Page 47 of Miss Humbug
If Marlowe lost the house, I had no idea if she’d stay. If she won, she still might not stay. Maybe this was all too much and she’d be more than eager to get back home.
Her home wasn’t here. Her home was in California, no matter how much she doubted herself. That was reality. She might plan to pack up her West Coast life and return here, only to find some new opportunity and flip to a new direction. She’d leave me behind all over again.
The farm expansion would require a new plan, depending on which Holly family the house went to. I had no guarantee my life would be anywhere close to the same this time next year.
With no more town to show off, I drove us to her house. I rolled to a stop in the driveway.
She didn’t leave the truck. “Want to come inside?”
Yes.“I don’t know. It’s late.”
“It’s only a quarter past eight. Aren’t you hungry? Grans has way too much food. It’s a problem if no one eats it.” She grinned at me. Mischievous like the Marlowe I once knew. “Besides, we’re supposed to be dating. Shawn is staying at the house now after checking out of his hotel. It will be good cover if he sees us together.”
Good cover. That’s all the invitation was.
“Hey.” Her voice came softer. “Honestly, I don’t care about Shawn seeing us. I want to hang out. Watch movies. Eat junk food. Like the old days. Please?”
As if I could say no. I could never say no to Marlowe.
Chapter 17
Marlowe
Having Ethan over just for fun—not making plans using confection-themed blueprints or swarmed by Hollys during a family event—felt like a slice of the happiness we’d taken for granted as kids.
We parked ourselves in the front parlor. The furniture ran more stiff and fancy than the larger family room, but since Shawn had taken that over to watch some reality show about real estate developers, the parlor it would be.
Ethan and I could not decide on a movie. One conversation about a favorite turned into rapid-fire question rounds of which movies we’d seen or not seen the past decade. Which movies were must-watches, which were skips. Our must-sees did not always overlap.
Then we got to TV shows. The best dramas, the best comedies, and which streaming platforms they aired on.
“We’re going to need a list.” I grabbed a notepad from an antique desk. Holly leaves decorated the corners of the pages. I wrote down our top choices so far.
“Let me see.” Ethan peered over my shoulder. “I still can’t believe you haven’t seenThe Martian. It’s seriously so good. Put it as number one.”
“Maybe because I was busy watching every Marvel movie ever made.” I spun the pen—also decorated with holly leaves—between my fingers. “Why are theresomany of them? And why can’t I stop watching?”
Finally, after complex elimination rounds, we decided on a movie neither of us had seen,Crazy Rich Asians.It was either the best choice or the worst choice for us. Romantic and involving big families while centered around a wedding, it wasn’t exactly a holiday romance, but somehow the premise kept reminding me of my own life. Returning home to a family who didn’t understand how I’d changed, and me maybe not fully grasping what that meant.
Home. This was my home. No matter how far I’d tried to distance myself, including literal, actual distance, my family and this house were a part of me.
We hunkered down on the couch. It was on the small-ish side to fit the room. The big couch, Shawn had hogged to himself along with the bigger TV. I had my feet tucked underneath me on my side to give Ethan plenty of room on his end, along with a tapestried footstool to stretch his feet.
A half hour into the movie, my legs ached for a stretch. I adjusted my position. Adjusted again.
Ethan shifted too. “You can rest your feet on my lap.”
Which would involve touching. Except we were supposed to be dating. Laying my legs on his lap was a totally normal thing to do in our situation. Besides, we used to do this all the time. Back before it meant anything other than simply sharing space on a small couch.
I stretched my legs across his. Totally fine.
Also completely fine when his hand rested on top of my socked foot. I hardly noticed at all. Just his sturdy, tree hauling hand needing some R-and-R.
Another chunk of time passed, when a sensation grazed against my foot. “Eee!” I jerked my foot back.
“Sorry!” Ethan threw his hands up. “I didn’t mean to…rub your foot with my hand.”
“Is there a such thing as accidental massaging?” He’d stroked my foot. Through a sock, but still.
