by Jen Morris
16
The fluorescent lights flicker on as I step into the laundry room, and I smile, relieved to be alone with my dirty laundry.
I guess this isn’t how one is supposed to spend their evening on Thanksgiving, but I haven’t completely opted out of the whole American holiday thing. I wrote a blog post a few days ago about dealing with invasive questions from your family over Thanksgiving dinner (you know the kind: “when are you going to settle down with a nice guy?” and “you’re not getting any younger, don’t you want children?”) and I watched the parade on TV.
But, you know. When you’re running out of clean clothes to wear—so much so that you have to wear your pink bunny pajama pants to the laundry room—it becomes a bit of an emergency.
I place my basket on top of a machine. Even though it’s a cold and dank room, it still has that nice smell of laundry powder and dryer sheets, which is oddly comforting. But—bugger. I’ve forgotten my coins.
I dash back up to the apartment and when I return, I’m surprised to see Henry, clad in dinosaur pajamas, glancing around at the machines.
“Hi, Henry.” I wander over to my machine, pretending not to be on the lookout for Michael. I haven’t seen him since we shared a coffee at Beanie almost two weeks ago, and I’ve been avoiding the hall in case I run into him. I felt so awkward after the last time.
Of course, it would be just my bloody luck that he’d come down here the one time I’m doing laundry in my pajama bottoms.
Henry turns to me, clutching a towel in his hand. Concern is etched on his cute face.
“You okay?” I ask.
He holds up the towel. “I need to wash this, real quick.” His voice trembles with panic.
“Okay. Do you want some help?”
He glances around at the machines before looking back at me. “Yes, please.”
I take the towel. It’s cream colored and covered in some kind of tomato-based sauce. “What happened?”
“Promise you won’t tell my dad?”
I nod.
“I dropped a jar of sauce and I didn’t know how else to clean it up, so I used this.”
“Where is your dad?”
Henry’s eyes are wide with worry. “He’s in the shower but he’ll be out real soon.”
I glance down at the towel, forcing myself not to picture Michael in the shower. I might have been avoiding him, but I can’t say I’ve been avoiding thinking about him. It’s making for some great romance writing, though. All that pent-up sexual frustration has to go somewhere.
“You didn’t want to tell him?” I ask, turning towards a machine.
“It’s one of my mom’s towels. I thought he might get mad.”
I freeze at Henry’s mention of his mother. Michael made some oblique references to her in his book, and he mentioned she was trying to get full custody, but beyond that I know nothing about her. She was just this kind of abstract idea in Michael’s past.
But now, holding her towel in my hands, she becomes a concrete, real person. In my mind a picture of her appears: a tall, slim goddess, stunningly gorgeous, elegant and sexy. He’s pretty damn easy on the eyes, I’m sure he wouldn’t marry a troll. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s short and stocky, perhaps a little plump—plumper than me, of course—with a wonky nose. Maybe a lazy eye. And bacne.
“Can you help?” Henry pleads.
Shit.
I take a breath, trying to focus on the problem at hand. Poor Henry looks on the verge of tears.
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” I open a machine and stuff the towel inside.
“Oh! I don’t have any quarters,” he says, his voice rising in panic again.
“It’s okay, I’ve got lots.” I give him a reassuring smile as I put some of my powder into the machine and push a coin into the slot. “Everything will be okay, Henry.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“You know, I’m sure your dad wouldn’t be mad if it was an accident.”
He shakes his head, his brow knitting. “I think Mom wants the towel back. And if I’ve ruined it then Dad will be mad, because Mom will yell at him.” He glances over my shoulder at the washing machine. “How long will it take?”
“Probably a while. If you want, I can keep an eye on it for you. Why don’t you go back upstairs? I’ll put it in the dryer once it’s washed.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes dart between me and the door.
“Of course. I’ve got to stay to do my laundry too. I’ll take care of it. I’ll leave it over here when it’s done.” I gesture to an empty shelf.
“Okay. Thanks, Alex.” He dashes out of the laundry room.
I smile to myself, absently loading my clothes into the washer. He’s a sweet kid. But his mom sounds… Well. It’s not my place to comment.
Knowing I’ve got a good hour to kill, I pop back up to the apartment and grab my laptop to keep me company. Unsurprisingly, I find myself in the mood to write some romance. The mention of Michael in the shower got the creative juices flowing, and it’s not long before my fingers are flying over the keys.
I’ve been writing so much of this romance stuff lately and I think I’m getting pretty good at it. I’m enjoying it more than my blog about being single, if I’m honest. I don’t know what it is, but it just feels more me.
Still, I want to actually do something with my writing, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be comfortable showing my romance novel to anyone. At least with my blog I’ve got readers—two dozen, now—who can relate to my posts. And that’s cool.
After a while, I put my laundry and Henry’s towel into the dryer and return to my laptop. I’m halfway through describing a naughty scene with Michael and I—uh, I mean Matthew and Annie—and it’s pretty good, if I say so myself.
“The water cascades over Matthew’s hard—” I hear from behind me and I snap my laptop shut, turning to see Michael peering over my shoulder.
