“This isn’t clutter,” I reply. “It’s a picture of my entire family at our annual Christmas Day hockey match on the frozen lake in Silver Bay.”
He leans on the counter and stares at the photo. "Shit. There are so many of you. It's like your extended family makes up half the NHL."
I smirk. “Not half. A quarter maybe.”
“Do you have a lot of stuff you want to destroy my aesthetic with?”
I laugh and spin, arm out, gesturing at the rest of the loft. “You call this an aesthetic?”
“I hired a designer.” He’s so indignant it’s almost adorable. If anything about him could ever be considered adorable, which it can’t.
“Did you tell the designer I want Wednesday Addams vibes? Give me the cave Eeyore would go to die in?” I’m on the verge of giggling at my own jokes and it makes Nash frown even harder.
“I’m sorry I didn’t go with Garage Sale Chic like you.”
Zing! I’m impressed with how quick he came up with that insult. He turns and walks into his living room. He hits a button on the wall and the shades start to raise all the way up. “I have an email with instructions for everything from the window shades to the heating system to the sound system to the TV. I sent it to Crew when he was watching the place for me. I’ll forward it to you.”
“Cool. Thanks,” I say and place a small ceramic inch worm on his brass and glass 1920s bar cart in the corner the room.
“What the ever-loving hell is that?”
"Stanley the inchworm. I made him in Girl Scouts when I was nine," I explain. "He's my good luck charm."
Nash walks slowly towards it like he’s worried it’s an explosive device or something. “You mean Girl Guides?”
“No. I mean Girl Scouts. I’m American, remember?”
“Yes. I remember.” He rolls his eyes before focusing them back on Stanley. “It’s hideous.”
He’s right. “Ceramics isn’t my strong suit. Just like color isn’t yours.”
He glances over his shoulder at me and I wave my hand around the room again. He flips me the middle finger and I laugh. “Gray is a color and it’s my favorite.”
"Jesus. That officially makes you the most boring man on earth," I reply and turn to trot back down the hall. I have the weird sensation of being watched as I go. Like, watched in the same way a hot guy at a bar would watch me, not in a way Nash would—or should—watch me. I shake it off and grab my keys out of my bag, calling back to him, "Do you have two parking stalls? I can't be paying meters all the time."
“Yeah. Code for the garage door is 3141 and it’s spot number nine. Next to my car. Do not scratch my car,” he warns.
“Whatever,” I reply. “I’ll be back in ten. With Palm-ela.”
“What is a Palm-ela?” he asks as his eyes grow wide. “Oh my God please do not say you have a cat.”
“Palm-ela Anderson is my potted palm tree. I named her after a Canadian. You should like that.”
“At least it’s not a cat. I’m allergic.”
I leave without another word and make a mental note to get myself a cat if Nash pisses me off too much in this arrangement of ours.
Chapter 9
Nash
Fuck. I want to jerk off so bad it’s giving me insomnia. And I have a game tomorrow night, on top of the stupid film crew following me everywhere. I need my sleep. But the hot blonde bane of my existence is sleeping in my office and it’s making me crazy. Which makes the need to jerk off, and give myself some tension relief, even higher. But I can’t because I bought a loft, with no real walls anywhere but the bathrooms. I’m worried she might hear me or something.
I sit up, shrugging out of the sheets, which are tangled in my pajamas. Because I have to wear pajamas now because I have a wife I don't want to accidentally see me naked. Dear God, my life is a joke. I get out of bed and tip-toe into my bathroom because I have wood floors up here, and it's directly above Tenley, and they creak. I close the door then flip on the sconces and lean on the marble counter, my head hanging in defeat. Jerking off in the shower is a good option. But can I shower without waking her? The exposed pipes from the bathroom run down the back wall of the office.
Fuck it. I have to try.
Besides, even if she hears something, she won't come up here. We established rules when I came back from practice and I found her eating potato chips on my couch. She balked at every single rule and acted like I was some kind of evil dictator and then she stomped out, muttering she was going to go eat dinner at Tate's.
