Page 17

17

Ziggy

By Wednesday night, I’m so flipping tired I could fall asleep on a bed of rocks.

You wouldn’t think a desk job was so demanding, but being on around new people all day has me drained.

I used to do this all day, often using language skills where I have proficiency but still had to concentrate to get it right, and yet now, simply smiling for strangers wears me out.

Maybe it’s because I was never considering that any one of those strangers could be my new best friend. I could be my professional best without wondering if I was saying something that would mark me off the list of consideration for being worthy of a lunch date.

That isn’t the case in the Pounders’ home office, where I have to overcome both being the owner’s daughter and also not knowing anything about rugby or the team.

Maybe this is why Abby Nora doesn’t consider me a friend anymore. Maybe I didn’t pay enough attention to the things that mattered to her, even when I thought I was.

Dad bought the team five years ago, and I know basically nothing about it. I can defend myself all I want with excuses about Dad having interests in various businesses all over Copper Valley and it being hard to keep up sometimes, but I didn’t make an effort either.

It’s a sports team.

This is theoretically fun.

Though walking around painters and other contractors who are putting a shiny new finish on the office isn’t the greatest.

The paint fumes are annoying me and the baby.

And now I’m the persnickety spoiled pity hire who’s moaning to herself about the working conditions.

I sigh and drop my head to my steering wheel as soon as I put my little SUV in park in the driveway next to Holt’s Jeep.

Time to get inside.

Let Jessica out if Holt hasn’t.

Make dinner.

I whimper.

I’m so freaking tired that I don’t even have the energy to reply to a quick text from Francesca. Maybe I can get a thirty-minute nap in before dinner.

Maybe—

A knock at my window makes me shriek in surprise.

I look up, expecting to see Holt, imagining him frowning at me like he’s caught me eating another rotisserie chicken in another car, but it’s Mrs. Massery from across the street.

I kill the engine and pop open the door. “Afternoon, Mrs. Massery. How are you today? ”

“Is Holt home?” the older white woman asks. She’s in the cutest flowery housedress, and her white hair is in curlers.

But it’s the cake dish in her hands that truly catches my attention.

Swear it’s crystal, and the cake inside is covered in white frosting and coated in coconut.

I feel like I’m in another era anytime I see her, but even more so when she shows up with a crystal cake dish.

“If he’s not, he likely will be soon,” I tell her. “I’m not sure what his schedule was today.”

The neighbors all know he’s home. They’ve commented to me about it when I’ve taken Jessica out on her nightly walks.

I don’t know how the hell I’ll find the energy for it tonight, but somehow, I will.

Maybe food will help.

Food and a nap.

“It was his birthday last week. I made him a cake. Can you make sure he gets this?”

I step the rest of the way out of my car, grab my bag, and fling it over my shoulder. It was his birthday?

And he didn’t tell me?

Right. Of course he didn’t tell me. We were barely texting then. And he celebrated his birthday by breaking his foot.

Who’d want to talk about that?

And why does it make me feel like an even shittier friend, even though I couldn’t have possibly known it was his birthday?

“I’ll make sure he gets this,” I tell Mrs. Massery.

“Don’t go eating it before he gets a piece.”

“I would never. ”

“It’s for his birthday. You know this is his first birthday since his brother passed. That’s a hard birthday.”

“I promise I’ll tell him you made it with extra love, and I won’t take a single piece unless he insists.”

“Don’t let Jessica have any either.”

“Pretty sure cake’s not good for dogs.”

“This is my world-famous coconut cream cake. You make sure he knows that, okay? You tell him it won a gold ribbon at the Iowa State Fair in 1996. And you tell him I don’t make one for just anyone. Not with my arthritis the way it is.”

“I will tell him all of that.”

“There’s no rush on getting the dish back to me. But I do need it by the first of September. Bernie’s birthday is in September, and if he lives long enough to have that birthday, I’ll make him one too. People deserve a good cake on what might be their last birthday. Even if I’ve made him a last birthday cake for five years straight now.”

The neighbors here are endlessly entertaining on top of being kind.

I like it.

And liking it here is making looking for a house of my own even harder. If a house went up for sale in this neighborhood, and it was solid and didn’t need too much work, I’d jump on it in a heartbeat.

The issue is that most of the houses around here are in need of renovation, and the paint fumes at work this week have taught me that I cannot consider living like that for the rest of my pregnancy. A day or two here and there for the bathroom renovations in Holt’s house have been fine—small rooms, good ventilation, little smell.

A whole house wouldn’t be the same.

Plus, my parents would insist on paying for it, and I’m struggling enough with how much help I’m taking from them right now.

I take the cake from Mrs. Massery and head inside after promising her once again to take good care of her crystal dish and to let only Holt eat the cake unless he insists on sharing.

I don’t tell her coconut sounds like it would make me puke right now.

But also, if Holt’s birthday was last week, I should make something extra nice for dinner.

Something next-level. I’d planned chicken Alfredo, but don’t birthdays call for steak?

Except I’m so damn tired, and we don’t have steak. I’d have to go to the store.

I might be whimpering to myself as I push past the front door, balancing the cake and my bag and my own whininess.

Holt’s home.

He’s passed out on the couch, his booted leg propped up and his head tipped back in a pile of throw pillows. He’s wearing black athletic shorts that show off his muscular legs and a Copper Valley University T-shirt that seems to be stretched as far as the fabric will go over his broad chest as it rises and falls. Mouth ajar, he’s snoring the slightest bit.

It’s freaking adorable.

I get three steps in before the floor creaks, and he jolts awake, flinging himself upright with wild, confused eyes scanning the room until they land on me.

The softest smile curves his lips, and his eyes take on a glow.

