by Robin Kaye
“Steam gets the wrinkles out better.”
“Then what’s wrong with ironing in a puddle?”
“Why do you have to question everything?”
“Probably because I want to know the answers.”
“Okay, it’s kind of like a wet spot on the bed. You have a great time making it, but no one wants to sleep on it.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You don’t mind what?”
“Sleeping on the wet spot. I’m a guy. I take great pride in creating wet spots, and sleeping on them just reminds me of all the fun I had.”
“Right, you say that now. Guys will say just about anything to get the opportunity to create the wet spot, but in my experience, they roll over and start snoring, leaving me in the puddle.”
“Sorry babe, but you just never slept with the right guys.”
“Oh,” Becca rolled her eyes. “I forgot. You’re such an expert.”
Rich chuckled in that sexy, deep-throated way he had. The kind of chuckle she’d be able to feel if she were up against him.
Becca took a step back because if she didn’t she’d be tempted to see if she was right. “Okay, have at it. Iron in a puddle if you want. Just be careful of the steam. It can burn, and you only have one good hand left.”
“That’s it?” That little boy look was back. He stared at the iron as if it were alive and on the prowl. “You’re not going to help me?”
“Rich, it’s not thermonuclear fusion. It’s a hot hunk of metal you push around on a piece of fabric to flatten it. If you press that button on top, it’ll shoot out a burst of steam. If you hit the blue button, it’ll squirt water out of the top there. I’m going to check on the meatloaf and wash the endive since you’re wrapped up literally and figuratively.”
“Right. It’s just a hunk of hot metal that spits.”
Becca turned her back on him and walked the few feet into the kitchen. When she tossed the endive into a salad spinner, she peeked at Rich, and he was still eyeing the iron like it was a poisonous snake. He set the iron down on the handkerchief, pushed the steam button, and a cloud of steam blew out with a swoosh. He didn’t move the iron. A few seconds later he pressed the blue button and watched as water squirted out on the table in front of the iron. He still hadn’t moved the iron. Sheesh. Becca had a feeling his handkerchief wasn’t very lucky. She thought about telling him he had to actually move the iron, but what would be the fun in that?
Chapter 7
RICH LOOKED AT THE LIST IN FRONT OF HIM AND CRINGED. What the hell was it with Becca and lists? Tuesdays were his early days, so he came home instead of playing basketball with the guys in order to do his domestic duties. It had been a week and a half since he and Becca started living together in a depressingly platonic way, and every day she’d leave him a list of things to do with detailed instructions on how to go about doing them. He hated that about her. He didn’t know why she didn’t just show him how to do it. It was way more fun watching Becca do just about anything than reading her lists and instructions, and Lord knew, the instructions weren’t helping to make him into a Domestic God.
Today Rich had to clean the bathroom and do his laundry. He and Tripod seemed to have come to a truce of sorts once Rich discovered Tripod’s love for potato chips, popcorn, ice cream, and coffee. The little bugger scarfed all the junk food he could fit in his little body, and then he’d fall asleep on the couch all curled up with his paw over his eyes and snore. Rich never knew cats snored; unfortunately, he also learned cats fart. Tripod nearly gassed him out during a movie marathon while in his ice cream coma. No more spumoni for him.
Rich looked at Tripod, who sat beside him on the couch drinking the last of Rich’s coffee out of his and Tripod’s favorite mug, the one big enough for his head. Tripod loved coffee almost as much as ice cream, and Rich loved how much fun Tripod became with a little caffeine, as if he wasn’t already the coolest cat on the planet. Tri was Rich’s shadow, hell, the little guy even slept with him most of the time. Rich didn’t mind as long as Tripod followed the rules and slept on his own side of the bed. “Are you finished with your coffee, big guy?”
