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But my mom didn’t raise an asshole and being gentlemanly takes over.
I rush forward at a jog just as Brooke stubs her toe on the demon curb, bending back the entire front portion of her gold sandal.
“Acckk!” she yells, her voice cracking on the line of consonants.
I grab her arms by the biceps and lift her enough to set her shoe right before giving her back over to the power of gravity.
She’s grateful, but embarrassed. I can tell by the pinkish hue of her high cheekbones and the flightiness of her eyes.
“You okay?” I ask simply, wanting to ensure she’s good without putting her on the spot with a game of twenty questions.
“Yeah.” She nods, tucking a loose fall of hair that’s escaped from her ponytail behind the shell of her ear. “Normally, my klutziness results in bloodshed, so the fact that we’re not drenched in O neg right now is truly remarkable.” She snorts. “Probably your gallantry that saved us that bath, honestly.”
I chuckle, only letting her arms go when I notice that our awkward joining is causing her some trouble with the tipped and teetering roller bag.
“Come on, I’ll help you get all this stuff on the motor home.”
As though she’s realizing where she is for the first time, she stops in her tracks and looks up and out in the direction of the huge motor home. “So, this is the thing, huh?”
“Yep.” I nod, and my eyes are filled with humor. “That’s our girl.”
Brooke looks closely over the gold, tan, and black paint job and then cocks her neck to look back up at me. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but I thought it’d be more Metallica than Ma and Pa’s national vacation, you know?”
I chuckle. “I assure you the inside gives much more of a rock-star vibe.”
“Really?”
“No,” I answer honestly with a shake of my head. “What you see is pretty much what you get. Don’t get me wrong, it’s very nicely appointed—with a kitschy, farmhouse feel. Chip and Jo would be in their element.”
“You’re a fan of Fixer Upper?” she asks, an amused smile on her lips.
“I mean, they’re highly entertaining,” I answer. “Though, it could be said they’re slowly turning the entirety of Waco, Texas, into shiplap and barn house doors.”
She snickers. “Don’t knock the shiplap, Chase. It adds character.”
“Glad you feel that way because the motor home is filled with loads of character, then. Although, it’s more wood paneling than shiplap, but you’re a writer. You can probably just imagine it’s Chip and Jo’s latest renovation on wheels.”
“Well…” she hums through a giggle, pausing to scratch Benji on the top of his head. “I did kind of throw them a curve ball. They wanted to send me by plane, but since the thing with the stuff and the people and the trauma, Brooke Baker doesn’t take planes anymore.”
I raise my eyebrows, and she can feel them without even looking at my face, adding, “Don’t ask.”
“I’m not saying a word.”
“Good. As a reward for your behavior, I will allow you to escort my bag to the bus.” I smirk as she continues. “I know, it’s very generous, but I’ve got more where that came from, okay?”
Brooke Baker is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, bar none. She’s got comedic timing and wittiness, and just enough self-deprecation to give it a genuineness that doesn’t include loathing or calls for pity.
I’m constantly amused by her in both live action and print.
Honestly, from the moment I met her, through every meeting and situation, I’ve never escaped without a laugh. But there’s usually a discomfort there too, like she’s struggling just under the surface of her skin, and right now, I can’t see any signs of that at all. I don’t know if she’s growing more comfortable because we’re starting to be around each other more—which is about to go into overdrive, considering I’ve made us roomies for the next three weeks—but I hope I can keep the ease around.
I take Brooke’s bag from her grip and head toward the door of the motor home. She trails behind me with Benji in tow.
Once aboard, I take her suitcase to the bedroom and set it inside the closet. When I turn around, I find she’s followed me inside.
“So, this is where the magic happens,” she comments, jumping onto the bed and flopping on its big black comforter. Her lavender T-shirt bunches up her stomach and reveals a small sliver of her bare skin. My mind goes to an unexpected place, and I find myself imagining what that skin would feel like beneath my fingertips and what her body would feel like beneath mine if I crawled onto the bed and gently pinned her to the mattress.
What the hell was that? Went there a little too easily, don’t we think?
