by Mary Frame
“It’s okay.” I hold his dear face, rubbing a thumb over the scruff on his jaw, meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to. I don’t care if you never talk again. You’re perfect just as you are.”
He smiles and nods. I know, he mouths.
“Maybe I should mention that I love you, too.” I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt.
His returning grin is blinding, the dimple in his cheek winking at me.
I sigh, completely infatuated with everything about him. If I were a cartoon, those little heart eyes would be popping out of my face right now.
“Oh.” A thought occurs to me. “What if ‘I love you’ was all you could say? You could be like the romantic version of Groot.” I widen my eyes, a little excited at the prospect. Beast is as probably as big as adult-sized Groot.
He pulls me down, kissing me even as his shoulders shake with laughter under my hands, his mouth curved up, smiling against my lips.
“Wait.” I sit up before we can get sucked back into Sexy Land. “You might wanna grab your phone because I have a lot of questions. How long are you staying? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? When did you start talking?”
I slide off him and he rolls away, grabbing his phone from his pants on the floor while I continue my barrage of questions and rambling nonsense.
“We have to go to Dinosaur Bar-B-Que while you’re in town. It’s in Harlem, not quite like Granny does it, and well, maybe you could do it better but . . .”
He gets back in bed, holding up his phone.
I blink at the words on the screen, not registering it at first, like his phone is somehow converting the words to Dothraki.
I’m not going back to Blue Falls.
I read it twice. Meet his eyes. He nods. I read it a third time. And then a fourth. And I burst into tears all over again.
Minutes later, after I’ve pulled my shit together, he gives me the rest of the story. With his phone this time. He’s met max capacity for speaking. He tells me about Grace applying to CIA for him, her admission that she interfered with his prior application, but now he’s starting in less than a month. He even has a place to stay, since the school helped him find housing nearby.
“I wish you could live here with me.” I run a hand down his stomach, watching his muscles flex and respond to my touch.
We both need to stand on our own, I think. For now.
“You’re so wise for one so young.”
I’ll be a train ride away.
“Which is so much better than a plane ride and hours of driving.”
We stay up half the night catching up on everything. We’ve been communicating since I left, but not as much recently—since, apparently, he was planning a cross-country move. We touch and talk. I tell him stories about my coworkers, he tells me stories from Blue Falls and what I’ve missed since I left. There are sexy times in between when we need a break from the talking and the touching and caressing brings us to the point of no return.
It’s early in the morning, nearly sunrise, when I show him my “patio” so we can look up at the stars.
“I see one!” I point at one glimmering light in the sky. “Oh wait. That’s a plane.” I squint. “Maybe a drone?” I grin up at Beast. “Not quite like home, huh?”
His arms wrap around me and his voice is in my ear, hushed and raspy, but pure. “You are home.”
Epilogue
“One thing I’ve learned is no one sticks by you like your friends. Especially here.”
–Overheard at Comic-Con
* * *
Five months later . . .
* * *
“I want to do the polar bear plunge.” Grace bounces around us on her toes, feet thudding against the wooden planks beneath our feet. Her cheeks are pink from the wind, blonde hair smothered under a bright pink beanie Fred bought her this morning.
“You want to jump in that freezing cold water?” Fred asks.
“Sure.”
“The plunge is on the first.” Fred’s hand squeezes mine, the motion intimate even through our gloves. “And you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Have you ever done it?” Grace asks, tone challenging.
“Uh, no, I avoid frostbite.”
Grace rolls her eyes and skips ahead of us on the nearly empty boardwalk. “Maybe it will snow!” she calls over her shoulder.
“I wish it would,” Fred tells me. “Then she could see her first snow and maybe her flight would get cancelled and she could stay a couple more days.”
I squint up into the bright sunshine. It’s cold, the breeze biting, but there are no clouds in sight. To our left, the Atlantic Ocean crashes onto an expanse of sand.
Grace has never seen the snow. We hoped she’d get her chance during this first trip to the city, but so far it’s been nothing but sun. Cold, but no weather. She arrived a day after Christmas, and we had our own little holiday celebration. Snow aside, we’ve packed in as much as we could into the three-day visit, and now we’ve only got one more night.
“We should get some blintzes from Gourmanoff while we’re here,” Fred says.
What about dinner? I sign.
Fred lifts her brows at me with a grimace. “You really want to eat my mom’s food?”
I grin and lean down to kiss the corner of her frowning mouth, turning the grimace into a smile. “She might surprise you.” Talking is easier than it was six months ago. But not effortless.
“You’re an optimist. And braver than I will ever be. I guess we should head back to the B train anyway if we’re going to get to Park Slope on time.”
She calls out for Grace, who is hanging on to a railing up ahead, looking out at the beach and water. She skips back and we walk together to the subway, Grace and Fred chatting about various tricks to make it look like you’re eating when you’re really just pushing your food around your plate.