Tripod flicked his tail and belted out a short rrup, which meant “yup” in cat-speak. Rich picked up their cup and brought it to the kitchen. Instead of just throwing it in sink, he actually put it in the dishwasher because Becca was on him to clean up after himself. Obviously, he was avoiding the next thing on his list. The laundry— okay, so he’d been avoiding it all. He considered himself lucky that Becca let him take his suits and shirts to the cleaners. Sometimes he wondered if she was having a little too much fun ordering him around. Rich really missed his old cleaning lady; she used to do all this stuff for him.
Laundry first. He went into his room and Tripod jumped into the middle of things while Rich stripped the sheets, burying the cat in bedding. When he picked up the spare pillow to pull off the case, he smelled Becca. “I swear she’s everywhere.”
Tripod murmured from somewhere beneath the pile of sheets.
Rich tossed it all into a laundry basket and carried the pile to the utility closet, feeling the solid weight of Tripod in the basket along with sheets, towels, and whichever piece of clothing happened to be on the floor under the pile. He set it down. “Come on, Tripod, time to get out of there unless you’re into taking a ride through the wash. Seeing how much you enjoyed the shower, I’m thinking that’s a no.”
Rich picked up each piece of bedding and stuffed it in the front-load washer while Tripod flipped out and did some cool break dancing moves before he started pouncing on an imaginary adversary.
Becca’s directions said not to overfill the machine, though she never told him how much to fill it. When it was full, but not packed, he closed the glass door, pulled the detergent drawer open, and checked Becca’s directions for the amount to use. The last thing he wanted was to have to shovel bubbles again, although from the look of the black and white tile floor, it could use a wash.
Rich started the machine and waited to make sure the thing actually worked. So did Tripod. Both of them stared at the glass window, and when the laundry started circling Tripod tried to catch the black sock that had somehow managed to find its way into the washer. “That should keep you busy.” He left Tripod to it and went to tackle the bathroom.
Cleaning the bathroom wasn’t so bad, well, after he learned the very important lesson that if you mix cleaners, you create toxic gas. After he’d washed his timesaving concoction down the drain, spent ten minutes with the window open and the fan on, he started all over again. This time he followed Becca’s directions on which cleaner to use and where to use it. On the plus side, Rich was sure he had the cleanest drains east of the Hudson and that his nose hair would grow back eventually. He hoped.
While Rich cleaned the bathroom, he noticed the metal hamper built into the wall. When he opened it just to see how it worked, all of Becca’s clothes fell out. Since his to-do list was all but finished, he thought he’d do a good deed and stuff Becca’s clothes in the wash for her. He tossed the load into a basket and went to put his wash in the dryer and Becca’s clothes in the washer. After that, he thought he and Tripod deserved some DVR time.
After eating a few sandwiches and watching last week’s episode of TopGear, Rich removed his sheets from the dryer and tossed all of Becca’s clothes in. He turned on Animal Planet for Tripod, while he separated stray clothing from sheets and went to put his bed back together, missing the fact he could no longer roll over and get a nose full of Becca on his spare pillow, or Becca’s pillow, as he’d begun to think of it.
Rich wished he had paid attention when they taught him how to make a bed in military school. But since military school had been the last place in the world he wanted to be besides jail, and he’d been scared spit-less, he acted tough and dumb. Since Becca moved in, he’d been spending so much time tossing and turning in the middle of the night thinking about her sleeping in the next room, he awoke to find his bed looked as if something had detonate
d in it. Every morning he’d put his bed back together the same way, and it hadn’t held up yet. Well, except that first night. The bed was well intact when he’d woken up naked on top of an equally naked Becca.
Tripod’s yowl pulled him from his rather explicit daydream so Rich went out to see what Tripod was so excited about. He wasn’t in front of the television watching the monkeys swing around the screen, which is where Rich had left him. Rich put his hands on his hips and waited for the next blast. Sure enough, not a second later, Tripod all but screamed. Rich ran after the sound, and when he turned the corner behind the kitchen into the sunroom/mud room, smoke poured out of the utility closet. Fuck.
