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16

Holt

I’m up early Monday.

No specific reason for it—except possibly hearing the water start in Ziggy’s room, then the podcast she likes to listen to in Spanish start right after, the voices too low for me to make out any words.

My room.

She’s in my room.

I told her to take it because I knew she’d be more comfortable with the en-suite room, and I’m still not ready to let anyone else move into Caden’s room.

Unusual to have two en-suites, a third full bathroom, and a powder room for guests in a house this old, but some forward-thinker in the seventies gutted the interior to make sure no one ever wanted for a place to piss or wash their hands .

Caden said it was one of his favorite things about the house.

You’re never more than a single room from a bathroom.

My brother was fascinatingly practical in unexpected ways.

I swing myself out of bed and crutch to the hall bath. Ziggy’s door is cracked, and Jessica’s staring at me when I leave the bathroom.

“You wanna go out?” I ask her.

She snorts on the door, turns, and points her ass at me. You are mud, human, and I am too dignified to reply to you .

“You’re welcome for giving you a friend you like,” I mutter back.

She scratches the floor like she’s flinging poop in my direction.

I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen. Ziggy said she’d cook, but I don’t need to be fully dependent on her for everything. I can do some things.

Like make coffee.

Probably.

Except the coffee maker is under the cabinet by the oven, and the coffee is stored in a lower cabinet on the other side of the fridge.

Because that’s how Caden had it, and it was never a problem before.

Good for you to solve problems this early in the morning , I hear him say.

I flip him off in my head and hear him laugh.

Never mocking.

Always life is fun, stop making mountains out of molehills. This won’t matter in an hour, much less in ten years .

He’s right .

Won’t matter if I hop on one leg across the kitchen and back so that I can carry the coffee over to the maker.

I open the streaming app on my phone and turn on my favorite rock station, then pause it.

Does Ziggy like rock?

Is she more of a Waverly Sweet or Levi Wilson fan?

Does she listen to French rock? Not only did I notice her foreign podcast in the car the other day, I also heard her doing a language app before bed last night. She could’ve picked up some favorite artists in Europe the past few years, but I couldn’t begin to guess who she might like. I don’t even know who exists.

Maybe classic something is better. Aren’t babies supposed to listen to classical music in the womb to get smarter? Silas was babbling about that being why his daughter can already read small words before starting kindergarten this coming school year.

But does Ziggy’s baby already have ears?

I’m bent over my phone, researching when babies can hear while in utero, when I hear Jessica’s tags jingling on her collar and the normal thump thump thump of her thick little body navigating the stairs.

Fuck it.

I close my browser, switch back to the streaming app, and put on Waverly Sweet.

Then I turn it down nearly all the way and shove my phone out of reach so I can say it started playing on its own if she thinks it’s odd or unusual.

Fuck me.

I’m being odd and unusual.

Jessica trots into the kitchen. I straighten and hop in a circle on one foot so I’m leaning against the counter instead of hunching over it.

“Morning,” I say to Ziggy.

Her hair’s a slightly damp mass of curls hanging all over her shoulders, and she’s in a patterned, colorful blouse and fancy pants that I honestly don’t know the color of. They’re not tan. Not gray. Is that mauve? Is that what mauve is?

And you’re finishing my house. This is a disaster , I hear Caden say.

I know the basic rainbow.

He knew paint chips and could identify forty-three different shades of yellow. When I told Ziggy that Caden’s designer picked stuff, I was lying.

He had a strong hand in it himself.

It’s just easier to distance myself sometimes so it hurts less that he’s gone.

She smiles at me, and my heart thumps hard.

“Morning,” she says. “I didn’t know if you’d be up. If you don’t want to get up so early, I can just leave something to be reheated in the fridge. In a bag. I know that’s easier to carry with the crutches. Yes, Jessica, I’m coming. I know. I know . Here.”

She disappears onto the porch, then returns a moment later without the dog.

And I suddenly have no idea what to say to this woman.

I had a list before I went to sleep last night.

First day, huh?

When did you know you wanted to be a chef?

You don’t have to go to the store. I’ll order through the app.

I don’t want to say any of that.

“You a morning person?” I finally blurt .

“Absolutely not,” she replies far more cheerfully than any not-morning person should.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to smile at that or call her on the contradiction.

Not that she’s strange.

She’s anything but strange.

She’s fucking gorgeous. And nice. And in a tough spot.

“I’m faking it until I make it,” she says.

“Oh. Coffee?”

Her face screws up into a tight ball of wrinkled angst. “I wish.”

“Should be some in that cabinet. Saw it yesterday. Unless Jessica ate all of it overnight.”

