Page 9

9

Ziggy

Is it a flex to serve a grumpy jerk a gourmet breakfast just to show him what he’ll be missing out on if he doesn’t fix his attitude?

If so, I have flexed the biggest flex to have ever flexed in the history of flexes.

But it’s probably not.

It’s probably stupid. He won’t notice or care.

But I’ll notice.

I care.

I drop silverware, a napkin, and the beautifully plated poached eggs atop breakfast potatoes drizzled with hollandaise sauce onto the end table next to where his head is, and I don’t wait for him to acknowledge me.

I’m sure he’s in pain.

I’m sure something happened to his phone.

I’m also sure I don’t have to tolerate his bad attitude .

Have sympathy for his situation, yes.

Let him take it out on me, no.

I stalk back out of the room, grab my own plate, and take Jessica into the sunroom with me while I eat at the small bistro table beneath the ceiling fan.

No eggs for me.

Just potatoes. Breakfast potatoes with a side of tater tots.

Oh my god , do I love potatoes.

It’s a new obsession. Before pregnancy, they were a nice side dish. After pregnancy, I’ll likely never eat another potato in any form. Now, though, as I approach the end of my first trimester, they’re the only food I eat that both tastes good and settles well.

Morning sickness is for?—

Well.

I wish it could be for people who are unprovoked shitheads to other people.

While I eat, I take a break from studying houses that went on the market overnight to look up the laws about how to take a man’s dog from him without getting in trouble.

It doesn’t look good.

I eyeball Jessica. “Are you worth going to jail for?”

She’s splayed on the thin carpet beside me, back legs sticking out, head tilted up to gaze at me while she pants happily.

I nod. “Agreed. Definitely worth it. Want to go with me when I leave?”

She barks happily.

Just one little bark.

It’s adorable.

This dog has my whole heart.

This dog and my baby. And hopefully soon a new house .

But not last week’s house, because last week’s chosen house failed the inspection badly enough that I had to withdraw my offer. I might’ve tackled it if I weren’t pregnant, but I need a home that’s ready for baby and me, not a fixer-upper with a leaky roof and a flood-prone basement.

I finish eating, trade a few texts with Francesca, catching up on what’s going on with my friends from the ship. Then I clean up in the kitchen, including picking up a banana peel that Holt apparently left on the counter, then head for the stairs. He’s lying on the couch with the boot propped up, one arm flung over his face.

But he’s eaten the entire plate of food I took him.

Jessica scratches the floor with her back legs at him like he’s her poop and she’s covering him up.

I snort softly in amusement and head up the stairs.

She follows.

I should get packed. Start looking for a hotel that will allow dogs.

Or mentally prepare myself to move back in with my parents.

But I don’t want to.

I like this house.

The bedroom isn’t big by modern standards, but it’s roomy compared to my cabin on the ship. The bathroom is on the renovations list because of the olive-green tub and toilet, but the water pressure’s good. I’m not sure I’ve ever sat on a more comfortable couch than the one downstairs, and I’ve been catching up on so much TV that I missed while I was onboard.

Besides, the kitchen alone is worth putting up with a bad attitude.

I’m nearly done gathering what Jessica and I need to get out of here for the day when I hear the clomp…clomp…clomp on the stairs.

My shoulders tighten. My cheek twitches. Jessica growls low in her throat from her position guarding the door.

Though guarding isn’t quite right.

She’s once again splooted out with her hind legs stretched behind her, and her head is resting on her front paws.

Still growling though.

I continue folding the laundry I did yesterday to finish the last few pieces.

And then he knocks on my bedroom door.

Jessica growls louder.

He sighs so heavily that I hear it through the bedroom door.

I square my shoulders and make myself walk the five steps to the door at a normal pace. I open it with the blankest of blank expressions on my face and channel the professional attitude I wore to work every day of my seven years on the cruise ship.

“Good morning again. Can I help you?”

Maybe not full professionalism.

But definitely as close as I can get.