Rich ran in, grabbed Tripod, and hightailed it back to the kitchen to get the fire extinguisher from under the sink. Tripod bounced beside him as he ran back to the utility room, opened the door to the dryer, and filled it with extinguisher foam. Becca was going to kill him. At least he’d get out of laundry duty. Rich figured if he burned her clothes once, he’d never be allowed to touch a dryer again.
Gathering Tripod up in a towel, Rich went to answer the door. Wayne and Henry had been banging but busted through after using their own key. “We saw the smoke pouring out of your apartment and called 911.”
The fire truck pulled up a minute later, and the firefighters had Wayne, Henry, Rich, and Tripod wait outside until they made sure there was no further danger and gave them permission to return to the premises.
To Rich, the wait seemed like an eternity. It was ten minutes to anyone not holding a three-legged cat wrapped in a towel who knew how to make good use out of his claws. When the all-clear was sounded, Rich walked through the doors, Tripod still thankfully contained in a towel, and sat on the couch. His eyes stung from either the smoke or his little chemistry experiment in the bathroom—possibly both. His arms stung from Tripod’s attempts to rip him to shreds, and his ego stung from yet another failure. Of all the billions of people who did laundry, why did he have to be the one to incinerate the contents of the dryer? Especially since that dryer contained what Rich figured was most of the lingerie owned by his roommate—the same roommate who had been known to come after him with a baseball bat.
Becca ran screaming into the apartment and threw herself in his arms. Tripod yowled, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy running her hands all over Rich.
“Oh God, are you okay?”
Rich put Tripod in a football hold so he could calm Becca down.
“He’s fine.”
“Who?”
“Tripod. It really looks worse than it is.”
“What does? You’re covered with soot. You smell like smoke and chemicals. You’re scorched.”
“We’re fine. I just have Tripod wrapped up until the firefighters let me close the doors. He’s already spent time outside, and I think he’s more interested in freedom than in coffee and Animal Planet.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Look, Becca. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“You mean there’s more?”
“It’s about the fire.”
“Don’t worry about that. The important thing is that you’re safe. The damage is minor, or at least that’s what the firefighter on the stoop said.”
“Yeah, well. I guess so, but still, you might want to sit down.”
Becca turned as white as his sheets were before he’d washed them with his socks. Unfortunately, the socks were black and red. Now his sheets were a kind of grayish pink—not that he really cared. He called that a success in light of the way his second try turned out, and if bad luck continued to plague him, no one would ever see the color of his sheets again. As upsetting as that thought was, it was nowhere near as awful as the prospect of telling Becca the news.
Becca sank down into the couch, which seemed to engulf her. She looked almost fragile, and Rich wanted to kick his own ass.
Becca wrapped her arms around herself. “Just spit it out, Rich. You’re scaring me.”
“The fire was in the dryer.”
“You burnt your clothes?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, what did you burn?”
Rich resisted the urge to cross himself.
“Excuse me?” A male voice interrupted. Rich and Becca looked up to see a firefighter had walked in. “This looks like the culprit.” He held up a wire. “It went through one of the holes in the dryer and apparently hit the heating element and threw enough sparks to ignite the contents.”
Becca turned to Rich. “Why would you wash a wire?”
The firefighter chuckled. “It’s an underwire, ma’am. You really should use a lingerie bag if you’re going to machine wash and dry your unmentionables.
Becca’s eyes widened. “My unmentionables?”
Rich cringed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I was trying to do you a favor.”
“A favor?”
“I was cleaning the bathroom like you told me to, and I found your laundry in the hamper.
“So you had the urge to wash my clothes?”
“I was trying to do something nice for you, and well, the first load of laundry I washed didn’t turn out so bad.”
“Dude.” The firefighter interrupted. “You torched the lady’s underwear?”
Rich nodded.
“You need to replace the dryer. That one’s toast.”
Rich stood and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks, I appreciate the help.” Rich couldn’t miss the pitying look the guy gave him.