“No, it’s there. It’s just—I’m supposed to limit how much caffeine I have, and I am definitely having a cup at the office this morning. They have an espresso machine. It’s ridiculously over-the-top. But also, if it’s there, I should use it, right? So I can’t have coffee here too. I’d spend the morning talking too fast and making too many trips to the bathroom and being paranoid that I’m getting the baby addicted.”

Ah, shit.

First day jitters.

“We can get decaf.”

The way she looks at me like I’ve just solved the world’s biggest problem—it makes my dick twitch.

Knock it off, asshole , I tell myself. She’s out of our league .

And also freaking gorgeous. And barefoot with rainbow toenails. Each one a different color.

“Food,” she blurts. “I need to make you breakfast. How do you like your eggs? Do eggs sound okay? I’m having potatoes—they settle and they’re delicious, okay?—and I can make you coffee. I’ll move the beans closer to the machine before I go. If I have time. Oh my god, I want a glass of wine. Why am I nervous? It’s a freaking favor job. It’s not a real job. Maybe that’s why I’m nervous. Everyone knows it’s a favor job. Can’t get fired when—never mind. I’ll do a good job. At least it’s with food. I?—”

“Ziggy.”

She blinks at me. Her cheeks go splotchy pink.

Swear to fuck, if I wasn’t on crutches, I’d be pulling this woman into a hug and telling her she’ll do great.

While I sniff her hair.

Is that why she always smells like honey? Is it her hair?

I think it’s her hair.

The whole kitchen is starting to smell like honey.

Subtle vanilla honey.

“Food,” she says again. This time, she turns and squats to grab the coffee beans from the cabinet by the fridge. “Go sit. No reason to be on your leg right now. Do you want coffee? You have coffee. So I assume?—”

This time, she cuts herself off with a sigh. “I’m done babbling. Would you like coffee?”

“I can get it later.”

“It’s no problem. I know how to make coffee.”

“You want to smell it?”

“ Yes .”

The way I want to hear her say that while she’s naked and riding?—

Knock. It. Off. Pervert .

I swallow hard, then crutch around the island and get out of her way, partially so she doesn’t see my dick lifting my sleep shorts. “Okay. Then yeah. Coffee. Sounds good. Thanks.”

Caden got me hooked on fresh-ground beans. Ziggy pours beans into the grinder and hits the button, and the motor drowns out every other sound while she grabs a bright red tea kettle off the stovetop and fills it with water.

I blink.

I don’t have a teakettle.

Didn’t notice that when I got home.

I should’ve.

Stovetop’s on the island. Middle of the kitchen. Can’t walk in here without seeing it.

But it was there.

The grinder halts, and all that’s left is the sound of Waverly Sweet crooning out a love song.

One of those I didn’t know it was you until you were gone ballads.

Ziggy sets the kettle on the stove and lights the burner beneath it. “How do you— oh my god , are you a Waverly Sweet fan too? You know she lives here part of the year now? Married a local baseball player? That guy on the Fireballs who was really good when the team sucked before they got new owners and turned everything around? My parents met her . They were at this thing where she was, and they met her , and I basically will never forgive them now for not calling me when it happened. Anyway. How do you like your eggs again? Or did you want something else?”

“I know her husband,” I say.

Ziggy’s eyes go comically round. “Shut up.”

I shrug. “Athletes network. Good dude. Supports the smaller teams around the city.”

He came out to celebrate when we won the championship last year. Commiserated with us when we got knocked out of the playoffs this year .

Ziggy eyes me, and I find myself smiling broadly at the silent question radiating off her body.

I shake my head. “I don’t know him well enough to ask him to come over with his wife.”

“Well, just tell me you’re useless up front next time.”

I like her , I hear Caden say.

She claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“That was fucking hilarious.”

“It was rude,” she insists.

“It was like having my brother back giving me shit. You’re good.”

That gets me a look.

“Not that you look anything like him. Very different. He had curly hair, but he kept it short. Wore fancy clothes too. Worked an office job. Liked wine. Hooked up with random men and regretted it later. Wait. Are you my brother?”

Fuuuuck .

Should not have said that about regretting random hookups.

But also, good job, me.

Pursuing a crush on my temporary housemate is a bad idea.

She has enough going on.

Making her actively dislike me without being an outright dick is the best way forward.

But when she finally stops gaping at me and doubles over laughing—legit, she’s holding on to the edge of the island as she bends over, wheezing—something loosens in my chest.

Something that feels like all of the grief that’s been holding my heart back from fully beating lets go, and I feel a solid thump thump thump against my breastbone that hasn’t been the same since Caden passed away .

House needs laughter, dummy , he whispers in my head. Welcome back to living here .