His jaw works back and forth while his eye twitches. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Grunts, really.

I give a short nod. “Thank you. I’ll be out of your hair in approximately an hour.”

His jaw tics. “Someone stole my phone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“At the airport. While I was waiting to check in. That’s why I didn’t text. ”

I bite my tongue to keep was that so hard to say? from coming out of my mouth.

“I can’t drive,” he adds.

Logical. It’s his right foot in the boot. “I’m sorry to hear that too.”

He lifts a hand and scrubs his face with it. There’s at least three days’ worth of dark stubble on his chin and cheeks. He smells like he hasn’t showered in that long either. “Will you please drive me to get a new phone?”

Jessica growls.

“Knock it off,” he says to her, but he’s not nearly as grumpy as he’s been with me. More resigned, if anything. “I didn’t ask you to drive. I know better than to ask you for anything.”

She sneezes.

At least, I think that’s a sneeze.

It’s not a sound she’s made the past couple weeks while he’s been gone, but it comes with snot firing out of her nose and landing on his bare leg and his boot.

Did she—did she do that on purpose?

She looks up at me and grins, doggy tongue hanging out happily, as if she’s answering the silent question with of course I did .

“I’m happy to call a cab for you.” I hope cabs still exist. Not too excited about paying for a rideshare for him. “But I need to finish packing, and the kitchen will take a while.”

“You’re leaving?”

My stomach twists.

I don’t want to leave. I truly don’t.

But I also won’t stay here with a guy who thinks he can walk all over me.

“Seems like I should, doesn’t it? ”

Something shifts in his eyes. “You said last night you were staying. You were right. We have an agreement. You get three more weeks.”

“I might not want those weeks anymore.”

He’s blocking the door of my room.

This hasn’t escaped my notice.

While he might be on crutches, and while I’m not what you’d call a small woman, he’s also over six feet tall and basically solid muscle.

Except for whatever’s wrong with his right leg.

He growls softly to himself again.

Jessica growls right back.

I ignore both of them and head back to my day bag. It’s still gruesomely hot, so I’ll need to pack an extra water bottle.

Or three.

“Is your house ready?” he asks.

Somewhere it is, though I don’t know yet which house it is or how long it’ll take me to find it, make an offer, and close on it. “Not your concern.”

“So it’s not.”

“My next living arrangement is my problem, not yours.”

“You can stay here.”

“Would you want to stay here with you?”

“I’m sorry .”

“Me too.”

“I can’t—I can’t do all of the things for myself.”

My shoulders tighten so hard and fast that I feel it at the base of my neck.

I know that feeling. Getting sick on the ship, realizing my entire life would change if I decided to keep the baby, knowing I’d be dependent on other people to help me get settled after years of being out in the world, taking care of myself, when I was going back without my best friend—it was a lot.

But the Abby Nora situation taught me that I don’t need to let other people take advantage of me either.

And that’s what I’m slowly realizing the woman that I thought was my best friend has been doing for the past few years.

Letting me buy half the wine for her wedding since I could get excellent bottles at a good price in Europe. Hosting her bachelorette party on my ship. Taking her side every time she had a disagreement with someone, when I’m now wondering how much of those disagreements were her fault, but I was only getting her side of the story.

I force my shoulders to relax and look Holt directly in the eye. “While I’m sympathetic to your situation, I refuse to be a punching bag for your bad mood.”

He winces. “I’m not trying?—”

“You’re not?”

The second wince gives him away.

Dammit .

I do want to stay.

But not with Mr. Anger Management Issues.

“I can pay you,” he says. “For cooking. Light chores. Driving me a few places.”

“It’s not about money.”

“ Please .”

He’s leaning in the doorway, and if I can read people at all, I’d say he needs his next dose of pain medication and is pretending he doesn’t.

Is that a man thing or an athlete thing?

Doesn’t matter .

“If you were me, would you want to stay here?” I ask him again.

His square jaw shifts back and forth while his cheek twitches and his bottom lip plumps out.

