Page 10 of For Butter or for Worse
“Almost four.”
He swears under his breath and starts trying to sit up. He’s not doing a good job of it; he looks completely spent, and I’m wondering if it’s all because of the illness. He looked tired before all this came on. “I need to get back to the shop.”
I grab his arm and help him sit up, though I stop him from standing. “You need to take it slow, big guy. Meg called the surf shop and talked to someone.”
“Brody. Hopefully.” He runs a hand down his face and grimaces, but then something shifts in his expression. “Do I smell snickerdoodles?”
I laugh. “I don’t think a cookie is a good idea right now, King.”
Turning a bit green, he nods slowly. “I agree. I meant…” His eyes meet mine. “You baked them?”
“There was a serious lack of product on your shelves. Someone had to feed the masses.”
He grits his teeth and then grabs hold of the folding desk chair, using it to lift himself to his feet. His muscles strain as he moves, easy to see because of the way his sweat-soaked shirt clings to his body, and I still can’t comprehend how the boy I knew turned intothis. King is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, and it’s a miracle no one has locked him down yet. I really figured he would be married with several kids by this point, given how excited he was about the whole idea of starting a family.
My stomach does a little flip, and I almost hope it’s the same bug that got to him. Otherwise, this uncomfortable feeling is guilt, and that feels like a bad emotion to have going into a marriage.
Honestly, I’m not sure King even realizes that he agreed to my harebrained idea.
“Let me help you home,” I say, hoping we can have a conversation about my proposal when we’re not in danger of being overheard by sweet and bubbly seventeen-year-olds.
King grumbles something, probably telling me that he doesn’t need my help, but his legs nearly give out halfway to the door and he stops. Looks back at me. Nods.
I wrap his arm around my shoulders like before and follow his directions to his truck, and when he squints at the big vehicle, I ask him for his keys and bring him to the passenger seat. I’ll have to come back for my car at some point, though I don’t like the idea of leaving it in the boardwalk parking lot for too long. Most of my possessions are in that car, which reminds me that I still don’t have a place to stay tonight.
It might be too much to hope that King will let me camp out in his guest bedroom, assuming he even has one. I’m imagining him in a bachelor pad with nothing but a pullout couch and a miniscule kitchen.
“Where am I going?” I ask when King eventually manages to get his seatbelt on. He looks like he might fall asleep before I even turn the key.
“South,” he mumbles and then holds out his hand. I’m not sure what he wants, and I’m certainly not going to hold his hand. I might be willing to marry this guy, but it’ll be on paper only. He sighs. “Your phone, Georgie.”
“Oh.”
He types in an address and then slumps back in his seat. It isn’t in the direction of Bill’s house, and curiosity has me driving a little over the speed limit until I pull up outside a cute little bungalow right off the coast. It’s surrounded by mature magnolia and oak trees and looks well-maintained. I don’t really know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
“Thanks,” King mutters and slips out of the truck. Literally. One second he’s climbing out, and the next he disappears with a grunt and a thud.
Gasping, I hurry around to find him sprawled in the dirt, a look of irritation on his face. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
It takes almost five minutes to get him from the truck to the master bedroom because he’s moving so slowly, and I can only hold so much of his weight without feeling like I might collapse beneath him. I don’t even get a chance to look around because I’m so focused on holding him up. I am more than glad when he slumps face first onto the bed, fully clothed, and kicks off his shoes.
“Thanks,” he mumbles into the mattress.
“Do you need anything?”
He simply hums.
Thinking I should get him some water, I head back down the hallway and to the kitchen at the back of the house. As soon as I get a good look, I freeze in my tracks. Light streams in through the large windows, illuminating the most luxurious kitchen I’ve seen outside of a TV set. It’s bigger than I would have expected, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances amidst gorgeous mahogany cabinets. A massive island sits in the center, begging to be spread with pastry dough and cookie sheets.
“And here I was thinking you didn’t care about the kitchen,” I murmur as I run my hand along the island.
It takes a moment to locate some glasses, and my search yields some interesting information. While the kitchen looks ideal, very little of it gets used. Many of the dishes still have stickers on them, and most of the small appliances arein their boxes. It’s like King has been building the perfect kitchen without any plans to actually use it.
I fill a glass with filtered water from the fridge, which is nearly empty, and peek a glance at the freezer, which is full to the brim of pre-packaged meals. That better fits my vision of King’s adult life, though it doesn’t explain the well-prepped kitchen.
With more questions than I had a moment ago, I return to King’s bedroom and set the glass of water on his bedside table. He’s already snoring softly, clearly exhausted from his gastrically disastrous afternoon. “I guess I’ll hang out here until you wake up,” I say. And then I take in the room.