“Good luck, man. We’re out of here.”
Becca didn’t say anything as the firefighter left the apartment. Rich watched her carefully, not sure how she’d retaliate. Whatever he expected, it was not for her to walk into her room and quietly close the door.
Rich didn’t see her until the next morning when he was getting ready for work. He’d spent the rest of the evening feeling like crap about the fire and was waiting for Becca to come out and ream him. He’d pay to replace the dryer and all the clothes he’d ruined. He didn’t care about that. What bothered him was the look on Becca’s face when she’d walked away from him the night before.
He cursed under his breath and grabbed his briefcase, ready to leave for work. He looked over his shoulder and saw Becca shuffling out of her bedroom all warm, sleepy, and sexy even though she wore hundred-year-old ratty sweats. Unfortunately for him, he knew what was under them. “Oh good, you’re up.”
Becca didn’t say anything; she just stared at him.
“I didn’t want to wake you before I left, but I wanted to tell you that I’m going to see Gina tonight, so if all goes well, I probably won’t be home to cook dinner.”
Becca smiled, the look of relief clear on her face. “Good luck with that. Do you want me to write a note expounding your Domestic God virtues?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think it’ll be necessary.” And truth be told, there wasn’t much to expound upon. Shit, if this didn’t work he wasn’t sure what he would do. The dinner with his dean was in two days. If Gina didn’t give him another shot… no, he wasn’t going there.
He slid into his jacket, turned, and caught Becca watching him with a strange look on her face. “What is it?” He checked his fly, yup, it was zipped, and his tie was straight.
“Nothing, you look fine. I was just, you know, woolgathering.”
“Okay, well, have a good one.”
She stuffed her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt. “You too.”
Wednesday evening Rich sat at the bar of his and Gina’s favorite rendezvous—a quiet little place halfway between his office and hers, waiting for her. He’d practiced his speech most of the day, lucky for him it was an exam day, but from the look on his students’ faces as they left, he was one of the few feeling lucky. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember what he’d planned to say. A lot of good all the practicing did him. He would have been better off grading papers. With spending every spare moment cooking and cleaning wi
th Becca, he was way behind on his paperwork. Who knew housework was so time-consuming? Of course, if he weren’t such a complete screwup he wouldn’t have to do most everything over again after cleaning up whatever it was he destroyed.
The minute Gina walked in, Rich knew he was fighting an uphill battle. She didn’t look at all happy to see him. Damn. He stood to pull out a stool for her, and when he bent to kiss her, she turned her head so he barely hit her cheek. She wore a body-skimming, long-sleeved red sweater dress that, even with her coat on, stopped all traffic and most of the conversation in the bar.
“You look great. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at him and allowed him to help her off with her coat—the coat he almost dropped when he saw her dress. It was a lipstick red with a very deep V-neck that showed off her rather amazing breasts that he knew for a fact were real. The soft material, what there was of it, clung to her like a second skin. He wondered if she wore a bra because he saw no signs of one. Lord knew she wasn’t wearing panties. He took her arm and helped her up on the barstool. He always thought she was tiny, but most women were compared to him. But damn she was short. He never really noticed before, but after spending two weeks with Becca, who was anything but, Gina’s shortness was glaring. Even with heels, she stood at least a foot shorter than he.
Gina swiveled the stool to face the bartender and graced him with a genuine smile, much more genuine than the one she’d given Rich. Christ, this did not bode well for his plan. She confirmed his thought when she turned to him after she ordered her drink. “What do you want, Richie?”
Okay, so she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “I’ve missed you.”
She laughed. “Come on, you expect me to believe that? I know you, remember?”
So she was right, he really hadn’t missed her. Of course he’d been so busy trying to do everything possible to become a damn Domestic God he hadn’t realized it, not that he’d admit it to her. He took a swig of his beer. “If I didn’t miss you why would I have gone through all the trouble to learn how to cook and clean?”
