Page 42 of Upshot

I hope, at some point, I start getting at least some credit for trying to do the right thing going forward. It seems with every decision I make a whole new wave of panic attacks comes creeping up. That issue I’ll keep to myself though.

“Not your fault. Not entirely anyway. It takes two to tango,” she smirks.

My eyebrows must disappear into my hairline completely because she laughs. Is Eliot a mystery to everyone, or just me? It’s like I’m always waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under my feet when she’s around.

“Hey, come eat,” she yells, making me jump a foot.

Austen and Brontë sweep into the kitchen, chattering away. They dig through the sandwiches, leaving me with whatever is left. Please don’t be corned beef. Cautiously, I unwrap mine to find a loaded BLT on wheat.

I look over at Brontë. She winks. She must have been paying attention when we had the whole lunch discussion a couple of weeks ago. I’ve always been a sucker for good bacon. Apparently, so is she.

There’s only one stool right now, so I perch Brontë precariously on it while we remain standing. I stay close in case she needs to get down or becomes unbalanced. It’s an unsteady lab stool someone found in the detached garage.

After today, I’ll have an official dining room table. She insisted I get one big enough to seat eight with the leaves in. Sounds daunting.

We’re just finishing when there is another knock at the door. When no one opens it, Brontë jumps up. I just manage to wrap an arm around her before she slides to the ground.

“They’re here,” she squeals and runs for the door. She jerks it open to find two men standing on the porch. I guess checking who’s at the door before opening it is not done in a small town either.

“We’re going to take off,” Austen says, following Eliot out the door. “Good luck.” I’ll need it the way Brontë is bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation.

The men begin unloading the truck. It takes a couple of hours, but finally, they place the last piece inside. I tip them well since Brontë barely gave them room to breathe as they moved things around to her liking. We watch them drive down the street before returning inside to see how it looks.

“This looks fantastic. Much better than my place in California. You did an amazing job. Peter is right, you have a real knack for this.” She beams at me.

I’m not blowing smoke. She’s managed to make it look like a home, something I’ve never been able to do in my condo. My condo is picture perfect, but not very welcoming. This is more like something from a modern Norman Rockwell.

“I’m just excited you decided not to hang the television over the mantle.” It’s tucked neatly into one of the cabinets next to the fireplace. It can be stored away when not in use. I’m not a Neanderthal. And also, I would have totally hung it above the fireplace if Brontë hadn’t insisted on it going elsewhere.

She takes my hand, and we walk through the downstairs, looking at everything. Occasionally, she adjusts something slightly. I can’t see the difference, but she assures me it makes everything better. When we’re done with the living areas, we climb the stairs to the bedrooms.

“Did you make the bed?” she asks when we enter the master.

“I did. While they were hauling stuff up here.” I’ve managed to not just make the bed, but put on the throw pillows she insisted I buy. No man would ever buy throw pillows if given the choice. She also picked out the duvet cover. It’s both soft and masculine. I was worried it’d be pink flowers.

“Impressive.” She smirks.

“I try.”

“Good. Now take your pants off and climb on top. We’re about to mess it all up.” Excuse me? She crosses her arms over her chest. I toe off my shoes and unzip my jeans. I’m not stupid. She says she wants me naked, I’m happy to oblige. When my pants are off, I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Move farther back with your head on the pillows,” she orders.

Once again, I comply.

“You can move the decorative ones.”

Thank god. It felt like I was sinking into fluffy quicksand. I shove them to the floor and lay back.

She studies me from the end of the bed. Slowly, she moves around to the side. “The shirt needs to go.” I sit back up. Grabbing the back of my T-shirt, I pull it over my head. I toss it where my pants are.

“Better?”

“Much.” She pulls the maternity dress over her head and wiggles out of her panties. They’re no longer the barely there ones she used to wear. The ones I found under the bed in Arizona when I was packing. These, as she explained when we bought them in Austin, cover the bits and stay out of her butt crack. Such a way with words.

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BRONTË

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