“It’s the perfect way to have a pet.”
“One day a week.” Calder settles into the driver’s seat and presses the start button, then grabs my hand and holds it. “So wher?—”
“My place.” I say too fast. My face reddens. “If you want. I didn’t?—”
“Are you sure? You have work in the morning.”
“I could call in sick.”
He gives me a look.
“I know, I know. Lies aren’t a good start to a relationship. But if I don’t get any sleep and I honestly feel sick?—”
“Why wouldn’t you get any sleep?”
I laugh.
He somehow keeps a straight face. “Are we going to watch movies? Play board games?”
My stomach flips. “Frederick Calder.”
“You’re blushing.”
“Well, you make me blush.”
He has a self-satisfied smirk when he puts the car in drive. We’re barely out of the parking lot before I start in on the questions. I discover he grew up in a postage-stamp town in the Midwest, the kind where the biggest weekend event is the county fair tractor pull. His parents ran a hardware store, his older sister moved here with her husband shortly after he did and teaches middle school art in Arvada. He went to college in Indiana on a tennis scholarship, got a degree in kinesiology, and found pickleball by accident during his senior year when a teammate dragged him to a rec league tournament. He walked away with a medal and a mild obsession.
A few sponsors, a few trophies, and a well-timed Denver tournament later, he decided the mountains were home. These days he splits his time between coaching at Smash Point and working as a sports rehab specialist at a physical therapy clinic. The same one that treated his shoulder when he wrecked it.
As we turn down my street, my confidence starts to wobble. “Just a warning,” I say, fidgeting with the zipper on the hoodie I grabbed from my bag. “My apartment is a work in progress.”
“No risk, no reward.”
I point, and he pulls up to the curb. “And the reward is movies?”
Calder puts the car in park. “Or board games. Either one.”
I laugh and get out, pulling my bag from the back. Calder grabs his, and the logistics of the situation flood my head. It’s a rare occurrence. “I didn’t think about clothes for you. Should we have stopped at your place?”
He pats his bag. “I’ve got a clean set.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Confident, huh?”
He chuckles. “I teach most days and then have to go to the office. I always have extra clothes.”
“Uh-huh.” I turn to the entrance.
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah. I believe you.”
Calder sneaks up behind me and slaps my hip, and I yelp. We walk through the lobby and take the stairs to the second floor. When I unlock the door, I see my place through his eyes for the first time. The living room is a collage of colors—leather couch with mismatched throw pillows, a bright yellow lamp, art prints that range from landscapes to abstracts. The slightly haggard decorative fig tree I got from my downstairs neighbor when he moved.
Calder steps inside slowly, taking his time to look around the room. “This fits.”
I smile, a little self-conscious. “Too much color?”
“No. Exactly right.”
