Chapter Nine
Avery
M y eyes flutter open to sunlight streaming through an unfamiliar set of bay windows, and for a moment, I’m completely disoriented by the cloud-like comfort surrounding me.
I have to pinch myself to be sure I’m not dreaming and that I’m not moments away from waking up in that ratty old hotel bed. But when I do, nothing happens. Nothing but my desire to crawl into a hole and die when I remember how only yesterday, I agreed to share a roof with Nash Fontaine. Ugh!
I stretch out my legs, not ready to leave what might be the world’s most comfortable bed.
I suppose living in the man’s house does have its perks.
The sheets are impossibly soft against my skin, thanks to their 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton—which I only know because I checked the label last night before climbing in.
But seriously, who spends that kind of money on sheets for a guest bed?
My guess is someone who also has enough money to hire someone else to wash them.
Down the hall, Benji’s bathroom door closes. Of course he’s already up and getting ready for school. That kid never misses a chance to be on time when he knows the school cafeteria is serving pizza for breakfast.
With a groan, I finally force myself up.
I guess I should go downstairs to see if Nash at least has a bag of bread lying around so I can make a slice of toast for the road.
Man-child that he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if all I found were protein shakes and energy bars.
Though, even a protein shake would be a step up from the junk they served at The Sunset Inn.
I pad down the stairs in a pair of worn-out slippers, mentally preparing myself for disappointment.
What I don’t expect is the full spread that greets me in the kitchen when I round the corner.
Laid out across the bar is a platter of fresh-cut fruit, a heaping stack of pancakes, bacon, sausages, and a plate of scrambled eggs that somehow still look fresh despite sitting out.
“What on Earth...” I look around the room like I’m being punked, half expecting Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the walk-in pantry at any moment.
My initial thought is that Nash made this himself before leaving this morning, which seems both wildly out of character and annoyingly thoughtful. Then, I spot a folded piece of paper propped against a bottle of maple syrup.
I unfold the note to find Nash’s surprisingly neat handwriting:
Morning Avery & Benji,
Didn’t want your first day to start on an empty stomach, so I had Jorge come by early to make breakfast. Help yourself to anything you see in the kitchen. I’m just a text away if you need anything.
Have a great day! Nash
P.S. Sorry I didn’t cook for you myself. Didn’t think you and Benji would want burnt toast for breakfast.
I roll my eyes, but it does little to stop the corners of my mouth from twitching upward. Why am I not surprised that a man like Nash would have a personal chef?
“Benji!” I call upstairs. “Breakfast!”
His thundering footsteps follow immediately. “Coming!”
I pour myself a cup of coffee from the carafe, the only thing still piping hot at this point, and try to sort out my feelings.
While this is exactly what I dislike about guys like Nash—throwing money at people to take care of basic life skills—having breakfast waiting for us was one of the most thoughtful things he could have done after the week we’ve been having.
Benji skids into the kitchen and his eyes go wide. “Whoa! Did you make all this?”
“No, Nash’s chef did.”
“Nash has a chef ?“ Benji’s voice rises in awe, and I sigh. This living arrangement might be more complicated than I thought.
“ Eat. We don’t want to be late for drop off.”
Benji piles his plate high with pancakes, drenching them in so much syrup that I’m convinced he’s consumed his daily sugar allowance before taking a bite.
“Easy on the sugar,” I warn. “And sit at the table, please. I’m sure Nash doesn’t need us ruining his expensive hardwood floors.”
“This is awesome,” he says through a mouthful of pancakes. “Way better than the cereal bars at the hotel.”
I snort in agreement, using a wet paper towel to wipe any syrup splatters from the granite countertop.
I grab a perfectly crisp slice of thick-cut bacon and take a bite, moaning at how annoyingly delicious it is.
Then, when curiosity gets the best of me, I randomly start going through Nash’s cupboards and drawers.
His kitchen is immaculate, with each drawer having its purpose—utensils in one, spatulas and cooking tools in another, measuring cups and spoons neatly arranged in a third. It’s all so perfect that, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he paid someone to come in and stage the place.
I open the refrigerator, expecting to find it empty except for sports drinks and takeout containers.
Instead, I’m greeted by shelves fully stocked with milk, eggs, butter, fresh vegetables, deli meats, and yes—even protein shakes.
