“You didn’t want to tell him?” I ask, turning towards a machine.
“It’s one of my mom’s towels. I thought he might get mad.”
I freeze at Henry’s mention of his mother. Michael made some oblique references to her in his book, and he mentioned she was trying to get full custody, but beyond that I know nothing about her. She was just this kind of abstract idea in Michael’s past.
But now, holding her towel in my hands, she becomes a concrete, real person. In my mind a picture of her appears: a tall, slim goddess, stunningly gorgeous, elegant and sexy. He’s pretty damn easy on the eyes, I’m sure he wouldn’t marry a troll. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she’s short and stocky, perhaps a little plump—plumper than me, of course—with a wonky nose. Maybe a lazy eye. And bacne.
“Can you help?” Henry pleads.
Shit.
I take a breath, trying to focus on the problem at hand. Poor Henry looks on the verge of tears.
“Yes, of course. Sorry.” I open a machine and stuff the towel inside.
“Oh! I don’t have any quarters,” he says, his voice rising in panic again.
“It’s okay, I’ve got lots.” I give him a reassuring smile as I put some of my powder into the machine and push a coin into the slot. “Everything will be okay, Henry.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“You know, I’m sure your dad wouldn’t be mad if it was an accident.”
He shakes his head, his brow knitting. “I think Mom wants the towel back. And if I’ve ruined it then Dad will be mad, because Mom will yell at him.” He glances over my shoulder at the washing machine. “How long will it take?”
“Probably a while. If you want, I can keep an eye on it for you. Why don’t you go back upstairs? I’ll put it in the dryer once it’s washed.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes dart between me and the door.
“Of course. I’ve got to stay to do my laundry too. I’ll take care of it. I’ll leave it over here when it’s done.” I gesture to an empty shelf.
“Okay. Thanks, Alex.” He dashes out of the laundry room.
I smile to myself, absently loading my clothes into the washer. He’s a sweet kid. But his mom sounds… Well. It’s not my place to comment.
Knowing I’ve got a good hour to kill, I pop back up to the apartment and grab my laptop to keep me company. Unsurprisingly, I find myself in the mood to write some romance. The mention of Michael in the shower got the creative juices flowing, and it’s not long before my fingers are flying over the keys.
I’ve been writing so much of this romance stuff lately and I think I’m getting pretty good at it. I’m enjoying it more than my blog about being single, if I’m honest. I don’t know what it is, but it just feels more me.
Still, I want to actually do something with my writing, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be comfortable showing my romance novel to anyone. At least with my blog I’ve got readers—two dozen, now—who can relate to my posts. And that’s cool.
After a while, I put my laundry and Henry’s towel into the dryer and return to my laptop. I’m halfway through describing a naughty scene with Michael and I—uh, I mean Matthew and Annie—and it’s pretty good, if I say so myself.
“The water cascades over Matthew’s hard—” I hear from behind me and I snap my laptop shut, turning to see Michael peering over my shoulder.
“Stop it,” I say, feeling my cheeks color. When I hear it out loud like that it sounds ludicrous. I haven’t shown him any writing and the last thing I want him to read is this. I take in the cheeky grin on his face and, despite myself, a smile slides onto my lips.
“Cute PJ’s.” He gestures to my bunny pants.
I grimace as I remember what I’m wearing. Still, nothing I can do about that now, and what difference would it make? I could be here in a ball gown and I’m sure he would be unaffected.
My eyes wander up and down his body before I can stop them. “Right back at you.” He’s wearing dark green and blue plaid pajama pants with a white T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower, looking gorgeous as usual. I swallow, trying not to look at his shoulders, clearly defined in the snug-fitting T-shirt.
He wanders around, surveying the washers. “Where’s the towel?”
“What do you mean?” I push to my feet, feigning innocence.
“Oh, come on.” He gives me a knowing smile. “There was sauce smeared all over the kitchen cabinets and the linen closet was open. It’s not exactly a job for Sherlock Holmes.”
I giggle. “He was very worried you would be mad at him.” I motion to the dryer behind me. “It’s in there.”
“Thanks.” He flashes me a grin, then his smile fades away. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“Um. Maybe.”
“I knew it! What have I done now?”
“Nothing…” An awkward laugh slips out. “Not really.”
He raises his hands to his hips, gaze pinned on me.
“It’s… I don’t know.” I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I just feel weird around you.” Whoops. I hadn’t planned on being so honest but that just came out.
He raises his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Why? Because I have a huge crush on you, and every spare second I get I’m thinking up dirty things I want to do to you, then writing about it in a romance novel while trying to convince myself I’m not really writing about us, but rather two fictional characters who just happen to have similar names to us.”
Well, that’s what I should have said. But I can’t be that honest. Instead I say, “I don’t know.”
A smile plays on his lips,
