Page 13 of Not Home Alone

“Oh my god. What is wrong with you?”

“Literally nothing. Who do you need to call? Your boyfriend?”

Her mouth opens and then closes. Opens and closes. She growls at me. I’m taking that as a no. “Why are you wearing a suit?” is what she asks instead of answering my question.

“Would you like me to take it off? Because you begged me to put some clothes on earlier. You need to make up your mind.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. Now she makes a sound like an angry cartoon kitten. “I’m going to make a business call now. Please don’t turn on any loud music or say anything at all or take your clothes off while I’m on the phone.” Before I can ask if she wants me to take my clothes off when she hangs up, she snaps, “Or after I hang up!”

“Okay, Tucker. You don’t have to yell.”

She growls again.

I definitely have this under control. But I’m going to need another finger of scotch before I have a beer. And I will probably need a cold shower before bed. Or an ice bath. Because I usually end the night at a woman’s place so I can leave at any time. But I will not be leaving my house, and it doesn’t feel like Goldilocks will be leaving tonight either.

Shit. That’s another fairy tale scenario I’ll have to revisit later.

I can hear everything Merrily is saying as she makes her business call in the living room. She’s doing a really good job of not sounding like she was jumping up and down while screaming at me a minute ago. It’s actually pretty impressive. I can tell from her tone that the person she’s talking to is an idiot. But Merrily is patient, and she sounds extremely competent as she walks him through what he needs to do, step by step. She calls him by his name repeatedly, to lull him into complacency.

I remember how sweet she used to be. What a soothing effect she had on people back in the day, with her warm presence and her positive attitude. The way she’d gently coax you to open up by making you feel like she understood you. And then, when you showed her who you really were, she’d just… I bet that poor guy at the end of the line has a massive crush on her. I hope, for his sake, he doesn’t make the mistake of being a flawed human who does stupid things occasionally and has to face her cold, pained look of disappointment. I wish him all the best as he navigates the next decade of his life trying to forget that he hurt her, simply by being who he is. Whenever he’s in town, women who are Merrily’s age or older will give him dirty looks. Men will look at him like, Man, I’m glad I’m not you, bro. But also, that took a lot of balls. Hope it was worth it. God forbid he should one day attempt to enjoy an unfestive evening alone in the house he secretly owns when she shows up. Poor bastard would probably get turned on by her yelling at him.

Idiot.

She’s stopped talking. When she re-enters the kitchen, stomping and huffing, I open a cupboard and then close it to make myself look busy. She takes a deep breath, looks around, realizes I’m not doing anything ostensibly terrible at the moment, and goes over to the fridge.

Before she can complain about the empty fridge, I say, “Why are you doing that guy’s work for him? At night. When you’re on vacation.”

“What? How did you know it was a guy?”

“Because you called him Brock five times.”

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, and it’s none of your business. And my boss asked me to. I’m hoping she’ll give me a promotion, so I’m not going to say no to her right now.”

“I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but if you want a promotion, then you should let your boss know you’re not willing to do a job that is so clearly beneath you.”

She’s about to snap at me, but I watch as she slowly realizes that what I just said wasn’t an insult. She huffs. Like I just ruined her night again by not being a dick to her. “Thank you for the unsolicited advice. But I don’t appreciate your comments.”

I glance down at the elf on her tank top and refrain from mentioning that she appears to be pretty excited about my comments, actually. Or she might just be cold from opening the refrigerator door for three seconds. “You want a beer?”

“Ugh. I haven’t had dinner yet. It’s too late to order delivery now, isn’t it?”

I shrug. “Probably shouldn’t have taken such a long bath.”

She finally notices the half-empty welcome basket on the counter and gasps. “Did you eat my welcome basket?”

“Only the salami and the crackers and the grapes. I happen to know you brought plenty of snacks with you in your travel bag, but help yourself to the apple, the cheese, and all the muffins.” I gesture toward both muffins.

“Unbelievable,” she says. I’m pretty sure I hear her grumbling the word “salami” under her breath as she reaches for a muffin.

“Tell you what. You can have first pick of these craft beers. From six of Holly Grove’s finest microbreweries.”

She stares at the bottles. “There are six microbreweries here now?”

“More than six. I’m thinking of investing in one of them, so I grabbed a few of the ones with names I liked.”

She picks up the bottle of It’s the Most Wonderful Time of Witbier. A Belgian wheat beer with citrusy, spicy notes and a very pretty label. Of course she does. “This is so cute!” she exclaims. “Please don’t invest in this company—you’ll ruin it.”

I pick up the bottle of Rudolph the Irish Red Ale and twist off the cap. “I do have a degree from the Wharton Business School, you know?”