“Stop it,” I say, feeling my cheeks color. When I hear it out loud like that it sounds ludicrous. I haven’t shown him any writing and the last thing I want him to read is this. I take in the cheeky grin on his face and, despite myself, a smile slides onto my lips.
“Cute PJ’s.” He gestures to my bunny pants.
I grimace as I remember what I’m wearing. Still, nothing I can do about that now, and what difference would it make? I could be here in a ball gown and I’m sure he would be unaffected.
My eyes wander up and down his body before I can stop them. “Right back at you.” He’s wearing dark green and blue plaid pajama pants with a white T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower, looking gorgeous as usual. I swallow, trying not to look at his shoulders, clearly defined in the snug-fitting T-shirt.
He wanders around, surveying the washers. “Where’s the towel?”
“What do you mean?” I push to my feet, feigning innocence.
“Oh, come on.” He gives me a knowing smile. “There was sauce smeared all over the kitchen cabinets and the linen closet was open. It’s not exactly a job for Sherlock Holmes.”
I giggle. “He was very worried you would be mad at him.” I motion to the dryer behind me. “It’s in there.”
“Thanks.” He flashes me a grin, then his smile fades away. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“Um. Maybe.”
“I knew it! What have I done now?”
“Nothing…” An awkward laugh slips out. “Not really.”
He raises his hands to his hips, gaze pinned on me.
“It’s… I don’t know.” I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I just feel weird around you.” Whoops. I hadn’t planned on being so honest but that just came out.
He raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Why? Because I have a huge crush on you, and every spare second I get I’m thinking up dirty things I want to do to you, then writing about it in a romance novel while trying to convince myself I’m not really writing about us, but rather two fictional characters who just happen to have similar names to us.”<
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Well, that’s what I should have said. But I can’t be that honest. Instead I say, “I don’t know.”
A smile plays on his lips, his eyes lit with amusement as he watches me.
I frown as that familiar feeling of embarrassment creeps up my spine. “Stop that,” I say, gesturing to his expression. “You’re always doing that. Always laughing at me.”
His smile vanishes. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re smirking. You’re always mocking me, like you think I’m just some hilarious joke.”
His eyes soften and his mouth curves into a gentle smile. “I’m not laughing at you, Alex. You make me smile and you make me laugh, but I’m not laughing at you.”
“Well, just stop it.”
He chuckles, crossing his arms defiantly. “Stop what? Enjoying your company?”
“Yes,” I mutter, but I give him a wry smile anyway.
He chuckles again, then stands there with his arms folded, gazing at me.
“So.” I shift my weight. “Er, happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, and you. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing. I spent the day reading.”
His brows furrows. “You spent the day alone?”
I nod.
“That sucks. I didn’t realize. You could have had dinner with us, we had way too much turkey.”
“Oh, it was fine,” I say, trying to ignore the fizzle of pleasure I feel at the thought of having dinner with him and Henry. “Thanksgiving doesn’t mean much to me.”
“Still… no one should spend Thanksgiving alone.”
I fight against a smile and lose. He’s being really sweet. I think back to our conversation at Beanie, when he listened to me talk about turning thirty and wanting to go after my dreams—when he made me feel like I wasn’t crazy.
Shit, why does he have to be such a nice guy? Things were a lot easier when I thought he was a misogynistic jerk.
His gaze shifts to my laptop on the table. “What were you writing?”
“Oh…” Warmth spreads over my neck. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t seem like nothing.” He leans against one of the machines, arms still crossed, expression playful. “Seemed quite interesting.”
I dig my teeth into my lower lip, running my eyes over him. I can’t help but wish I wasn’t having this conversation in our basement laundry room, in my pajamas. And then I notice, part of me wants to tell him about my novel. Not about the characters, or the oddly familiar scenarios or anything in any detail, but just the fact that I’m writing a novel. I’m excited about my writing, and after our last conversation, I know he’ll understand that.
But then what? He’ll realize what a dreamy, romantic sap I am and lose all respect for me. And no doubt he’ll think my choice in genre is silly, because it’s not high-brow or literary or any of that meaningful stuff.
Or worse—he’ll want to read it.
“I’d love to read some of your writing.”
Fuck.
“Really?” I choke on a laugh. “Now?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
I think of the scene I was just writing about him in the shower and heat streaks across my cheeks. Jesus. The last thing I need is for him to read that. He’ll think I’m a crazy, horny maniac. And potentially a bit of a stalker.
“Er, I don’t think so. It’s… I’m not ready to share it. It’s a work in progress.”
He studies me for a second then gives a small nod. “Okay, I get it. But when you’re ready, I’d love to read it. I might be able to offer some advice.”
Actually, that’s a good point. For example, he might say, “we’d never have sex in that position,” and then offer some helpful alternatives. Hopefully with a practical, hands-on demonstration. I swallow hard at the thought, because God, I want him right now. Maybe on one of the machines, during the spin cycle…
I shake my head to clear the thought. Pull it together, you horndog.
“Thanks. Yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”
An awkward silence settles over us, punctuated only by the sound of the dryer spinning behind me. I wait for him to say goodnight and leave, but he doesn’t.
“So how long have you been in New York now?”
