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“A lesser woman would feel embarrassed. Horrified that a man she’s been with on only two occasions is cleaning up after her. I am not that woman. The dish soap is under the sink.” With a flirty smirk, I squeeze past him to the bedroom.
I slip into lounge pants and a soft, long-sleeved tee and clear off my bed, which takes longer than expected. When I open the door, he’s back at the puzzle. The dishes are clean and put away, and a bowl of leftover pasta salad sits next to the puzzle, along with the pistachios, which are now in a bowl.
“Thank you,” I say, sitting across from him again. “Have you had dinner?” I take a bite of the pasta salad.
“I did.” He lifts his gaze from the puzzle, setting aside the piece in his hand. “Is now the right time to mention I was engaged.”
I pause the fork at my mouth. What? Did I hear him right?
His eyes focus as if he’s visualizing something. “She left me because I enjoyed drinking until I blacked out, just like my father.”
I force myself to take a bite of pasta and chew it slowly to hide any knee-jerk reaction.
A flinch.
A hard swallow.
A tiny gasp.
“I didn’t help out around the house. I slept in my clothes most nights. My truck was littered with trash from takeout food and empty bottles of booze. So, order and routine have become important to me. Necessary.”
Staring at my bowl, I nod several times.
“That was five years ago. And I still have to think through things. Plannotto drink. Walk Scrot instead of going to the bar. And if my grandfather knew I was telling you this before or even on our first date, he would clock me upside the head. But the anxiety ofnottelling you is torturous. So there you have it.”
I catch myself nervously tapping the bowl with my fork. “Should I run?”
He bobs his head a few times. “Probably.”
“Do you think you’re unworthy of love?”
“No. But I wouldn’t blame anyone for feeling worthy of someone better than me—less risky. Less fun, too, but definitely less risky.”
“Well,” I set my bowl and fork in the sink, “that makes you an honest man, Koen Sikes. And I’m a huge fan of honest men. Besides, I landed in a pond tonight. You might have to lower your expectations of me.” I turn, resting my butt and hands against the counter.
He stands so that we’re incredibly close in this tight space. My heart lurches into my throat. I’ve never wanted to be kissed so badly in my life. He wets his lips, and I swear he’s going tokiss me. The shivers attack me for the second time tonight when he brushes his knuckles along my cheek before his palm skates down my neck.
“You’ve already exceeded all expectations by a landslide.” He smiles. “Goodnight, Scottie.”
His hand disappears. And in the next blink, he’s out the door with Scrot, leaving me puddled on the floor of my trailer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEAD PEOPLE DON’T LAUGH.
Price
Withdrawal is a bitch.
Six weeks ago, if someone had asked me if I had an addiction to technology, I would have laughed. I spent countless hours using technology for my job, which was also convenient for my personal life. But addicted? No.
I would have been wrong.
It’s hard to go more than ten minutes without thinking about something I’d like to do that requires technology. I need something. The quietude is unnerving after a while. My thoughts aren’t that comforting, and I haven’t figured out how to stop thinking while I’m awake.
I consider getting a radio for music, but I don’t want the commercials, news breaks, or even the weather forecast. So off to the store I go to buy a record player.
“What vinyl records do you have?” the gray-haired salesman asks, adjusting his round, black-framed glasses.
