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But now, I’m reaching the point where I have to attend to basic needs like emptying my bladder and feeding my growling stomach, and doing the first in here sounds like a whole other problem I don’t want to have to fix.
Just go out there and act normal.
My mind is kind of cute when it’s being stupid. When have I ever been able to achieve normal? Add in my ginormous, huge crush on Chase, and it’s a damn joke to think I can pull off two notches below semi-sane.
Benji looks at me from his spot near the pillows on the bed. Lord knows he’s tired of watching me try to amp myself up to walk outside of this bedroom. He would also probably like to empty his own bladder and get fed breakfast.
“I’m trying, okay?” I whisper toward him, and he just lets out a little huff from his snout.
Eventually, though, when my bladder’s urge becomes too strong and Benji gives another huff that I think says, we’re getting close to dog abuse, crazy lady, I know I have to woman up. It’s that, or else I’m going to have pee in an empty Gatorade bottle on the nightstand by the bed and Benji might take to shitting in my favorite pair of boots.
I can’t be sure, but bottles full of piss might raise some red flags, and shit-boots certainly won’t make me more comfortable.
On a deep, deep, deep inhale, I force oxygen into my lungs as I stand up from the bed. My knees wobble a little, but I exhale through the nerves and step to the door.
Hand wrapped around the knob, I pull it open slowly and peek my head out toward the hallway, trying to see if I can gauge the situation from right here.
I spot the back of Chase’s head as he turns from the coffee machine with two mugs in his hands. Instantly, we make eye contact, and it takes everything inside me not to slam the door and go hide under the comforter.
“Morning,” he says, and his voice is friendly and natural and not at all weird.
He is fully dressed, and a smile sits on his lips.
I don’t know what I was expecting to see. I mean, it’s not like he was still going to be out here in his damn towel. That’d be nearly as weird as me starting a collection of urine bottles in the bedroom and walking around in shit-boots. But for some reason, him acting entirely normal after a moment I’ve made this big in my head almost feels the strangest of all.
“Go—” I start, but I stop to clear the frog out of my throat. “Good morning.”
“How about a caffeine boost?” he asks and lifts one of the mugs toward me.
Okay, this is good, Brooke. Really. Him acting normal gives you a sane lead to follow. Just do the same.
“Yes, please.” I nod and open the door the rest of the way, walking into the hallway and toward the kitchen. Benji is quick to follow my lead.
“Sleep well?”
“Mm-hmm.” You are such a big, fat phony.
“Glad to hear it,” he says and places the mug into my hands.
“Thank you.” I take a sip before setting it down on the small kitchen table. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to head off to the bathroom for a brief moment. Fingers crossed, I don’t have to fight off any squirrels while I pee. And then, I’m going to take Benji out before he starts bitching at me.”
A soft chuckle escapes Chase’s lips as he sits down in the little booth, his notebook and manuscript for Accidental Attachment already out on the table.
I head into the bathroom and make quick work of emptying my bladder. And when I get back from letting Benji out, everything still feels pretty normal. Chase starts pushing me about the book. I start procrastinating from doing work on the book.
We fall back into what has become our typical routine on this motor home. The almost-kiss might as well have never happened.
Which is good…right? Everyone loves normalcy.
Yeah, but everyone isn’t wondering if they missed their chance to kiss the man of their dreams.
Brooke
It’s official. I’m buried in a live grave, and the dirt is piling up.
For the entirety of the morning and most of the afternoon, I’ve used all my best avoidance techniques to keep Chase off the book path.
But I can no longer avoid working on it without checking him in to a psychiatric facility.
Hell, I’ve managed nearly a week of including him in my procrastination, but I can see the tiny indentations of crow’s-feet starting to radiate from his eyes as a result of the stress, and to be the one to mar his perfect face would be an unrecoverable tragedy.
So, here I am, in the kitchenette booth, my previously abandoned backpack open and my laptop front and center on the table in front of me. I’ve got a cup of coffee poured in one of the mugs from the cabinet and a blinking cursor on the screen, begging me to make magic.
