Page 33 of The Love Destroyers

Chuck served crème brûlée for dessert, after telling us it needed to be our little secret because Claire knew he wasn’t supposed to have cream and sugar, and Mrs. Rosings made a very appreciative sound.

Chuck’s eyes hooked onto her, and she cleared her throat and said, “Why, that was absolutely divine.”

“Maybe we can make some together sometime,” Chuck told her easily, but there was this look in his eyes that said this was different than the one hundred easy offers he made on a daily basis.

“Oh, how dear of you. I’d enjoy that,” she said, and Emma nearly choked on a bite of her own dessert. “Perhaps we could do it at Smith House sometime soon. We’d love to have you over, of course. I can give you a tour of the grounds.”

In an undertone, she whispered to me, “She’s never used her kitchen before.Never.”

“That would be just the thing,” Chuck said, nodding and smiling. “I would love to have a tour of your grounds.”

I grinned at Emma, and she turned her laugh into a pretend coughing fit.

It was a nice moment, a moment I wanted to live in for a while, but my sister pulled me into my room after we cleared thedessert dishes. She said she wanted to see how I’d decorated the space—I hadn’t—and I felt sure she was going to give me some shit for coming on to Emma. I was almost disappointed when she didn’t. Instead, she asked, “Aren’t you staying, Shay? You said you’d probably stay. But…” She waved a hand toward the main room. “None of this is you. The only thing that is you is the Camaro model you built with dad, and some of the pictures on the wall, and Chuck says he’s the one who put those things out.”

She was right. It was his place, not mine. What I didn’t see fit to tell her was that our tiny-ass apartment in New York had been the same way—more hers than mine. I’ve always had the feeling of not wanting to make myself too comfortable. Melting into a place is like melting into a person: dangerous.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, mostly meaning it.

And we went back out to find out Mrs. Rosings and Emma were already gone. Chuck seemed as disappointed about it as I was. He mentioned at least five times what a fine woman Mrs. Rosings is, so I’m not the only one to fall prey to the charms of a beautiful, commanding woman.

“You like her, huh?” I asked.

But he got a worried look and started playing with his wedding ring, so I decided not to press him. He’d get there, but he was a man who needed a lot of time to think things through.

I know he has been, because I saw him googling crème brûlée recipes last night. He’d probably be doing it again this morning if he weren’t checking out some shared working spaces. Even though he’s definitely past the age most people retire, he doesn’t think he can sit idle, a sentiment I understand, so he’s going to do some freelance work.

Chuck’s apartment feels too empty without him around. Cold. Sighing, I kick back on the plaid couch in the front room and pull out my phone, slapping it down on the glass coffee table.

My mind wanders back to what Rosie said. How I haven’t really taken ownership of this space. She’s right, of course. It’s his apartment, and I’m only staying here, although not for lack of effort on his part.

Maybe I don’t like making myself comfortable because of what I did. Maybe I’m worried karma, which skipped over Jeffrey Nichols for months and me for years, is going to come knocking on my door and ask for its pound of flesh…

As if karma hears me and wants to watch me flinch, my phone dings. Shaking my head at my nonsense, I pick it up and check out the notification.

Honey Do

DoItYourself: While I do, usually, prefer to do it myself, I need a wall knocked down. My mother’s friend says you’re the guy to ask.

My lips twitch at the memory of Reba, the older red-haired lady who’d brought out a chair and watched me knock down the wall between her two spare bedrooms—step one in making them an enormous combined room. She’d already hired a company to do the actual construction, but knocking down the wall would have been an extra seven hundred bucks, and I only charged her an hourly rate.

Truthfully, it had felt damn good.

I’ve already gotten two referrals from her—one from a seventy-nine-year-old woman who’d wanted me to move the cans on the bottom shelf of her pantry to the top. Given she was probably five foot one in her stockinged feet, it seemed to me the only reason she wanted me to do it was so she could watch me do it—a theory that was validated when she told me, after the lastcan was moved, that she’d changed her mind and wanted them put back.

Shaking my head, I write,

Mr.FixIt: Your mother’s friend sounds like a sensible lady. She wouldn’t be Reba, would she?

DoItYourself: That’s the one.

Mr.FixIt: Will you also be asking me to take my shirt off? Because that’s fifty bucks extra.

There’s a pause before she responds…

DoItYourself: If you take your shirt off, I’m macing you. Is that clear?

Laughing, I type back,

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