But at least they’re tucked away on a bottom shelf rather than front and center next to a half-empty six-pack of Michelob Ultra, right?
The only thing I don’t see is coffee creamer. I’ll have to remember to pick some up on my way home from work later.
The pantry surprises me even more. Its shelves are lined with snacks, miscellaneous baking goods, and clear canisters filled with different kinds of pasta and rice.
Below the canisters, there’s an impressive variety of soups and other canned goods, along with an entire shelf of nothing but cereal.
The good, name-brand kind, too—not like the generic stuff I always buy for Benji.
It’s hardly what I’d expect for a bachelor pad, especially now that I know Nash doesn’t cook.
The next few days take some getting used to, but by day three, Benji and I find our stride.
I drop him off at school before my morning shifts, pick him up after baseball practice, drop him back at the house for dinner and homework, and then drive the four-and-a-half miles it takes me to get from Nash’s house to the stadium for my second shift.
It’s not so different from our old routine, only now, with Nash living in such a safe neighborhood and having a state-of-the-art alarm system, I don’t have to keep dragging Benji to the club with me anytime I can’t find a sitter.
Which is especially helpful now that Salvatore has me training for the new management position.
“You realize this bathtub is bigger than our entire bathroom back home, right?” I gush to Summer over the phone while drawing my nightly bubble bath. “I mean, seriously… Who needs this much space just to get clean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe someone who might want some company in there to help them get clean?“ She laughs, and I respond by hanging up on her.
All teasing aside, I can’t deny the many perks of our temporary living arrangement. Benji having his own separate bathroom means no more negotiating morning schedules or finding his wet towels on my floor. And the water pressure here makes our shower at home feel like a leaky faucet by comparison.
With each day that goes by, Benji and I find something new that makes this place feel even more like home.
Like the kitchen drawer I came across yesterday, stocked with miniature bags of sunflower seeds and individually wrapped Reese’s peanut butter eggs—two of Benji’s favorite snacks.
Or the hall closet Benji found that was full of jigsaw puzzles and a few other board games he told Nash he liked.
On the surface level, they might seem like simple things. But to a kid like Benji, I don’t think Nash realizes the impact he’s making.
Not to say I’m planning on cutting the man any slack. Even if his daily texts distract me so much that he’s all I can think about, I’d rather die a slow and painful death than admit how much I’ve started looking forward to them.
Day 1:
Just checking in. Jorge wants to know if Benji liked the pancakes.
He ate five and packed two more in his lunch box. Tell Jorge thank you.
Day 2:
How’s your bed? Sleeping alright? First game is tonight at 7. You and Benji should watch on the big screen.
Sleep was fine. I’ll let him know.
Day 3:
Got another game tomorrow night. You’ll be watching, right? Need to know if I should wave to the camera.
Benji will definitely be watching. Don’t embarrass yourself on national TV.
Day 4:
How’s the water pressure in your shower? The plumber said he fixed the issue in the guest bath.
It’s fine. Stop checking in on us like we’re children.
Just being a good host, Ave.
You’re being annoying. And don’t call me Ave.
Day 5:
Do anything exciting over the weekend? Only one more week til I’m home. Miss me yet?
NO. I’m working. Leave me alone.
It’s been exactly one week since Nash left, and I’ve got my new nightly routine right where I want it. After I get home from work and Benji’s in bed, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and hunt for scholarships or any other financial aid that might help cover costs for St. Sebastian’s.
With most of my savings now earmarked for home repairs, I’m back to square one on the tuition front.
“Applications received after March 15th will not be considered,” I mutter, closing the browser tab on yet another missed deadline. I let my exhausted head fall into my hands just as my phone vibrates on the table in front of me.
Long day?
I stare at Nash’s text, debating whether I should ignore it. Then, against my better judgment, I hit reply.
The longest.
Want to talk about it?
Not really.
OK. Let me know if you change your mind. I’m a good listener.
By the start of week two, our exchanges fall into a strange rhythm where neither of us is willing to acknowledge what it is we’re actually doing.
I forgot to ask… How are the flowers in your room holding up? Are they still fresh? I can have new ones delivered if you’d like.
I don’t need fresh flowers.