I curse my hookup under my breath for dragging me into his relationship drama. The guy’s smirk disappears, and he just stares at me, mouth agape.
What did I say?
Just as I’m about to apologize once more and make a quick escape, a deep chuckle emanates from the entrance to the kitchen on the right. Another man steps in, equally as tall but much leaner, with stubble as brown as his wavy, neatly styled hair. He’s dressed in dark dress pants and a light blue shirt and begins rolling up his sleeves.
Are there only male models living in this house?
“You can’t blame her for assuming that, brother. You look like a cute little domesticated housewife in that thing,” the newcomer says, nodding toward the pink apron.
The first guy recovers from his initial shock and scowls at him, yanking off the apron. He flips him off, still clutching it in his fist, and I have to bite my lips not to laugh at his expression.
“You know it was the only color they had. You were there.” He snarls at him.
“True, but you could have just not bought it,” the other one shrugs dismissively.
Since the one who looks like a businessman initially referred to the first as ‘brother,’ I study them more closely. It’s then that I notice what I hadn’t before. They share similar features—handsome faces, brown hair, and those captivating ocean blue eyes, just like the guy from last night. Even the little blonde boy at the table has those same blue eyes. He must be the son of oneof them, and I find myself hoping he’s not the kid from the guy from the bar, or at least that there isn’t a wife in the picture. I’ve already had my fill of awkward encounters for one day.Thank you very much.
“Anyway…” I start, my voice hesitant, “… it was nice meeting you guys, but I don’t think…” Suddenly, a chill runs down my neck, and I sense another presence in the room. Swiftly scanning the area, my eyes land on a woman standing behind Business Guy.
She’s wearing a white nightgown, drenched from head to toe, and looks pale, her wet blonde hair clinging to her face. Her wrists have been cut, and the soaked nightgown is drenched in blood from her thighs down. When our eyes meet, she tries to speak, but only water spills from her lips.
Apron Guy chuckles. “Nash. His name is Nash.”
I blink, pulling my attention back to the living. “Huh, really? Well, I don’t thinkNashwould appreciate me crashing this family gathering, so I’ll see myself out. Have a nice life,” I say with an awkward wave, turning on my heel and heading for the exit, their chuckles following me as I leave.
As I shut the front door and lean against it, I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
I can’t believe the awkward situations I always seem to find myself in.
When I open my eyes again, ready to leave, I spot a really cute guy seated on the porch bench. He glances up at me, grinning, dimples deepening, and I meet those same ocean blue eyes I’ve already seen too many times today. However, he looks a lot younger than the rest of them, with wavy, brown hair framing his face. I would say he’s in his early to mid-twenties, but there’s something strange about him.
In my experience, ghosts look like real people. When they realize they are dead and have accepted it, they look as they didin life. But if they die traumatically or are in denial about their death, they can get stuck in their last moments and appear more like someone in a horror movie, much like the drowned woman I just saw in the house.
However, I’ve never seen a ghost that resembles a hologram or the translucent ghosts you see in movies. But the guy next to me seems to be only partially visible. I can see the bench beneath him.
What the...
“Hi.” He grins at me, making his dimples stand out even more.
I’m so taken aback that I can only stare at him, and before I can blink, he just vanishes.
A twingeof something like disappointment surges through me as I watch the beautiful blonde leave my house. It’s a new feeling that lingers in the pit of my stomach, a mix of loss and something I can’t quite place. But North doesn’t let me dwell on it. He brings me back to reality in an instant.
“Is there coffee yet?” he asks, his voice drawing me away from the doorway. I glance at him as he sits at the table, notingthe dark circles that have taken up permanent residence under his eyes. They’re more pronounced today, as if he hasn’t slept in days.
Not that that’s anything new.
“Maybe if you’d stop working all hours, stop bringing the work home, and catch some sleep for a change, you wouldn’t be so dependent on caffeine,” I retort, half-serious, half-joking, but I’m already moving toward the coffee machine. I top it up with fresh beans, the scent of coffee filling the kitchen and grounding me.
As the beans pour in, I can’t help feeling like the housewife North joked that I was. In front of her, no less.
Fuck.
He ought to be grateful for all I do—managing the house, cooking, and, most critically, looking after his son. But gratitude isn’t North’s style. He’s more the type to bulldoze through life, treating everyone with the same brisk indifference.
At least for the last seven years.
And yet, despite the gruff exterior and the lack of thank yous, I continue, because this is what I chose to do. In the end, the satisfaction of a well-run household and love for my nephew outweigh any need for recognition.
