Page 21 of Houston, We Have a Problem
I don’t really have anything to say to that, so I keep my mouth shut. Sometimes I think I’m romantic, but when things were going stale with Bonnie, I spent enough time with our half-sister Micah, who breathes and bleeds romance, to know a bouquet of roses and a fancy dinner isn’t the same as romance. Do I know whatisromance? Not a clue, which makes this newfound desire to settle down a bit daunting. One of these daysI might have to suck it up and ask Brook for help in wooing, but that’s assuming I have anyone to woo in the first place.
I settle deeper into the couch and force my focus on Benny and Smalls before my mind starts wandering to a night under the stars and coming up with ways to scare a certain superstitious neighbor into my arms again so I can experience that flood of warmth when I hold her.
We’re twenty minutes into the movie, during which I have only thought about Darcy a dozen times or so, when Brook says, “So, what’s the deal with this cute neighbor of yours?”
I sit up straighter. I haven’t told her about Darcy, which means she’s either a mind reader now or her intel is coming from my obnoxious best friend who apparently can’t keep his mouth shut. “How do you know she’s cute? Did Jordan say she’s cute?” I thought he was into Brook, but if he’s eyeing other women, particularly the one I’m interested in, I’ll kick him in the—
“Wow.” Brook laughs, punching me as she sinks deeper into her blankets. “Paranoid much? No, Jordan didn’t say she was cute, but he saidyouseemed to think so with the way you were staring at her.”
Okay, dideveryonenotice that? Crap, didDarcynotice? Maybe that’s why she hasn’t texted me yet—I creeped her out when I stared at her. And when I didn’t put her down after she jumped into my arms. And when I tried to pretend I have any skills in the kitchen after proving yet again that I don’t.
Brook giggles. “Didn’t she just move in like three days ago? You’re relentless.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you fall for anything with boobs, Hou.”
“Don’t say boobs,” I say with a shudder. “And I do not. Besides, she doesn’t even have…” Wow, I am not going to finish that sentence. Darcy is more sturdy than curvy, not that I’ve paidmuch attention, but I don’t really care about that kind of thing. Not like I used to. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a fling.” When Brook raises an eyebrow, I swing the pillow again. “I’m serious! I’m done with casual dating.”
“Is that why you broke up with Bonnie Aiken?”
Huh. Brook pretty much never brings up my girlfriends unless she’s making fun of me, but she’s watching me with a serious gaze. Like she actually cares about this one. Or maybe she cares because it’s been two months since Bonnie and I called it quits and I haven’t shown any signs of finding someone new. That’s strange for me, and Brook knows it.
“Yeah,” I say, settling back in my seat so I don’t have to look at her. “Bonnie is great, but everything about us was surface level. Pretty much for show, you know? I want something deeper.”
“Is Darcy deeper?”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Jordan has told her Darcy’s name. They’ve probably had all sorts of conversations about my new neighbor over the last couple of days, and I can only imagine how much Brook is dying to meet this girl. The fact that she hasn’t been over yet says a lot about how good Brook is at respecting boundaries. She won’t come over and meet my neighbor unless I want her to.
“I don’t know,” I say, and I mean that. I know almost nothing about Darcy except that she’s unlucky—still up for debate—and way too down to earth to want to be with someone like me. That makes her all the more interesting, like she’s off-limits or something. I don’t even know if she’s interested. “But I want to find out.”
Chapter Eleven
Darcy
October 24
I gotta say, Connor isa genius sometimes. I was complaining to him that I couldn’t come up with any good reasons to go over to Houston’s house to try to snoop around a bit, and he suggested laundry. I hadn’t even thought about how I was going to do laundry, but Connor’s idea is perfect for killing two birds with one stone.
Still, I feel a little awkward standing on the porch while it’s raining buckets, a basket of my dirty clothes on my hip. Maybe this is pushing the neighbor bounds a little too far, and Houston might not like the invasion of privacy. Maybe it’s just me, but the laundry room is a sacred space. It’s a place where you can wash away your regrets and mistakes with a Tide pod and a little prayer.
Okay, now that I say that out loud, it’s probably just me. Most people probably just throw their clothes in and walk away. But after a girl goes through life spilling ketchup on every white shirt and having tampons leak at the worst possible times, the laundry room becomes something different. I don’t make the rules.
I know Houston is in there because I watched him run from the garage to his house twenty minutes ago. Not because I’m a stalker but because I was watching the rain. And maybe waiting for him to show up so I could come over here. A part of me wonders if I should have texted him first, but I still feel weird about having that secret information of his phone number. The minute I make contact through the phone, I can no longer justify not telling Connor that I have his number. Right now, it’s easy to pretend that he’s still so far out of reach.
I’m stalling, and I know it, but it’s weirdly difficult to raise my arm to knock. Yesterday, I walked right into a gym full of half-naked men without batting an eye—though I may have revisited that image a good number of times since then—but knocking on Houston’s door is terrifying.
He’s had two up-close encounters with Tamlin now, which means he’s twice as likely to recognize me. Makeup only goes so far.
“Oh, just get this over with,” I growl and then knock loudly, each rap of my knuckles sending a jolt through me. This is seriously ridiculous. I have talked to hundreds of athletes over the last few years, some even as Darcy the lowly assistant getting statements for the writers back when I started. None of them scared me. Not even the linebackers who weigh close to a quarter ton when in full gear. Houston is just a baseball player. Just my landlord. Just a mark whomighthave a secret that Ineedto unearth if I want to keep my job.
The door opens, and my laundry slips from my hands.
Just a guy in nothing but a towel.
I may have seen a whole lot of skin and muscle yesterday, but I’m pretty sure none of the Red-tails hold a candle to their pitcher. This guy’smuscleshave muscles, and it is taking everything in me not to reach out and see if those tan abs feel as solid as they look. If he is this cut and defined while relaxed, I donotwant to see how he looks in the middle of a workout. (Correction: I absolutely need to see that. Immediately.)
“Uh, sorry,” Houston says, clearing his throat. “I thought you were Jordan.”
