1
Elliot
“Wait.”Wyn’seyesdancein a way that gives me a feeling I’m about to be seriously annoyed. “That’syour new Daddy?”
I clench my teeth and smile thinly. “He’s not my Daddy, you dork. He lived two doors down from my dad when they were kids. They’re best friends or something.”
We sit in the car in silence and consider the house. The architecture is Spanish eclectic, complete with off-white stucco walls, a sweeping arched entrance, and terracotta roof tiles. A jungle has been sympathetically tamed to frame the house in a riot of green, and a gnarled bougainvillea has been trained to grow over the arch. It’s about as picturesque as a home in Hollywood Hills can be, and that’s saying something.
The front door opens, and Stuart walks out. He stands on the porch with one hand in his pocket and the other raised in greeting. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair is dusty blond, streaked with flecks of gray here and there, and his eyes are so brilliantly blue that they seem to light up from the inside. His massive frame takes up an inordinate amount of space. Seriously, he makes the doorway behind him look like something fromAlice in Wonderland.
I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think the correct unit of measurement for him would be tall as fuck.
Hmm. He’s not just tall. He’s broad too, so I guess big-ass unit could be used as well.
I swallow the lump in my throat and resist the urge to cling to Wyn and beg him to take me back home. I don’t mean to make myself sound stoic. I’m not. I’m the furthest thing you could ever get from stoic. I already broke down twice earlier today and begged Wyn to keep me. He can’t though. He’s sublet my room to his friend, Bridget, who is moving in at this very moment. Not to mention that I’m up to my eyeballs in debt, my credit cards are maxed out, and at this point, I literally can’t afford to keep a roof over my head unless that roof is free.
I should consider myself lucky that a man I’ve only met a handful of times is happy to have me move in with him until I get back on my feet. It’s the height of privilege. I know that. I’m super lucky this is my life.
I glance at the house again. Stuart is lumbering toward us, and suddenly,luckyisn’t exactly what I’m feeling.
“It’ll be okay, Gouldie,” says Wyn, taking a chunk of my bicep in his hand and squeezing it hard. “You’ll see. It won’t be that bad. Stuart looks…n-nice.”
I’m not saying that’s a flat-out lie, but I am saying nice isn’t the first word I’d use to describe Stuart Wiseman.
When I’m absolutely positive I’ve spent as much time hiding in my room under the guise of unpacking as I can possibly get away with, I head downstairs for dinner.
“Did you get everything unpacked?” asks Stuart from his reclined position on the sofa, rubbing socked feet together and looking up over the book he’s reading.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I give him a smile, and when that doesn’t seem to thaw him all that much, I tack on, “Uh, thanks.”
I feel the familiar churn in my gut, that old burn, the yearning to make a perfect stranger like me.
He sets his book down on the side table and heads to the kitchen. The ground floor is open concept with a separate study and guest bathroom down the hall. The living area has a lived-in feel—thatI collected this shit over the course of an interesting lifetimevibe—and the kitchen is nice too. The cabinets are timber and the backsplash has been tiled with small square tiles with blue-and-white hand-painted designs. An assortment of appliances is lined up along one side of the counter and a big ceramic container stuffed full of wooden spoons and spatulas sits next to the stovetop. The container has the wordutensilsstamped onto the front of it, helpfully providing those unable to deduce what it holds with complete clarity on the matter.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, lifting a pot lid and peering into it once the cloud of steam has evaporated.
“Smells good,” I reply quickly. It does. The rich aroma of roast beef has been tantalizing my senses for what feels like hours, making my stomach gnaw at itself in desperation.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yeah, sure. Beer would be great.” I study his face and find it totally unreadable. His eyes bore into me in a way that makes me start doubting myself. “Or wine. Red wine would be nice. Or water. You know what? I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”
Oh great.
Just fucking great.
I’m not going to be able to make a decision around this guy, am I? One of the big problems about me—not the only one, mind you, but a big one nonetheless—is that I tend to be a different version of myself around people who unnerve me. It’s the fucking worst. I never see it coming either. One minute, I’m regular me, and the next, I’mKnow It All GouldorI Don’t Know Shit About Shit GouldorBrace Yourself Biatch, I’m About to Overshare Gould.
The list of Goulds I can spiral into under pressure is as long as my arm, so you’ll just have to take it from me that none of them are great and all of them are fucking exhausting. The worst thing about it is that I don’t get any warning. I never know what it is about certain people that makes me feel like this. I only know it’s hell when it happens, and it’s totally out of my control.
Just my luck that my dad’s arranged for me to live with this guy for the next six months.
I cast my eye around the room again and notice that every sunny surface in the kitchen and living room is covered in plants. Herbs, succulents, orchids, those miniature tree things with the braided trunks…If it’s green and makes a habit of converting carbon dioxide into oxygen, it’s in Stuart’s house. It’s like a rainforest in here. It looks kind of cool, but I can’t help thinking it’s designed to send a clear, possibly smug message:Look at me. I’m a responsible adult, not a mass murderer of houseplants.
I’m almost a hundred percent sure it’s not a jibe at me personally, but as I stand there increasingly feeling like the biggest, most pathetic spare part in existence, I start thinking it might be.
Stuart sets two places at the dining table, taking his time laying out red-and-white woven placemats and placing the cutlery just so before starting to carve the meat. I stand awkwardly to his left, unsure what I should do to add value to the situation. Since I can’t think of anything specific, I decide that staying out of his way might be the kindest thing I can do for him. As I watch, I’m struck by how different his carving technique is from my mom’s. When it’s just the two of us at home, she often serves a roast chicken by dumping it onto a platter and cheerfully crying, “Tear in!”
