Page 23 of Afterglow
“I doubt that.” I tie my hair back into a ponytail, securing it with the black elastic on my wrist. He pulls into the designated spot, and we get down from the truck. The tailgate flips down with a soft bang. Reaching over it, he slides a box and picks it up as if it weighs nothing. There’s no strain to his face or arms, but his sleeve stretches from the bulge of muscle flexing.
Yum.
My mouth waters when he turns and gives me a view of his perfect ass in those jeans.
“Ready?” he calls, tilting his head in the direction of the floor entrance.
It’s my turn to blush. Which makes him blush. God, help me. Am I ready to live with this stunning man for the next two months without touching myself to death? Absolutely not. But I lie. I grab a trash bag with both hands. “Yep. Coming.”
The spare room starts filling with my things, except for the boxes and bags that hold clothes. I transfer those to the bedroom. I don’t let Fletch see the disaster contained within those four walls. I’ve told him about my ADHD, but he hasn’t seen the damage firsthand, and it’s too embarrassing to show him, even for me. I’ll clean and organize in a hyperfixation panic later. I shut the door behind me and find Fletcher unpacking a box of my handmade mugs and placing them on the shelf with much nicer drinkware.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“We don’t have to use those.”
“Why not?” His brows wrinkle together, eyes curious. “Did you use them before?”
“Well, yeah, but?—”
“Then you can use them here.” He studies the one that I painted a poop emoji on. It readspoop juice. I catch him smiling as he lifts it to the shelf. Yeah, he can do whatever he wants. “Plus, they’re pretty funny. I like the naked banana one.”
Fletcher Donovan thinks I’m funny? Hell yeah, I’m funny.
“You think so?” I beam, then brush it off.
I’m cool. Stay cool.
My hand flips the end of my ponytail over one shoulder. “I mean, Iamthe funniest of my friends.”
“I don’t know,” Fletcher intones. “Gabe is hilarious.”
I gasp, one hand splaying against my chest, faking scandal. “Oh, really? Why don’t you go live with her then?”
The look on his face and the quirk of a corner of his full lips has wry mischief written all over it. “She already has a roommate. They’re married, too.”
“Ahhhh,” I say with a slow, dramatic nod, crossing my arms over my chest. “So, I’m your second choice.”
My joke falls flat. Fletcher’s wide smile softens and disappears, as if I’ve offended him.
“You’re no one’s second choice.”
Yeah, right. I’ve never been anyone’s priority, not even for my family. Why’d he say that? What does that mean?
He turns his back to me while putting the last mug in the cupboard. I almost miss when he whispers, “And definitely not mine.”
An uncomfortable pause hangs between us. I focus on the white trash bag filled with pots and pans on the counter and toy with one, spinning the handle in my grip.
“You can put those anywhere you want.” Fletcher points to the cookware and the knife block next to it. “I meant it when I said this is your home, too.” His fingers curl over the edge of the counter where he leans, shoulders slumped slightly. The lines of his lush lashes hide his downward gaze. “Even if it’s temporary.”
I must be reading it wrong, because he can’t possibly be sad about the thought of me, an unbearable demon of chaos, who’s disrupting and destroying his quiet life, getting out of his hair in two months’ time. It doesn’t make any sense. I’ll figure him out later. Like everything else.
“Thanks, Fletcher.” I pry open one of the lower cupboards and find some space alongside his pots and pans, then straighten. “I’m gonna sort through some things and get cleaned up before bed. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
“Yeah? Where are you going?”
“Down the street from Parliament Hill. I told the old law firm I used to work for that I could help out for a few hours attheir front desk. Then I’ve got therapy. Dr. Gill’s gonna help me request accommodations for my exam in August.”
