Ifinished my workout almost an hour ago, planning to message Mariah once I was done. All I need to send her is a quick text so she knows my number.
Because I’m going to call her tomorrow. We are going to talk. To each other.
I don’t know why I made the offer I did. I was just desperate to make her happy. To give her what I could. As much as I never expected it to be the case, I seem to have started liking having her here. Having someone around to break up the monotony of my day.
Well… That’s not entirely true. I don’t know that I would be happy if some random other person took her place. I think I specifically like having Mariah here. I like the way she talks to herself while she cooks. I like that she gives me shit. Teases me back.
But I don’t like finding out she’s lonely. Except…
I kind of do.
Because if she had someone in her life—a man—she would be talking to them on a regular basis. Possibly even going to visit them. And the only person she’s visited since coming here is my asshole brother Walker.
I drop my phone to the bed and walk away from it for the millionth time, raking one hand through my overgrown hair. I can’t be happy she’s single, because I’m not capable of changing that. I don’t want to change that. I’m happy being alone. It’s best for everyone.
And I’m a little concerned that once I take this next step, hear her voice in my ear, it won’t be enough. Just like when I started watching her more and more. Began sending her notes on every tray. The chances of one phone call bleeding into a million feels real fucking high.
So, instead of sending the text I promised, I’ve been pacing the floor. Obsessing. Worrying. Regretting.
I’m halfway across the room when my phone dings, signaling an incoming message. I pounce on it immediately, eager for a distraction—even if it’s only my mother or brothers trying to annoy me.
I open up the app and swallow hard. It’s not my family who’s texting me.
It’s Mariah.
Guess you’re not the only one who knows how to find a phone number.
I don’t notice the slow smile that crawls across my lips until it’s too late. It takes over my face, dragging along emotions I never expected to experience again—Excitement. Anticipation.
Connection.
That’s the strangest part of all of this. Mariah and I have technically never interacted in person, but somehow a connection has been formed. At least on my part.
This text makes me think it’s possible she feels the same.
I don’t have time to respond before a second message pops up.
In case you’re curious how I obtained it, I got it from Walker. He gave me his number before dropping me off yesterday.
A hot stab of jealousy slices through me, unbidden and unexpected. Walker shouldn’t have given her his number and he sure as hell shouldn’t be texting with her. She’s my?—
She’s my chef. That’s it.
I’m still gonna kick his ass.
I fire off a text to my brother.
Get your own chef.
Then I move on to Mariah, the sting of jealousy still burning my hide as I tap out the words.
Just so you know, Walker would never get you a pony.
Not sure why that’s what I decide to go with, but it’s sent before I can come to my senses. Before I remember that only a few minutes ago I was considering not texting Mariah at all, and was instead thinking about backing off. Reestablishing some space between us.
Now, I’m throwing a fit because she sent my brother a message. One that was about me.
I think I’ve got a problem. And I have no clue how to navigate it.