The teakettle whistles. Ziggy straightens, still giggling, her cheeks completely and fully red now, her blue eyes dancing as she carries the kettle to the other counter.

She’s not using the coffee machine.

Instead, she’s doing that pour-over thing Caden always did too.

I didn’t do it for myself because it was too much effort. I did it for him anytime he wanted coffee but wasn’t up for making it himself, especially in those last months, but I don’t do it for myself.

Reminded me too much of him.

But now—it’s nice.

Weird to be on this side of it, having someone else do it for me.

But the memory doesn’t tighten my chest again.

It just lives there, existing, next to my still-beating heart.

Right next to the gratitude that someone’s here taking care of me the way I always try to take care of everyone else.

Making me feel far less alone than I’ve been since Caden died.

“My sister is a lot younger than I am,” Ziggy says. “We weren’t really close while she was growing up. But you were tight with your brother?”

“Best friends,” I confirm.

“I’d give you my best friend as a substitute, but it turns out she’s a dick.”

She flashes me the tiniest hint of a villain smile, and it makes my balls tighten.

“You don’t know what happened?” I ask. “Why you’re not friends anymore? ”

If you looked up exasperation in the dictionary, you’d find the face she’s making now. “Best I can tell, I just wasn’t around enough, and when I was, I talked too much about enjoying my life? I shipped wine from Italy for her wedding. I saved up all of my credits that the cruise line gave us so that she could have a week-long bachelorette party with a dozen of her friends at sea in the Med. I thought I was sharing my life with her, but I suppose…it looked like I was showing off? I don’t know. Best guess? I probably insulted her mother-in-law or didn’t call often enough or something. Can you please tell me how you like your eggs?”

That’s shitty. All of it. “Cooked.”

Hello, stern librarian look.

Hello, painful hard-on.

“Scrambled,” I finally say. “I liked how you made them Saturday too, but that seems like a lot of work for a Monday morning.”

She delivers coffee to me, then moves around the kitchen, pulling things out of the fridge and prepping breakfast.

“Do you have other friends around town still?” I ask her as she cracks eggs one-handed into a bowl.

“I could call a few people, but I don’t know who knows what happened with Abby Nora and who doesn’t and who’d take sides and it’s all just—it’s too much work. Too many mind games. None of the people who would’ve been at the baby shower have reached out since then, and it’s not like I kept in touch with other people from high school who wouldn’t think it was odd that I randomly wanted to catch up after not talking for over ten years.”

“Huh.”

“What about you? Where did you grow up? Do you keep in touch with them? ”

I shake my head.

“You didn’t grow up?”

“Nebraska,” I tell her. “Shitty parents. Not interested in ever going back.”

I get the normal sharp glance, but she doesn’t ask the question that usually goes with it. They’re still alive?

Beats the fuck out of me if they are or they aren’t.

Don’t really care.

Just glad I’m not there anymore.

I finally sip my coffee, and holy hell.

Did she sprinkle magic in this?

“Oh, I forgot to ask if you want anything in it,” she says.

I shake my head and sip it again.

Fuck me. “We could get married if you need insurance for the baby. That thing that happens in TV shows. We could do that.”

I get one long, slow blink, and then she cracks up again. “Stop being funny before I’ve had my coffee,” she says.

“You’ve never had someone propose to you for your culinary prowess before?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a workaholic wine connoisseur who doesn’t have time to date and never cooks for people.”

“Never?”

“No reason to. We had fantastic chefs on the ship, and I loved my job, which was pairing the wines with the food, not making the food, and my job was also my life. So no, I never cook for people.”

Except me.

She’s cooking for me.

And making me coffee .

And marrying her would be a terrible idea.

I could fall for this woman. I could fall so hard for this woman.

What do they call them on that show Caden liked?

Marriage of convenience .

There would be nothing convenient about the boner situation if I was serious about marrying her to give her health insurance and then keeping her here to cook for me.

But it’s the first time in a couple years that anything remotely romantic has crossed my mind.

It’s like Ziggy Barnes is good for me.

She’s helping me remember that the world exists beyond rugby and grief.

“Don’t smirk like that,” she says. “I’m only cooking for you because you’re saving me from Naked Tuesdays.”

Yep.

My cock is officially dead from a case of over-bonering.

That’s what thinking about Ziggy naked all day on any given Tuesday is doing for me.

“Happy to be of service,” I say.

I think.

There’s a definite lack of blood flow to my thinking brain happening right now. And that’s before she slides a pat of butter into a hot skillet, making the entire kitchen smell like buttery heaven now too.

She eyes me, then cracks up again. “You’re more trouble than I thought you’d be.”

If I’m half as good for her recovery from her friend breakup as she’s been for me feeling somewhat normal in my own house again…

“You’re welcome.”