The man’s pouting.

He knows there’s one right answer, and he doesn’t want to give it to me.

And my potatoes aren’t settling as well as they usually do.

Likely not the potatoes.

It’s likely the man standing between me and— dammit .

Between me and Naked Tuesdays and letting my parents have more control over my life than they’re already getting with me taking a job at the Pounders.

Maybe Miranda knows someone who needs a temporary roommate.

“I can be…” He studies the ceiling, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can be more tolerable.”

This would be funny if my ideal temporary living situation wasn’t on the line. “That sounds really hard. I wouldn’t want you to go to that trouble on my behalf.”

He sags against the doorframe, head drooping while he rubs his eyes. “I’m a nice guy. I just—I don’t like being like this either, okay? My life’s been shit the past few years, and now—now just fucking look at me. I can’t play. I can’t sleep. I can’t just be happy. There’s nothing to be fucking happy about.”

Dammit . I don’t know him, but I know his type. Stubborn. Proud. Unable to handle being down.

“Are you taking your pain meds?” I ask him.

He grunts.

I’ll take that as I’m supposed to be but don’t want to be . Or they’re not working . Or I don’t want to talk about it .

“When are you supposed to take more?”

He mumbles something incoherent.

And do you know what’s incredibly annoying?

I feel for the bastard.

Because I, too, am sometimes a little stubborn, proud, and unable to handle being down.

When morning sickness hit me on the ship, it hit hard. And I didn’t want help. I wanted to handle it myself.

I didn’t want to cause problems. Didn’t want to be the person other people had to make accommodations for. Didn’t want to be the person people gave special treatment to either. That’s why I rarely mention who my stepdad is. The minute they find out you’re related to one of the richest men in the city, they make all kinds of exceptions for you.

That’s not how I want to live.

Honestly, when I get to the Pounders office on Monday, I don’t want them to know I’m Roland Keating’s stepdaughter. I want them to judge me on who I am and how I work.

Not that I get any say—Miranda says when she started for the team, Dad sent out an announcement threatening to end the career of any player who looked at her wrong, which means he’ll probably do the same for me—but it would be nice if the pity job for health insurance came with anonymity too.

Holt’s probably the same.

Doesn’t want accommodations or special treatment.

I sigh. “Go take your medicine. I’ll drop you off at the phone store when I leave.”

Those deep brown eyes lift. They’re bloodshot with blueish-purple bags beneath them.

That young man waters my garden for me in the summer when I can’t do it myself .

You’re staying at Holt’s house? He helped me fix up my car and saved me over a grand since I didn’t have to pay someone to do it.

He gave up his career to come home and nurse his brother, and not one of us on the block heard him complain once .

The freezer has four pies now from kids on the same baseball team. There are seven discount cards for various restaurants and local stores in a little basket in the kitchen, all fundraisers for marching bands or other sports teams.

Jessica has a home despite the two of them not getting along.

All evidence says this man is a good man who’s not handling being hurt well.

His Adam’s apple bobs and he looks down at the floor. “Are you leaving permanently?”

“Not yet.”

“Thank you.”

I’ve never heard a more defeated thank you in my life.

Baby first , I remind myself.

No, myself first.

Don’t make friends with people who will betray you .

My phone dings.

I pull it out of my pocket and glance at it, and my stomach sinks to the floor.

Mom: Ziggy!! Why didn’t you tell us Abby Nora had her baby?!

Mom hasn’t just sent the question.

She’s also sent a picture of Abby Nora in a hospital room, beaming as she holds a little bundle with a pink cap, with Josh, her handsome trophy husband, behind her.

They look exhausted.

And so, so happy .

While I’m the bitter former friend calling her husband her trophy husband .

I don’t like breaking up with friends.

And I don’t like the person I am when I’m mad at her either.

Tears sting my eyes.

I turn away so Holt won’t see, mumble a quick, “You’re welcome,” and then head to the bathroom.

Because I’m going to be sick.

Again.