And for one long heartbeat, I feel appreciated.

Welcome.

Loved .

Get a grip, Ziggy .

He swipes a hand over his face, and when he pulls it away, all I see is a weary man. “Hey. You’re back. What’s with the cake?”

“Mrs. Massery says happy birthday. Hope you like coconut cream.”

The grimace he grimaces says he does not, in fact, like coconut cream. “Yeah,” he lies. “My favorite.”

I’m too tired to do anything but stare blankly at him.

“That shitty parent thing?” he says. “It was my father’s favorite. I don’t?—”

“I’ll take it to work tomorrow. The savages will eat it.”

His shoulders sag. “Thank you. Wait. You work with savages?”

“Have you ever worked in an office?”

He shakes his head.

“Honestly, me neither. But I have never seen a dash to the breakroom for free donuts like I witnessed this morning. You’d think they’d never seen fried dough before.”

He tilts his head. “You okay? You look tired.”

“Says the man who was snoring a minute ago…”

“Sorry. I know. Don’t tell a woman she looks tired.”

“No, you’re right.” I set the cake on an end table and collapse into the easy chair next to the sofa, then indulge in lifting the footrest.

Just for a minute. “Why is sitting on your ass for eight hours a day so exhausting?”

“Because office jobs suck.”

I want to laugh at that, but my eyes are sliding closed.

So.

Freaking.

Tired .

I’m grateful to have a job. I’m grateful that Dad managed to assign me something that makes me feel partially useful. I’m getting to plan an awards banquet for the team. That’s better than deciding where to order takeout when the business development and marketing guy’s hosting potential sponsors, which I’ve also been put in charge of.

And next week, I’m supposed to cater a lunch that will include at least one of the players.

Apparently Dad scored a coup getting some huge star from the UK who wants to build American rugby up enough to outsell American soccer tickets. The Fletcher guy that Miranda mentioned last weekend. She says we’re allowed to talk to him now because he’s in a very serious relationship with a woman that the entire office staff loves so much that he’d get fired if he ever broke up with her.

No matter what it means for the team.

Sort of like Dad almost fired him for being a dick to Miranda once last year.

As much as I’d rather not be taking a pity job so that I can have a baby, I’m glad that Dad makes such an effort to take care of the women in his circles.

Me included.

“Where’s Jessica?” I mutter to Holt.

“Afternoon nap on the porch, I think. I’ll go check on her.”

“I can get up.”

“I can open a door. I’ve been off my feet all day.”

I should argue, but I don’t want to. “’Kay,” I murmur. “I’ll make dinner. Just a minute.”

“Uh-huh,” he says.

Uh-huh .

That’s a funny word .

Who made that a word? Is it a leftover from caveman times? It feels so primitive. Just grunts that tell you so much.

Especially when it’s a sarcastic uh-huh.

Holt’s sarcastic. But not in a mean way. He’s funny.

He told me about his neighbors having bubble races yesterday.

Wait.

That’s not right.

Why are his neighbors floating on bubbles and speaking Spanish and riding into the ship’s wine cellar?

Oh.

Right.

Because I’m dreaming.

This chair is damn comfortable.

I make the executive decision to let myself dream for just five minutes.

And at the end of those five minutes, I open my eyes and realize it’s dark outside.

It shouldn’t be this dark this early. Not halfway through summer.

Holt’s at the door.

I stretch, and I realize I’ve slept harder than I thought. There’s a light blanket covering me, and the noise at my feet is Jessica.

She’s breathing heavy like she sometimes does. But she’s not snorting at Holt, who’s closing the front door now, plastic takeout bags dangling from his fingers as he uses his crutches to pivot and face me.

“You awake, or are your eyes just open?” he asks.

“I didn’t make dinner,” I blurt. “It’s your birthday.”

“Had a birthday dinner in Spain last week,” he replies. “And fried chicken sounded good. Got mashed potatoes and fries and potato casserole and tater tots and rosemary potatoes too. Wasn’t sure which potato you’d be in the mood for.”

He covered me with a blanket.

He took care of the dog.

He ordered us dinner.

And he ordered me potatoes.

Every kind of potato.

My eyes get hot.

I haven’t even asked him what position he plays on his lacrosse team, and he’s ordering me potatoes.

“Who has that many potatoes?”

“Strip mall not far from here. Deli and a diner next to each other. One has the best sweet tea. The other has the best fried chicken. I’m not telling which. You hungry? I can put it in the fridge if not.”

My belly grumbles.

But not like it has been.

This is true, legitimate, actual hunger pangs.

Just like it’s true, legitimate, actual warmth flooding my heart at the simple kindness of having someone else order me potatoes for dinner while I napped.

“I’m hungry.” I stretch, reaching as far as I can with my fingers and my toes, arching my back too. “What time is it? How long was I asleep?”

His lips twitch like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “It’s almost nine.”

“ Oh my god .”

“I need to know about Bernie and Mrs. Massery and the bubble races, by the way.”

So I was out cold.

I only talk in my sleep when I’m sleeping hard .

“Food’s getting cold. Can’t talk while I’m hungry,” I say .

He grins at me and heads to the kitchen, bags swinging with his crutches.

I swipe at my eyes.

I can blame sleep. Say it’s a yawn.

But really, it’s just a kind gesture from a guy who looks good in athletic shorts and who’s nicer and nicer by the day.

I legit don’t know how it’s possible he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

Unless he doesn’t want one.

That would make sense.

And he doesn’t want a pregnant one, idiot , I remind myself.

He’s just being nice.

He’s one of the nice guys in the world.

But he’s not my guy.

No matter how much I’m starting to enjoy everything about him.