But she’s not me. She’s way prettier than me. And she’s not the warm fuzzy kind of person like I am either. She didn’t even invite me in after I was basically a hero without a cape.
The more I thought about her, the more curious I became. Libby wouldn’t give me much information when I texted her off-and-on, prying in the gentlemanly-est way I could. Her responses were short and to the point and left me with more questions than answers.
I’m pretty sure that was by design.
Women, man.
Libby finally stopped answering my texts around midnight. Jaxi’s light went off around one thirty. I went to bed around two and got three hours before Holt called to remind me to be at the office at six.
Oliver shakes his head. “You really just find women in your house? How does that work?”
“It’s hard being me,” I tell him.
Oliver rolls his eyes. “I honestly thought you were making the whole thing up until Coy had Leo come by.”
I roll my eyes back at him.
Wade distracts us when he begins to stack his things into a neat, orderly pile. “I have to say that this doesn’t surprise me either. I’m more surprised that this type of thing doesn’t happen more regularly for you.”
“It’s nice to know you believe in me,” I joke.
He looks up at me but doesn’t stop stacking his stuff. “That’s one way to say it.”
“Wade,” I say, leaning back in my leather seat. “Do you ever just wake up in the morning and think, ‘I’m going to be friendly today’?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Oliver scribbles on a yellow legal pad in front of him. “I have a lunch meeting with Anjelica at Hillary’s House in thirty minutes. Anyone want to join us?”
I make a face. Wade shakes his head. Holt defers.
Oliver picks his briefcase up off the floor and clears his throat. “I need to get going, or I’m going to be late. I’ll see you guys at Mom’s on Sunday.”
“Later,” Holt says.
“I’m leaving too. I have a drawing I need to finish by the end of the day,” Wade says, following Oliver to the door.
“Love you, Wade,” I call after him.
He shakes his head in response.
Once the door is closed, Holt cracks a smile and sits back in his chair. The leather squeaks with the movement.
He watches me closely in a way that only a big brother can.
“What?” I ask him.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Poke at Wade. Instigate Ollie. Play dumb and then blast us all with information that you just happen to have in the oddest of ways.”
I shrug. “Hendershott wanted to go to lunch, so I went. It wasn’t like I was off trying to get information. It just … finds me.”
Holt eyes me curiously for a long minute. I have no idea what he’s thinking, and the longer it goes, the more anxious I become.
“Holt,” I say softly.
“What?”
“Can I go now?” I almost whisper.
He bursts into a fit of laughter, sitting back up in his chair. “Go on. Get out of here. Tell your new girl I said hi.”
I gather my things and get out the door before he can change his mind.
Six
Jaxi
“No! No, no, no, no …”
I reach for the knob on the stove, but I’m too late. The little bubbles of pasta sauce that looked like they were going to simmer and behave instead burst. Bright red liquid splatters all over Libby’s pristine white kitchen tile.
“Shit,” I groan.
I grab the sponge that I just used to clean up the boiled-over pasta water and give the backsplash a quick wipe. Pink smears create a marble-like effect on the wall, and I wonder how often Libby has to contend with crap like this.
“If I ever get to design a kitchen,” I say, tossing the sponge back in the sink, “nothing will be white. And, since this is clearly a fantasy, it will come with a chef so I don’t have to try to be Martha Stewart.”
Looking at the mess I’ve made, I wish I would’ve thought out my plan a little better.
A little more realistically.
The tile is still smudged and rings of water mar the stovetop. Onion peels and garlic bits are strewn across the counter along with an empty spaghetti box and the sauce jar.
Kitchen chaos gets under my skin. I always feel like everything in my life is a disaster if the kitchen is a war zone. I don't understand why, but it's always been the case. But this level of chaos coupled with the fact that I didn’t get much, if any, sleep has me on the verge of saying screw it and going back to bed.
But then knowing the mess was still here and that I’d have to clean it as soon as I get up would prevent me from sleeping. So, I stick it out.
I spy a Tupperware container in the top cabinet above the cups. I grab it just as my phone rings. I find it buried under a heap of paper towels that I used to dry the counter after I spilled the water earlier.
“Hey, Libby,” I say as I run the screen down my shirt to rid it of any dampness from the towels.
“Why do you sound so nervous? And sketchy?”
“I was drying my phone,” I tell her.
“Do I want to know?”
I look around the kitchen. “Let’s just say that your kitchen has seen better days.”
“What did you do?” she asks, her voice teetering on panic.
“Just … making some spaghetti.”
It sounds easy enough, and I sell the idea well that it’s just a normal person in the kitchen making a simple dish. Any random person overhearing this conversation wouldn’t think anything of it. Except Libby isn’t a random person. She knows me. Well.
“Tell me you aren’t trying to make some fancy recipe with a hundred ingredients again,” she moans. “And that you aren’t doing it in my beautiful, clean, spotless kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, just keep that image in your head.”
She fakes a wail, and it makes me laugh.
I put her on speakerphone and sit the phone by the spatula. I locate the strainer I saw earlier and plop it into the sink.
“I promise you’ll never know I was here when you get home,” I say. “I’ll have this place spic-and-span.”
“You better.”
The pasta is heavy as I lug it to the sink. Steam rolls off the drained spaghetti and coats my face in starchy water droplets.
“May I ask what possessed you to make yourself dinner?” she asks coyly. “Don’t you usually just make toast?”
I give the strainer a little shake.
She doesn’t need me to tell her. She’s figured it out on her own. I’m sure that in her little romantic world, she’s already shipped her neighbor and me together in some Disney-esque storyline.
Poor girl.
“Well, I was thinking,” I say as I dump the pasta in the sauce, “that if I can’t pay Boone back with money, I have to do something. And spaghetti is classy … and cheap.”
The words come out nonchalantly as if this is a normal course of events—like I’m the girl who makes an apple pie for a bake sale. But, truth be told, I’m not Holly Homemaker. I can throw something together and usually better than this, but it’s not going to be gourmet.