Luc is watching my face, and I’m probably turning green in front of him because as he waits for my answer, his eyes soften.
“I’m being an ass,” he says.
I swallow and stand as tall as possible. “You kind of are.”
His mouth quirks and cue The Dimples.
Goddammit. I don’t want to, but I crack a smile.
He cocks his head to the side, but the look in his eyes is sincere. “If I say I’m sorry, will you let me move your fridge and pack up some of your stuff?”
I sigh. What are my options? Death by refrigerator or life as the object of pity. Let’s face it. I’m already an object of pity to virtually everyone I know. Why does it matter if this gorgeous contractor thinks of me as his charity case?
I clench my teeth. Because it does matter. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. But like I’ve said, getting what you want is overrated. Right now, I have to go with what I need. And fuck all if I don’t need some muscle to help me move that goddamn fridge.
Begrudgingly, I nod. “Deal.” So, this is what crow tastes like. I prefer chicken.
The smile he gives me—avecLes Dimples—makes my lungs empty when they should fill, and I sound like an asthmatic.
“Millie?”
“Y-yes?” My God, why does my name sound so good when he says it? It’s a terrible name. The worst name ever. It’s—
His stare practically stakes me in place. “I apologize for acting like an ass.”
“O-Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to apol—Oh, wait, this is you saying sorry,” I blither. I don’t know if I’ve ever blithered before, but blithering I indeed am.
STOP BLITHERING!
AND STOP THINKING OF FORMS OF THE WORD “BLITHER!”
Luc’s top teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip in a way I’m sure means he’s trying not to laugh in my face.
I need a bra. And shoes. And a shirt that covers my stomach. If he’s going to help me with all this shit, and I’m going to continue to make a fool of myself, I need to at least be decently clothed.
Without removing my arms from over my boobs, I raise one index finger and turn on my heel. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He nods, grinning. “Great. I’ll just go get that dolly.”
* * *
It turnsout moving a refrigerator is more involved than it sounds.Cleaning out the refrigeratoris actually the first step in the process. I did not know this. Luc did.
And guess what my lifebeforedidn’t prepare me to do? Yep.Clean out the refrigerator.
It has been five months. Five months since my parents died. Five months since I moved back into this house. And I have not once cleaned out the fridge.
Sure, I’ve thrown stuff out that was taking up too much space and tossed things that I’ve noticed looking… well… ancient. But large-scale culling of expired salad dressing and mold-growing sour cream and—
God help me. What the hell is that?
A mushroom panini? Someone’s liver?
“What the hell is that?” Luc asks over my shoulder. He sounds afraid. I should have worn gloves. And a mask. And a hazmat suit.
“Ignorance is bliss,” I declare, and drop the thing in the garbage. To my mounting humiliation, the bag is almost full.
“How much more is in there?” He peers over my head. What remains is, at minimum, identifiable. Eggs. Lunch meat. Cheese without blue spots. Apples. Celery. Avocados that aren’t doubling as water balloons. And milk I bought Tuesday.
