore drains away to pale cheeks. But I pat my stomach and chuckle. “That was rude. Sorry.”
“Are you hungry?” Already, she moves. “I could make you something.”
“I skipped lunch,” I admit, “but I can wait for dinner. It’s not a big?—”
“You said you have no allergies.” She strides along the hall and bursts into the kitchen a dozen steps ahead of me, bustling toward the fridge and opening the door to peruse its contents. “But what are your likes? Your dislikes?”
“Food?” I come to a stop at the doorway and lean against the frame, crossing my ankles and enjoying the show she and her Daisy Dukes put on. “I have no dislikes. You could feed me literally anything, and I’d enjoy it.”
“None at all?” She snags a full head of lettuce, tomatoes from the crisper drawer, and cheese from the shelf above. “How can you not have dislikes? Eventhinkingabout tuna makes me want to gag, and avocado is like eating cardboard. It’s not bad.” She snags a plastic container of… something, and tosses it to the counter. “I’d eat cardboard a million times before tuna, but everyone sings their praises to avocado, and I just…” She hip-bumps the fridge closed and carries her supplies pressed against her belly. “I don’t get the hype. Is there literally nothing that you wouldn’t turn your nose up at?”
I fold my arms and enjoy watching her fuss.
Fuck, I just enjoy that it’s me she’s fussing over.
“Nick?” She grabs a long, sharp knife from the silverware drawer. “Nothing?”
“Nothing I can think of off the top of my head. When you’re a hungry kid, you eat what you’re given. When you’re a grown ass man and a woman is holding a knife,” I glance down at her weapon and grin, “you eat what you’re told. It’s pretty simple from where I stand.”
“I’m making you a ham salad sandwich.” She cuts through the tomato with a fast, easy slice. “If you see me adding something you don’t like, speak up. Alternatively, if you’re shy like I would be and unable to say something, feel free to eat on the porch. I won’t look if you pick something off and toss it in the yard.”
She’s cute. She contradicts herself. And she’s going to cut her finger off if she’s not more careful. So I drop my smile and—hopefully—make it easier for her to concentrate.
“I already told you, I’m pretty comfortable telling folks how I feel, so if you’re fixing to add something to my sandwich that I don’t like, I promise I’ll let you know.”
“How about spice?” She cracks open the plastic container and peels out thick slices of ham that make my mouth water. “Do you like spicy food?”