The train ride is about forty minutes, Grace sitting between us, chattering the whole way about the New York Hall of Science—a science and technology museum in Queens we took her to yesterday.
Fred’s mother, who insists I call her Helen, greets us in the entry of the brownstone.
“Let me take your coats.” She hangs all of our outerwear on an antique coat rack in the corner and gives us all hugs in turn, gripping me tight and wrapping me in her lemony-basil scent. Crisp and clean and homey, like a mother should smell.
“Thank you for having us for dinner,” Grace says meekly.
Fred and I exchange a glance. Grace is not herself around Fred’s parents—not in a bad way, just in a non-Grace way. She’s extra polite and doesn’t talk much, like she’s suddenly some foreign, shy creature and not the menace we know and love.
“Oh, honey, I’m the one who is happy you could make it. Come into the kitchen. I found something for you at the store.” She takes Grace’s arm and leads her away, hollering down the hall. “Larry, the kids are all here.”
Indistinct muttering emerges from the depths of the house.
“Another present?” Fred calls after her Mom. “Where’s my present?”
Helen and Larry bought Grace the coat and gloves she’s been wearing as a Christmas present, knowing she wouldn’t have anything like it and figuring she could keep it at Fred’s for when she visits in the winter. I’m pretty sure Helen coordinated the surprise with Granny. They dropped the elegantly wrapped package off at Fred’s apartment when Grace first arrived. Grace was so shocked by the gesture she didn’t speak for five full minutes.
I’m not sure Grace knows how to react to the couple, not used to people being so open and affectionate. They welcomed both of us into the family without question. It’s like being on a TV show or something.
Fred gives my arm a squeeze. “I’ll make sure Grace isn’t a pod person, intent on infecting Mom. You go and check on Dad. He probably needs to be ‘encouraged’ ”—she makes air quotes with her fingers—“to come eat whatever questionable casserole we’re having tonight.”
“I’m not threatenin
g your dad,” I whisper.
“I never said anything about threats. Just make it happen.”
I knock on the open office door before entering, and Fred’s dad is up and out of his chair, clapping me on the back.
“Beast. Come on in, son, I want your opinion.” He guides me over to the corner. “Helen bought me this stool for my office. What do you think?”
He points out the spindly piece of furniture—if it could be called that. It’s a bright purple cushion, set upon twisty thin black legs.
Instead of giving my opinion, I ask, “What is it for?”
Larry shrugs. “To torture me? Why don’t you sit on it so we can test it out?” His eyes are gleaming.
You want me to break it, I sign.
“I didn’t say that.” He rubs his chin. “Maybe I want to test its strength.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I can’t do that. It might hurt Helen’s feelings.
Fred’s parents were beyond excited to learn ASL. Like it was no big deal. And like I was doing them a favor, prompting them to gain some new knowledge. They’ve decided to learn British Sign Language next just for kicks.
He nods, rubbing his chin. “Maybe I can convince you after dinner. That will be the torture portion of the evening. Come on, time to face the music.” We head into the dining room.
Fred and Grace are already at the table, Helen in the kitchen.
“I tried something new this week,” Helen calls out. “It’s about ready.”
“Ready for imminent death,” Fred mutters.
Grace presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.
I pull out my seat at the table next to Grace and across from Fred.
“Look what Helen gave me.” Grace holds up a little snow globe and shakes it. It’s got the New York skyline in the center, glittery flakes tumbling around. “Since I missed the snow this time.”
Did you tell them thank you? I sign.
She releases a beleaguered sigh. “Of course.” She places it gently beside her plate.
“Here we are.” Helen brings out a casserole dish and lays it on a trivet in the center of the table. “Everyone, dig in. Who wants a drink?” She goes back into the kitchen to grab a soda for Grace and some water for the rest of us.
Fred and her dad exchange a glance. “You first,” she says.
I smile and pick up the serving spoon, putting a heaping portion onto my plate.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Fred stage-whispers.
“I heard that.” Helen comes back into the room with the drinks and sits at the head of the table, opposite Larry.
Everyone dishes food onto their plates.
Helen asks Grace about when school is starting while Larry talks to Fred about how engineers are designing toilets to analyze excrement for pre-diagnosing health issues.
“No poop talk at the table,” Helen tells him.
I wait patiently for Fred to take a bite of her food and when she does, I’m not disappointed.
She chews for a second and then her brows hit her hairline. “Mom, what is this? This is actually . . .” Her expression is mystified, staring down at the dish like it’s sprouted wings. “Good.” She takes another bite. “This is good.”
“Eggplant parmesan baked with homemade vegan mozzarella. I might have had some tips from Beast.”
Fred’s mouth pops open. “You listened to him? You never listen to me!” Her eyes flick to mine. “You gave her cooking advice?”
I sign, I did it for you.
Larry puts a hand on my arm. “It’s better to remain silent when they get like this.”
Grace is giggling so hard, she leans into me, shoulders shaking.
