Page 83 of Catching Sparks

My stomach fills with lead as I watch him toss his shirt over his head and leave the room. I stand in place, staring at the empty doorway until I hear the front door close. The sound is soft, and I don’t know if that’s worse than if he had slammed it. Each step I take down the hall feels weighed down, but I don’t stop until I’m in front of the living room window.

The blinds are shut, so I peel them open just enough to stare out at the dark street. Garrison is already in the truck, but he hasn’t turned it on. The cab is dark enough to hide his expression but not the outline of his body. I’d have to be half-blind not to tell how tense he is. But then again, maybe I’m just so desperate to see him struggling even a bit as much as I am that I’m making things up.

This wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Yeah, we didn’t have an official FWB agreement, but that’s still all we were. I shouldn’t be expecting things from him outside of that. It’s unfair, but I can’t help it. Not now that my stupid feelings are involved.

I have a ridiculous crush on Garrison Beckett, and he’s run at the first touch of conflict. It’s a sign from the universe that I’m not about to ignore.

Spinning from the window, I head straight for the bathroom to run a shower hot enough to burn the lingering touch of him from my body.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and wince at my first taste of it. Burnt. No surprise. The machine is older than I am. It was a hand-me-down from my parents.

The house is empty as I stand in the kitchen, the fluffy robe wrapped around me feeling itchy for the first time ever. My scowl hasn’t left since I went to bed last night, and I don’t see it leaving for a while longer.

I’m moping. Well and truly moping over a man. Bryce will be up in arms when she hears about this. I haven’t even brushed my hair or my teeth, which is both gross and pathetic. Still, I stand at the kitchen counter and stare out the window at my pathetic excuse for a backyard.

Unless you live in the country, you don’t get much of a yard anywhere in Cherry Peak. The only time I truly enjoy staring outside is when I’m at the ranch. Mountain peaks and endless fields always settle me. This town certainly doesn’t. It hasn’t for a long time now.

Maybe I’ve outgrown it, my dreams and goals too big for Cherry Peak. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m emotional and going to extremes in my fit of self-pity.

I take another sip of my coffee and fight past a gag. The clock on the stove says it’s just past 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Drinking a cup of burnt coffee while staring out the window like I’m the star in a pathetically sad music video isn’t how I imagined spending my morning.

Fuck it. After setting my cup in the sink, I fling my ratted hair behind my shoulders and leave the kitchen. My bedroom comes into view at the same time there’s a knock on my front door. I glance down at my robe to make sure I’m covered up before dragging my feet down the hallway.

When I pull the door open to reveal a tall guy with a pair of blue overalls on and a baseball cap with a logo for some delivery company I’ve never heard of, I grow annoyed.

“You’ve got the wrong house. I haven’t ordered anything,” I tell him, hands gripping my hips.

The guy just stares at me with a bored expression, a fancy little machine in his hand with a lit screen. “This is 17 Cherry Street, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I drawl. Glancing over his shoulder, I see a white delivery van parked on the street, blocking most of it. “You’re lucky nobody is up and driving through here with how you’ve parked.”

“Your street is ridiculously slim.”

“That’s true. Well, would you mind telling me what you’ve come to deliver to my address, at least?” I ask.

Another door shuts on the street before a second guy scurries around the van. He unhooks a lock at the back, and then the door flies up, rattling loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood.

The delivery man in front of me checks the machine in his hand. “A washer and dryer. I have it noted that you need help with install as well, so if you just sign here, we’ll get them brought in and set up as quickly as possible.”

“Is there a name on the order? No offense, but I’m not about to let you into my house without knowing for sure you’re legit.”

Annoyance flashes across his features before he tightens his expression. “Nathan Beaumont. You know the guy?”

“No, I don’t know a Nat—” I cut myself off, realization punching through me. My chest warms despite my best efforts not to make a big deal out of this. “Yeah, I do. I’ll sign, and you can get started.”

He hands over what looks like a cordless debit machine but thicker, and I sign the screen with my nail before handing it back.

“Where do you want them?” he asks, tucking the machine into a pocket lining the leg of his overalls.

“The basement. You can come in and I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t say a word as I lead him inside and show him around, not even to thank me for giving him a warning not to smack his head on the low basement ceiling. I don’t let it bother me, though. It doesn’t matter to me whether he’s happy to be here or not.

It’s the second delivery guy that asks if I want to keep the old machines or if I’d prefer they take and dispose of them.

“Take them. Please get them out of my house,” I beg.

He grins and agrees before they start getting to work. I’m half in a daze as I step into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. The mess of hair on my head is terrifying, and my mouth tastes like bad coffee, but I make no move to fix either of those things.

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