Page 24 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I open the fridge. There’s a box of wine, some takeout that’s two or maybe three days old, and something that might have been lettuce in a past life. Who at this age still has boxed wine? That’s an entirely different conversation I’m not planning to have with her today.
I look back at her.
She crosses her arms. “I wasn’t in the mood to cook.”
“Good thing I am.” I grab a beer, pop it open, and slowly sip before gesturing at the counter. “Now, step aside. I need space to work my magic.”
She watches me for a long moment, sighs as if my presence greatly inconveniences her, and then rubs her temples. “Fine. But if you burn my kitchen down?—”
“Relax, Liv. I cook. I don’t combust . . . unless you ask nicely.” I toss her a beer, and she catches it reflexively, blinking down at it as if she’s debating whether to drink it or throw it at my head.
I grin and begin unpacking the groceries. Nothing too elaborate—just a couple of steaks, some salad ingredients, and a loaf of bread that’s definitely getting slathered in butter. Simple, effective, and quick because as much as I enjoy watching her scowl at me, I’m not waiting around all night to eat. Next time, maybe I’ll go all out—five courses, candlelight, really lean into the romance just to see how fast she runs.
I glance over at her. “Make yourself useful and handle the salad.”
She doesn’t even acknowledge me because she’s on the floor with Sarah. I pause mid-movement, watching as Olivia scratches behind Sarah’s ears, murmuring something I can’t quite catch while my dog melts into her hands like she’s found nirvana.
“Wow,” I joke, but I’m actually glad my girl found someone who gets her. “So, this is what betrayal feels like.”
Olivia looks up, eyes twinkling with amusement. “She’s very communicative.”
“She’s a traitor, that’s what she is.” I give Sarah a disapproving look. “I thought you loved me. We’re friends, pals . . . I’ve been like a father to you.”
Sarah ignores me, flopping onto her back so Olivia can rub her belly.
“Okay, first of all,” Olivia says, “this is clearly an emotional support session, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt us with your own issues.”
The question is who really needs this emotional support. I could ask, but instead, I say, “By the way, I’m going to need a key to your place.”
Her head snaps up. “Are you out of your mind?”
“That’s a little dramatic,” I say, shaking my head. “I just need it for emergencies.”
“What emergencies?”
“So, I can sneak in and leave you dinner when you inevitably start spiraling into workaholic despair.” I flash her a grin. “I’m fucking considerate like that.”
She groans, dragging a hand through her hair. “Somehow, I don’t trust you.”
Her eyes betray her for just half a second—a quick flash of interest before she schools her face back into maximum displeasure.
I smirk. “I’m literally cooking for you right now. I’m trustworthy—the best neighbor ever. Almost a saint.”
“One meal doesn’t make you a saint.”
“No, but it does make me smart.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why do I feel that this is a trick?”
“Because you don’t trust anyone,” I say easily. “Which, frankly, sounds exhausting.”
She stiffens, then stands, closing the small gap between us, every movement charged with the energy of someone seconds from kicking me out mid-steak-prep. Which would be a shame, because I just basted them in butter, and they’re about to go in the oven for five minutes. Keeping me here is in her best interest.
Her arms cross. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I lean in just enough to observe her fidgeting. “It suggests that you should want to consider accepting help occasionally.You know, rather than battling the whole universe on your own like a feral raccoon.”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t fight the universe. And raccoons can be nice if they’re treated with respect.”
