AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I can look for a toolbox for you,” I say, since I get the impression she’s not the kind of woman who wants a guy to mansplain how to fix it or to man-fix it.
“The leg is too wobbly though,” she says, after examining it. “I’m pretty sure the screw is stripped.” She sighs heavily and I set down the yogurt on the table and walk over to her. “Steven jammed it in a garbage bag when he so helpfully packed up my stuff.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. When I meet her gaze, I don’t think of the sounds she made last night. I think of how tough she is, how resilient, how determined. “You deserve so much better than that guy,” I say.
“I know,” she says with some resignation.
I give her a curious look since I figured she’d say you think so or he was a jerk. Glad she knows though. Still, I add, “A good boyfriend should show you he deserves you every goddamn day.”
“Ooh, intel for my column. I’ll write that down.”
“You do that. And don’t forget it,” I say, and before I’m tempted to sit with her and ask a million questions about who she is—a million tempting questions—I tip my chin toward the wounded tripod. “Want me to hold it for you while you shoot?”
“I can just grab a couple yoga blocks and stack it on that. I don’t want to bother you.” She says the last line like she feels guilty.
But why? Because she doesn’t want help from me? Or because I didn’t volunteer for her boyfriend project? It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s that I wanted to too much.
“I’d like to help you with this,” I say, since it’s the least I can do.
She shoots me a doubtful look. It’s a little challenging—the look of someone who doesn’t suffer fools. “Are you sure? You seem…irritated.”
How do I seem irritated? But I don’t want to ask that question. Because I don’t want to get into why I had to take off late last night. Because I’m so fucking attracted to her, and every little thing I learn makes me like her more.
Like the fact that she wanted to cook with me. Like the fact that she’s so goddamn determined to make it on her own. Like the way she takes care of her little dog like the dog’s her bestie.
“I had a dog growing up,” I say impulsively, the words rolling out before I can even get control of them. “A shepherd mix. Rascal was a good boy. My best friend.”
“Is this going to be a sad story? Did someone take him away from you?”
“No,” I reassure her. “He was like…Donut. Not a Dachshund, but my shadow.”
She smiles warmly, instantly. “Donut’s a shadow dog for sure.”
I scratch my jaw. I don’t love sharing my stories. But I say the next thing anyway. “He was my uncle’s dog, but my uncle ignored the dog too. I trained him, Rascal. Taught him to shake, sit, stay, come. The dog felt like the only one I could rely on sometimes, you know?”
She meets my gaze with understanding in her eyes. “I do. I feel that way sometimes too about Donut. She’s been mine for a few years now, and she makes her loyalties clear. Which I love.” She takes a moment, then adds, “So I get it.”
“Yeah?” I ask, a little hopeful.
“Yes. I do.” There’s a pause, then a tilt of her head. “You taught yourself to cook because no one else would do it, right?”
“You’re exactly right.”
“I had a feeling. I had to…figure out a lot on my own too. My mom left when I was young. I’m only saying that so you know I can kind of understand.”
Ah, shit. That sucks. “I’m sorry.” And I don’t want to hog the parental trauma cards, but there’s something about Briar—the way she talks, how she shares—that almost makes me want to open up. She may be a teacher, but her style of teaching is actually to share, to listen, to connect. My chest tightens uncomfortably, but still I say, “I was raised by my aunt and uncle.” It’s uncomfortable to say, but it feels necessary. It’s also as far as I want to go right now. “Anyway, so that’s that.”
“That helps,” she says, meeting my gaze with a smile, the sentence unfinished but I’m pretty sure she means that helps me understand you.
It’s a good feeling—to be understood. But a dangerous one too. The kind that leads to closeness and that leads nowhere good. I gesture to the broken tripod again. “I don’t mind holding your phone. It’s what a good boyfriend would do.”
Her smile says I’m recused. “I appreciate it, but I get that it’s not your thing. The contest.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How do I even explain why I want to do it?
Since I do.
Truly, I do.
