“I’ll be the happiest,” he replies, but makes no move to leave.
“Do you need a toothbrush too?”
He taps his chin, his smile a little flirty. “Think I remembered to bring that. I’m good to go, but I’ll see if I can forget something else.”
Okaaaay.
“Just let me know,” I say, keeping it friendly. I point to the kitchen. “I have a few more things to do.”
“Have fun,” he says.
I return to the kitchen where Banks is leaning against the counter with one eyebrow raised—he likely saw that interaction. He’s finishing takeout from a cardboard bowl, something with kale and sweet potatoes and fresh chicken, as he chats with Wanda and Haven and Grandma.
I pass them, grabbing my laptop from the sofa to finalize one more order for new pruners. They debate the best way to make macarons while Banks straightens up. When I’m done, I say good night to Grandma and Haven.
“Don’t stay up too late chatting,” I warn, but it’s a moot point. They will. They’ve always been late-night chatters.
“We’ll behave,” Grandma says with a smirk.
“We’ll be sooo good,” Haven adds.
Yup, moot point. But there’s nothing I can do about it, so Igrab my phone and head over to the cottage as the stars flicker in the sky. An antsy feeling chases me as I cross the lawn with Banks. Like we’re walking toward the inevitable—the inevitable tension.
Banks opens the door, and I go inside. He brought my shoulder bag and my overnight bag here earlier, and I stop in the doorway. I have never seen the cottage like this.
It’s immaculate. The bed is crisply made, each corner of the white comforter smoothed over, and the blue-and-white-striped pillows arranged like the room’s going to be featured in a photo shoot.
On the nightstand there’s just the lamp and what looks like a black eye mask, folded over. The kind we sell in the little shop.
I pull my gaze away from the bed, taking in the rest of the room I know well as he shuts the door, sealing us into this small space. That restless feeling in me amps up.
The one-room cottage is big enough for a king-size bed, a couch, a coffee table, a small fridge, and a little sink, as well as a bathroom. The couch looks out on the deck overlooking the lavender fields.
On the coffee table across from the dove-gray couch is a paperback—a big book. Stephen King, I think. It sits atop a sleek silver laptop.
That’s it.
There’s no messy array of items strewn across the wooden tabletop. No T-shirt, no sunglasses, or lip balm, or keys. There’s not a banana left there from when someone thought they wanted a snack but never ate. There’s no water bottle. We should deal withthe sleeping arrangements, but I’m too surprised by the unusually spotless state of the cottage to think about the bigger issue.
“Have you been living here at all?” I ask, confused by the neatness. His suitcase isn’t even open. It’s closed and placed on the floor by the wardrobe beside the bed. My overnight bag is stacked neatly there too, but I forgot to bring my canvas bag with my books. I’ll grab it before bedtime though.
“Yes,” he says, his brow pinched, perhaps confused by my question.
I try to explain better. “It’s never looked this nice. It’s neater than when you arrived.”
He drags a hand through his thick hair, then dips his face for a second, maybe embarrassed. When he raises it, he says, “I’m just neat.”
“A little,” I say, then set my phone on the table. I feel instantly guilty for messing up the table’s feng shui.
The neatness is, admittedly, taking my mind off other things. Like the one-bed-ness of it all. One bed against the wall, with a pulse, a heartbeat, and a voice whispering low and smoky, “What are you going to do about me?”
I shift my focus back to Banks. “Is it the military training?” I ask since this is easier than dealing with the voice in my head.
“Probably,” he says, then pauses like he’s reconsidering. “Maybe.”
He doesn’t sound evasive so much as uncomfortable, so I say, “Well, I like what you’ve done with it. It’s hardly good enough for me now.”
He wrinkles his nose, then groans. “You’re a slob, right?”