I think for a moment. “Um, like a month and a half?”
“And you’ve done all the tourist stuff?”
“Well, no.” I give him a sheepish smile. “I’ve hardly left the West Village. I did take a cab up to Times Square but it was so full-on that I came back home. I want to go see more of the sights, but I’ve been so busy settling in and working and stuff. And, I don’t know. The city… it’s a bit intimidating.” I look down at my hands, feeling stupid. I wanted to move to New York and now that I’m here, I spend most of my time within the same ten-block radius. Which, come to think of it, is probably about the same size as my hometown.
I glance up, expecting Michael to be regarding me with another of his amused expressions, but he’s not. He’s sawing his teeth across his bottom lip, his face thoughtful. “What are you doing next week?”
“Er…” I hesitate, taken aback. “I’m not sure. Working probably, and writing. Why?”
He shrugs, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth. “If you have some time free, why don’t you let me show you some of the sights? I’d take you sooner but I have to work. So if you don’t mind waiting until next week… what do you say, a native New Yorker showing you around?”
There’s a flutter in my stomach as his words sink in. He’s asking me out for a day of sight-seeing. Well, he’s not asking me out, obviously, but he’s offering to show me around. For a whole day. The two of us.
“Um… are you sure you don’t mind?” I manage at last, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. Because I’m not nonchalant. I’m cartwheeling inside.
He gives me a strange look. “Of course I don’t mind. It will be fun.”
“Okay, sounds good.” I try my best to contain my silly grin. “What will we do?”
“We can do whatever you want.” Something kindles in his eyes as he holds my gaze, and I wonder, just for a tiny nanosecond, if we are actually talking about sight-seeing at all. My breathing quickens as I imagine him stepping closer and pressing his mouth to mine.
Then the dryer beeps behind me, breaking the spell.
Of course we’re only talking about sight-seeing. I’m a delusional moron with a bad habit of slipping into romantic daydreams in the presence of delicious men. Well, this one, anyway.
With a sigh, I turn and pull out his towel. It’s warm in my hands and as I pass it to him, our fingers brush. This sends a zap of electricity right through me. If he feels it too, he doesn’t show it.
“Well, I’ll text you and we’ll organize it. I’m looking forward to it.” He gazes at me for a moment longer, then drags his eyes from mine. “Goodnight.”
And even though I know I shouldn’t, I watch his butt as he walks out of the laundry room.
17
We’re almost a week into December now and it’s cold. I’m having to get used to dressing in layers. Back home winter was pretty uneventful, so it’s a bit of a shock to the system. And I’m sure it’s only going to get colder.
I inspect my outfit in the mirror: a violet-colored long-sleeved dress that hugs my curves and sits mid-thigh, over black wool tights and leather knee-high boots I found in a thrift store back home. I know this day out with Michael doesn’t mean anything, but I still made an effort. It’s cute, if not exactly sexy. But honestly? It’s too damn cold to be sexy.
There’s a knock on the front door at 9 o’clock sharp. I’m trying to play it cool, but my mouth has a mind of its own, pushing into a grin when I turn the handle and see Michael on the other side.
Fuck, he looks good.
He’s in dark jeans over brown boots, a navy-blue knitted sweater under a black cashmere coat. But the best thing of all is his smile. His mouth is tilted into the sexiest grin and his brown eyes are sparkling. With that
expression, you’d think he was picking up Scarlett Johansson for a night of torrid sex rather than just plain old me for a tour of the city.
But hell, I’ll take it.
“Hey.” He links his hands and leans against the door frame. “You ready?”
I nod, trying to ignore the little flip in my belly as I pull on my coat and follow him out onto the street. I’m kind of nervous, which is absurd. This isn’t a date. And I know that. But my body is getting all ahead of itself, like it knows something I don’t.
Just bloody rein it in, I mentally chastise myself. I should know better than to turn this into some fantasy day out in town together.
There’s a cab waiting for us on the street and Michael opens my door. I lower myself onto the seat, then slide all the way over, expecting him to climb in after me. But he closes the door like a gentleman and wanders around to the other side, so I hastily slide back, hoping he didn’t see.
God, I’ve already embarrassed myself and it’s only been five seconds.
He climbs into the cab and leans forward to say something to the driver I don’t quite catch, then turns back to me with a grin. “I’ve planned just a few places. I hope that’s okay? We can do the rest another time.”
Another time? Cue another belly flip.
“Sure,” I say casually, attempting to flatten the smile pulling at my mouth. “So where are we going?”
“I thought we could do Grand Central Terminal, then Times Square, then head over to Rockefeller Plaza. What do you think?”
“Oh. No Empire State Building?” I try not to sound disappointed, but I guess I assumed that one would be a no-brainer.
He shakes his head with a mischievous smile. “No. We could do that another time if you like, but Top of the Rock in Rockefeller Plaza is better. Trust me.”
Anticipation ripples through me. Because I do trust Michael, and I think this is going to be fun—beyond hanging out with him, that is. I spent the past week thinking about the fact that I was going to be spending the day with Michael, and I didn’t actually stop to think about the sight-seeing part. But we are going out to see the city, and that’s exciting.
