Page 19 of Lovingly Restored

Any trace of resilience leaves me, and I wince. We nearly made it through day one without the topic coming up, but here we are. The elephant is in the room. I sort of wished an African mammalwasbetween us. For a guy who isn’t interested, he’s standing real close. So close that I can smell hops on his breath and know he’s chewing cinnamon gum to cover it up. He licks his full lips, and I catch a flash of the pale pink gum tucked between his white teeth. I scowl way up at him, unwilling to break eye contact first lest it be a sign of submission. He may be related to the owner of this house, but I belong here too.

He lowers his voice to a whisper. Hot, spiced breath fans against my forehead. “You almost got me hot with the fuzzy housecoat, though.”

He touches the neckline of my robe, rubbing the material with his thumb, brushing my collarbone with one callused finger. My skin flushes at the contact, embarrassing evidence of our one-sided attraction. Arousal and anger wars in my chest. I can’t help but think he’s screwing with me. Is this another power play like earlier? I smack his hand away, the sharp sound distinct in the quiet room. He recoils, stuffing his hands into his dirty jean’s pockets, having the decency to look embarrassed.

“Goodnight.” I infuse enough venom into my tone to be a warning.

I storm out with my measly granola bars clutched in my sweaty palm, probably melting the chocolate chips.

Chapter seven

Isaac

Iopenandclosemy mouth, an uncanny resemblance to the plastic guppies in that magnetic fishing game, but nothing good comes out. Ashlyn leaves, the kitchen door swinging shut and the sound of her slippers fading. Once she’s out of earshot, all the right words pop into my head. Ground-breaking things like:SorryandI’m a jerkandI’ve had at least three beers on an empty stomach.Not that the last one is an excuse for my behaviour. Instead of going after her, because she’s fucking scary when she’s mad, I order a large barbecue chicken pizza and finish the entire thing alone in the kitchen. No big deal, I’m used to eating by myself. Bachelor life. Mummo needs a nurse, that much is obvious, and the last thing I need is to drive her away or give her a reason to call my dad to complain. I’m a moron, and I have to do better at keeping my hands to myself. I manage to shower even though there is some sort of creeping plant hanging in there. At one point a vine wrapped itself around my wrist while I shampooed, and I nearly bailed. I swear it was out to get me.

When I’m out of the bathroom and ready to sleep, I stand outside my childhood haven. The place I sought whenever my dad and I butted heads is right behind the three-panel, solid-core door. More recently, After Pappa passed, I stayed here for weeks so Mummo wouldn’t be alone. That was years ago, and it’s bizarre to be back. My damp feet conduct a chill through the threadbare runner, and the too small towel around my hips is weak protection from the draughts. I turn the cool brass handle, but it sticks. It’s then that I notice the soft light seeping out from under the door into the hall.

“Oh, you’re kidding me,” I say under my breath. I lean in, placing my lips close to the door. “Ashlyn.”

No reply.

“Ashlyn,“ I growl. “It’s obvious you’re in there. I can see the light.”

I want to keep my voice down for Mummo, but my restraint is waning.

“Who is it?” Her voice is light and sweet.

Who the fuck else would it be?

Give me strength.

“That’smyroom, Ashlyn.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know it was yours,” she echoes my earlier apology about the granola bars.

I bang my fist, just once, against the door. It bounces on its hinges, and her response is a barely audible yelp followed by an aggravating lilt of laughter. My old mattress has lumps in all the right places. I’ve memorized where the floors squeak and how to silently open the stubborn sash window, a skill honed by more than a few nights of sneaking out.

It’s mine.

The only room left is the primary bedroom. Cold, stale air whooshes toward me when I enter. My skin is covered in gooseflesh, but I’m hot with annoyance. I chuck my bags towards the bed, overshoot, and they sail over the queen-sized mattress, thudding onto the floor, missing the tall brass lamp in the corner by a hair.

“Damn it!”

I have a whole other chain of expletives I’ll save for a time when my grandmother isn’t sleeping nearby. I glare at the shared wall, picturingheron the other side, comfy and cozy.

Is my name on the door? No. But Isaac Lauri is sure as shit written on the second-grade bowling trophy on the shelf above the desk. There’s also a handful of Playboy issues hidden beneath the mattress, so I send a prayer to the pornography gods that she’s not a nosy roommate.

Sleeping in my grandmother and grandfather’s room, a space they shared for decades, seems all wrong. Even Mummo relocated to the guest room not long after he passed. Logically, it’s a room with a bed and all the other makings of a place to rest, but the remnants of their love are here. Mismatched picture frames sit upon each surface, holding memories and catching dust. An oval frame displays a photo of a strawberry blonde in a striped bikini with a chubby toddler in her lap. I run my thumb through the dust, revealing the face of my mother, who I only know from pictures. The photo evokes no memories. I should probably have mommy issues over something like that, but any gap that her leaving caused was thoroughly and lovingly filled by my grandparents. I only wished her departure hadn’t created such bitterness in my remaining parent. Maybe that was always there. Perhaps that’s what made her leave. She didn’t have any family. I suppose it made sense to leave me in a town that had loving grandparents.

I slip into pyjama pants and fall back on the bed, a solo trust building exercise between myself and the antique furniture. The handmade quilt is covered in dust and my nose tickles when I pull it over me. I’ll wash it all tomorrow. Since when does offering to share a pizza with someone who said they were hungry imply something more than eating? My laughter when she mentioned keeping things professional was forced. I’d extended a proverbial olive branch, and she turned it into a lecture on personal boundaries. The soft quilt backing curls into my fists, but it’s the silky texture of her skin that’s trapped in my mind. The way her hips rocked as she reached for her measly granola bars. Too hungry to only take one, but too stubborn to enjoy a proper meal with me. Her curvy butt managed to fill out the fabric of that robe in a way that shouldn’t be possible. I tried to avert my gaze and keep my distance, but I’m human, and the damn box wasn’t going to leap into her hands. She pulled me in like a tide to shore, and the warmth of her back seeping into my chest made it hard to go back out to the chill of the sea. The quilt tents over my hips. I groan, annoyed with myself for getting aroused by a woman who had all but told me to fuck off. I roll over, trapping the hardness against the mattress. I’m not touching a boner that she’s responsible for. And that apology I’d been planning? That’s not gonna happen.

Chapter eight

Ashlyn

Themistfromthespray bottle catches the light, and a rainbow arcs through the air before the moisture settles on my growing palm tree. Water droplets roll along the dark, waxy leaves. Fresh shoots erupt from the top. This plant likes his new home. I was enjoying it here too, until an oversized houseguest came in and took things a step too far last night. I scoff, bouncing onto my bed, trying to quash down the annoyance I feel every time I replay the encounter. I’m being paid to be here, and he’s, well, I’m not sure what he’s doing. It’s hard enough to figure out my patients and their care, let alone navigating their extended family. I leave my door ajar to hear when Mrs. Lauri wakes from her nap and settle back against the headboard with my book. I scan the page to find the right spot. The main male character just cornered the heroine backstage, and things are about to getjuicyin the shadows of stage left.

“How’s Punk RockCock?”

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