Page 23 of Pucked Up Plans
“Let me.” I make quick work of clearing the table, setting the dishes on the counter. My eyes search around for a sponge, finally spotting one on the side of the faucet. There’s a dishwasher next to the sink, which I open, stopped because it’s full of dishes. “Clean or dirty?” I turn to Tate, perusing me with wide eyes, disbelief swimming in the brown orbs.
She shakes her head, clearing away the trance she’s in. “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
“Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean or dirty?”
“Is there water on the top of the glasses?”
A reasonable question, I pull out the top shelf. “Um, yes?” It’s not a definite answer because it seems like there could be, but it’s also too hard to tell.
“Oh my god. Tate, do not let him empty your dishwasher.”
When I turn around at her voiced directive to herself, she’s out of her chair, in the space I occupy, trying to shove me away from where I stand. I’ve got a good fifty pounds on her, and it’s not cocky to admit it’s all muscle. Playing a college sport will do that. She makes a respectable effort at trying to heave me out of the way, but I stand steady, not budging an inch.
A stare-down commences, fire fueling her brown eyes to widen.
“Let me do this, Tate. You fed me and my kid dinner. It’s the least I can do.”
“Dinner you brought and frozen nuggets. Hardly a hardship. This isn’t your mess, nor your responsibility to put awaymydishes.” Heavy emphasis on the my. As if I thought they might be mine.
Cognizant of the small space and opened door of the dishwasher, I rest my hands on her shoulders, moving her back to her chair. She puts up a good fight, only relaxing when I don’t back down.
“Sit, Tate.” My gaze locks with hers, the tone of my voice not allowing an argument.
“Thank you,” she all but whispers, but the sentiment it carries speaks volumes.
With a “you’re welcome” in her direction, I get back to work.
If only my momma could see me now.
CHAPTER 8
TATE
Walsh’s two words play on repeat in my mind.
Sit, Tate.
His growly voice isn’t the only thing affecting me as I do what he demands and sit in the chair while he puts away my dishes.
This angle offers a glorious view of his backside, though the baggy sweatpants he wears conceal an accurate assessment of his ass. My imagination has no qualms filling in the details.
He’s pushed the sleeves of his Henley up his arms, the ink on his left forearm catching my notice. I can’t make out what it is from this view and file it away to ask later.
He takes it upon himself to locate where the cups and mugs go, flexing his arms as he puts each one carefully on the shelf. Upside down, just like the others already there.
A slew of emotions surge through me at watching this man—a stranger—empty my dishwasher. My father emptying ours at home five times in the last year would be a generous number. The contrast between Walsh offering to put away the dishes he didn’t use versus my father, who always used more than half of them but grumbled his way through the task, strikes a chord.
Beyond that, it’s the fact there’s amanin my kitchen, making quick work of this simple task. A man who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years. Or ever, if I’m honest. The feelings Walsh elicits in me are foreign, but hell if I don’t want to keep experiencing them.
Once the top rack is bare, he moves onto the bottom, quickly finding where to put the plates. The silverware basket in his hand, he opens up drawers one by one, searching for where they go. He’s a man on a mission, so I don’t point out where they’re kept. With only three drawers to choose from, his hunt is quick, and before I can stop him, he’s closing the filled drawer.
He doesn’t shut the dishwasher, instead filling it back up with the day’s dishes piled in the sink. The ones left there earlier because I was too lazy to empty the dishwasher when the cycle ended.
“Walsh, no. Leave them. You’ve done enough.” My voice holds little conviction, but it hardly matters. He turns his head, his glare striking my words down.
“I have to atone for our behavior,” he speaks as he resumes his task.
I want to interrogate him, ask what the hell his comment means, but the words get stuck in my throat. Because selfishly, no matter why he’s doing it, it’s one less chore I’ll have to do after Aubrey goes to bed. Which means I can spend more time reading. I’m in a good part of my book. Just when the hero and heroine realize their sexual attraction toward the other.
