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She shook her head at herself as she pulled her keys out of her pocket and unlocked the front door. Carl waited until she was inside before driving off.
There were a couple of nightlights that lit up the central staircase and she went up as quiet as she could. She didn’t want anyone waking up on her account. Mel and Xavier had three little boys all under six years old.
To her relief she made it to her room at the end of the hall without her encountering anyone. She flipped on her light. And then groaned when she saw all her still-packed boxes. The bed looked inviting. First, a shower, though.
Calla paused on her way to the attached bathroom, noticing a note lying on the pillow. She leaned over and picked it up.
Left a plate of food for you in the fridge in case you’re hungry. So glad you’ll be staying here. There was a little heart and then Mel.
Calla smiled. She didn’t know Mel very well, but from the few times Calla had interacted with her, she seemed pretty great. Food sounded good but still—shower. If ever she’d needed to wash a day off, it was this one.
She paused when she got in the bathroom, looking at her reflection. She pulled her hair out of the stubby little ponytail and ran her fingers through it. It was almost long enough to touch her shoulders.
She’d worn it short since she was a little kid. When Mom left, Dad started cutting her hair and gave her the same cut he did himself—he slapped a one-inch guard on the trimmers and mowed everything else off. In her late teens she’d started going over to Betty’s to get it cut there, but she’d still kept it short. What did she know about having girly hair? Nothing, that’s what.
She tugged on the ends and frowned at herself. She still didn’t know a damn thing about it, which was why she kept it tied back under the cap she always wore.
But maybe she could wear it down sometimes. When she wasn’t doing ranch work anyway. She frowned and turned away, turning the shower to hot and then stepping in.
The steam loosened her muscles but fifteen minutes later after shampooing and shaving, her mind wasn’t any quieter.
Maybe if she…
Her hand dropped down her stomach. And then lower.
But her usual fantasies weren’t quite—
Hey man, wrong bathroom. This is the ladies.
“Ugh!” She slammed the shower knob to the off position and stepped out, toweling herself brusquely.
She wrapped a towel around herself and then paused for her nightly ritual. She lifted up her left leg. And waited, concentrating hard to see if there was even the slightest tremor in the limb. Yeah, her dad’s Huntington’s hadn’t developed until he was forty-three, but plenty people experienced early onset. She dropped her left leg and lifted her right, going through the process all over again. Then her left and right arm.
She breathed out and leaned back against the bathroom door. And recited the alphabet backwards three times.
“E, D, C, B, A,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her forehead. Safe for one more day. She shook her head and pushed back out into the bedroom.
She grabbed her overalls off the ground and the fortune cookie fell out of the pocket. She went to throw it in the little trash by the toilet but then paused.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she ripped the little package and pulled out the cookie. Cracking it in half, she slid the little paper out and read the message.
Live every day like it’s your last.
She couldn’t help but laugh. Wow. Spot on, fortune cookie gods. Considering any day could be the beginning of the end for her.
As shitty as today had been, what the hell would she do if tomorrow she detected a tremor?
She rolled her eyes again. God, she was being an idiot, letting a goddamned fortune cookie get to her. It was just a stupid gimmick. Bubba had probably ordered the damn things from Fortune Cookies R Us.
Popping the stale cookie in her mouth, she munched on it while she gathered her dirty clothes and tossed them in her laundry bag. She pulled on an oversized University of Wyoming t-shirt.
Then her stomach rumbled. Hmm. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Probably not the best idea to eat at eleven-fifteen.
But Mel had gone through all the trouble of making her a plate. Who was she to deny the woman the opportunity to be hospitable?
Calla headed back downstairs. Mel had showed her around yesterday so she knew where the kitchen was.
She flipped on the light and went for the fridge. She was leaning over to look for the plate Mel had left her.
And only remembered she was just in a T-shirt that skimmed the top of her thighs when a low, masculine voice said, “Well hello, gorgeous.”
