Warren: Nah, I’ve got meals at home.
Harriet: You have to let me cook for you eventually. I’ve been practicing.
Harriet: Or maybe I could come to you?
Warren: I’d love that, but I’m renovating my kitchen. It’s a construction zone, and I don’t want you around all the dust and noise.
Harriet: Oh, of course. You’ll have to invite me around once it’s done.
Warren: Sure.
THIRTY-TWO
WARREN
The boxof baby clothes and the mini bathtub balance precariously in my arms as I wait for Harriet to answer the door.
“You’re early,” Harriet greets. I can’t see her from behind the mountain of stuff my sister and mom forced on me when they knew I was visiting her today.
“Yeah, sorry. Overestimated how busy the traffic would be.” I shift my arms awkwardly. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Oh, wow. Well, come in. Watch your step.” She places her hands on my forearms to guide me inside the warmth of the cottage. “You can put it all on the table.”
Before I even place it on the small dining table, she’s sifting through the haul,awwingand cooing. “These are precious. Diana mentioned she had some old gender neutral clothing. I’ll text her thanks.”
My brows rocket to my hairline. “You have my sister’s number?”
“Uh-huh. She’s given me lots of tips on brands.” Sheextracts her head from the box, looks up at me, and immediately blanches. “You’re naked!”
I lower my gaze to my jeans and sweater. “Unless you have X-ray vision, I assure you, I’m not.”
She bats the air. “Your face is naked. Where’s the beard?”
Ah. “Had to shave it off for apparatus testing.”
“Oh.” She’s not stealthy enough to hide her disappointment.
“Did you…like the beard?” My shoulders draw back, feeling oddly insecure. I could grow it back in a week, but I don’t tell her that for fear of sounding insecure.
She blushes. “On you, yes. Not that I don’t like what you’ve got going on under it, but, um…”
“What?”
She drags a finger down my jaw, sending a shiver across my body. “You’ve done an awful job. Did you do this drunk? With a pair of garden shears?”
Now I’m the one blushing. Since when do I fucking blush? “I was in a rush.”
To see her and wish her luck for her meeting tomorrow.
The corner of her mouth tilts up. “Do you want help? It’s kinda patchy, and your mustache is wonky.”
“That’s not necessary,” I start, but she’s already abandoned the mini socks and hats, gesturing me to follow her upstairs.
“I can’t, in good faith, let you wander around the streets looking like that.” She winks before disappearing around the corner.
Like a dog with a bone, I follow.
This is the first time I’ve seen the main bedroom since she moved in. Throw pillows, blankets, candles, photographs litter the space. The once blank canvas is filled with soft, feminine accents. I chuckle at the assortment of signs hanging on the wall.
