Page 134 of Worst Nanny Ever
I guide him into the building, and then up to my third-floor apartment, which is third down a long hallway of identical warped doors, the carpet an always-damp maroon.
I pause when we reach the door, giving him an uneasy look.
“Should I close my eyes to make the most of the surprise?” he asks dryly.
I nudge him with my shoulder, then nearly have a heart attack when he flinches. “You’re bruised.”
“That’s what happens when you get into a fight,” he says with a lopsided smile that’s not that convincing.
“Well, this should take your mind off it.” I unlock the door and swing it open.
He smiles more genuinely as he walks inside, stepping over a blouse I considered wearing this morning and then tossed over the back of a chair. Or at least I meant to toss it over the back of a chair.
“Will you give me the grand tour?” he asks.
“Yes.” I follow him in and shut the door. “And it’s going to take all of a minute, because there are only three rooms in this apartment. This beauty.” I gesture around to the combo living/dining/kitchen area. “My bedroom, and a bathroom that you probably won’t even fit in.”
“Let the tour commence,” he says, his eyes skating over the full-body sewing mannequin in the corner of the living room with my pin-studded, half-finished creation on it. “You gave it a smiley face.”
“Most of them don’t have heads, but this one did,” I say. “It felt a little cruel not to give it a face. Her name is Thea Threadsalot, and I love her.”
“I’m jealous.”
“Are you going to take a swing at her too?” I ask. My gaze drops reflexively to his busted knuckles. I make a face and rush over to the freezer, grabbing the first thing I find that will work as an ice pack. I stride back to him, nearly tripping over one of the adorable dog stuffies Travis got me, and hand him the bag of frozen strawberries. “For your knuckles.”
He grins at me, some of the heaviness leaving his face. “Don’t you have a resealable plastic bag?”
I start to wilt, feeling dumb, and take a step toward the freezer, but he stops me with a light hand on my wrist and takes the bag from me.
“Thanks for taking care of me, Hannah,” he says gently. “Let’s finish the tour.”
“There’s a pile of clothes in a basket on my bedroom floor, but they’re clean,” I say. “I just haven’t gotten around to folding them yet.”
“Understandable. Is that why you invited me over?” He gives me a lopsided smile. “To fold your clothes?”
“You invited yourself.” I weave my arm through his again. “Now, let me show you to Clothes Mountain.”
“Please do,” he says. “I’ve heard great things.”
I open the door, feeling a creeping self-consciousness as he takes in the small, cramped space, so different from his huge bedroom with the massive king-sized bed. The mountain of clothes sits at the foot of the bed, barely contained by a broken laundry basket. Usually, I pay attention to the things in here that I like, the colorful quilt and prints on the walls, but that laundry basket is like a stain on my existence. A sign that I could use a few crash courses on adulting and maybe an ADHD diagnosis and some Adderall.
I dart a nervous look at him.
“I told you I like cleaning,” he says with a smile that suggests he knows exactly what’s going through my head. He surprises me by reaching down to lift a shirt out of the laundry pile—his Garbage Fire shirt. “Do you have my polo shirt in here too?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a pinch of self-consciousness. “I like wearing them. They’re comfortable.”
“Good.”
“Let’s move on from the laundry. It’s embarrassing.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, folding the Garbage Fire shirt and setting it on the bed. “And I like that you’ve been wearing my shirts. But I’m going to fold all of this before I leave, because I want to leave my mark on your space, the same way you’ve left your mark on mine.”
I push up onto my toes and kiss him.
“I like it in here,” he says, grinning. “It smells even more like you than my bedroom. And the last room in your apartment?”
“You seriously want me to escort you to the bathroom?”