Fred is half laughing, half arguing with Helen, and Larry leans toward me, elbow on the table, sending my fork clattering to the floor.
The table is chaos, but joy is a squeeze in my chest. Happiness is the laughter of the people I love most. Happiness is chasing after my dreams. Happiness is . . . her.
Across the table, my eyes lock with Fred’s and her smile lights up the entire room, brighter than any star.
About the Author
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* * *
Mary Frame is a full-time mother and wife with a full-time job. She has no idea how she manages to write novels except that it helps being a dedicated introvert. She doesn’t enjoy writing about herself in third person, but she does enjoy reading, writing, dancing, and damaging the eardrums of her coworkers when she randomly decides to sing to them. She lives in Reno, Nevada, with her husband, two children, and a border collie named Stella.
* * *
She LOVES hearing from readers and will not only respond but likely begin stalking them while tossing out hearts and flowers and rainbows! If that doesn’t creep you out, email her at: [email protected]
Follow her on Twitter: @marewulf
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* * *
Imperfect Series—All books are stand-alone and can be read in any order! With a guaranteed HEA!
* * *
Book One: Imperfect Chemistry – Lucy and Jensen
Book Two: Imperfectly Criminal – Freya and Dean
Book Three: Practically Imperfect – Sam and Gemma
Book Four: Picture Imperfect – Gwen and Marc
Book Five: Imperfect Strangers – Bethany and Brent
Book Six: Imperfectly Delicious — Scarlett and Guy
* * *
Extraordinary Series—Not stand-alone novels! Must be read in order! Also they are more cozy mystery/romance so if that’s your jam—check it out!
* * *
Book One: Anything But Extraordinary
Book Two: A Life Less Extraordinary
Book Three: Extraordinary World
* * *
Dorky Duet – Available now! A Imperfect Series Spin off!
Ridorkulous
Geektastic
Nerdelicious
Also by Mary Frame
Thank you for reading Nerdelicious! I had so much fun writing this story, and I hope it made you smile :)
* * *
If you enjoyed this series, and you haven’t read the Imperfect Series, keep reading for a sneak peek of book one—Imperfect Chemistry, or check it out at your favorite online retailer by clicking here!
Imperfect Chemistry Chapter One
I believe that a scientist looking at nonscientific problems is just as dumb as the next guy.
–Richard Feynman
* * *
There are many theories that attempt to explain why humans cry in response to heightened emotions. One states that weeping serves as a signaling function, letting other humans know the emotional condition being experienced with the hopes of contriving an altruistic response in the viewer. Another theory is that crying serves a biochemical function, releasing toxins from the body and reducing stress. Some scientists have found that tears may contain a chemosignal, and when men sniff women’s tears, they display reduced levels of testosterone and sexual arousal.
None of these theories explain why I, a twenty-year-old female, experience extreme anxiety and a desperate desire to get as far away as possible when people cry in my general vicinity.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Today’s client is Freya Morgan, a sophomore at the university, who recently dissolved a relationship. She’s pre-law, and her file indicates a fairly high GPA. I have hopes she will be more logical than emotional. She hasn’t cried yet, but I’m 83% certain she will. Studies have shown that women cry thirty to sixty-four times per year. That’s approximately once every twelve days, on the low side.
“Yes.” I glance at my notes. “You engaged in coitus with your partner and then he stopped communicating with you.”
She sits up slightly from the position she threw herself into when she entered the room, lying across the small sofa, and offers me a frown t
hat puts a wrinkle in her forehead. She’s shorter than me, small enough to lie down on the couch that’s only about five feet long.
“Does that mean he went down on me? Because that’s not what we did. I mean, we did that, too, but that’s not what I said.”
“Coitus is sexual intercourse. I believe what you are referring to is cunnilingus.”
“Right.” She nods after a small hesitation and then lies back down with a gusty sigh. “Where was I?”
“He stopped communicating with you.”
“Yes!” She punctuates the word with a finger thrust in my direction although her gaze remains fixed on the ceiling above her. “But that’s not all. When he wouldn’t answer my texts, I went to his dorm and guess who was in there?”
I tilt my head, wondering, is that a rhetorical question?
It must be, because she’s speaking again quickly. “Liz. Liz was in there and she was moaning and screaming like she was giving birth to a goat. One with horns.”
“That’s an interesting metaphor. Perhaps his advances were unwanted?”
She snorts a laugh. “She’s been trying to bag him for months!” Her voice softens. “But I thought he was better than that. I thought I was better than that.”
I’m amazed at how quickly she goes from indignant to depressed. I jot that down in my notes. Bipolar?
“Liz is a friend?” I ask.
“Hell, no, Liz is a total skank. She sleeps with anyone who has a pulse, guys, girls, whatever.”
Whatever? I wonder what that encapsulates, but think it’s best to stick to the topic at hand. “Okay. What about the gentleman in question, Cameron?” I clarify the name she stated earlier.
