Just like it’s true, legitimate, actual warmth flooding my heart at the simple kindness of having someone else order me potatoes for dinner while I napped.
“I’m hungry.” I stretch, reaching as far as I can with my fingers and my toes, arching my back too. “What time is it? How long was I asleep?”
His lips twitch like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “It’s almost nine.”
“Oh my god.”
“I need to know about Bernie and Mrs. Massery and the bubble races, by the way.”
So I was out cold.
I only talk in my sleep when I’m sleepinghard.
“Food’s getting cold. Can’t talk while I’m hungry,” I say.
He grins at me and heads to the kitchen, bags swinging with his crutches.
I swipe at my eyes.
I can blame sleep. Say it’s a yawn.
But really, it’s just a kind gesture from a guy who looks good in athletic shorts and who’s nicer and nicer by the day.
I legit don’t know how it’s possible he doesn’t have a girlfriend.
Unless he doesn’t want one.
That would make sense.
And he doesn’t want a pregnant one, idiot, I remind myself.
He’s just being nice.
He’s one of the nice guys in the world.
But he’s not my guy.
No matter how much I’m starting to enjoy everything about him.
18
Holt
We’re only a week in,but this thing with Ziggy is working out well so far.
I pay for groceries. She cooks. I eat what she cooks. She makes herself potatoes.
She goes to work.
Fletcher picks me up to go see the team doc and physical therapy staff and sometimes some of our other teammates.
I nap.
Monday, Ziggy took Jessica to her parents’ house to play with their dogs before going to work.
The rest of the days, Jessica tolerates me being the person who takes care of her until Ziggy comes home and cooks, then falls asleep on the couch while watching some period piece with fancy costumes and British accents and a snarky narrator.
Most nights.
