“Yeah.”
She waved me over. “Use my machine. Marcy’s swamped today.”
And if I went to the laundry room, I would be in the way.
I changed directions, walking through Harry’s sage-green door. I hadn’t given her home much thought. Based on the exterior, I guess I expected it to be clean and tidy. It was clean. It was tidy. But holy shit, Harry had a lot of clutter.
The walls were so busy I wasn’t sure what to look at first. Hung over the pink floral-print wallpaper in the entryway were at least fifty framed photos. Most were landscapes with a few faces mixed in between. Before I could lean in for a closer inspection, Harry waved me to follow her down the narrow hallway.
“Laundry room is this way,” she said.
We weaved through a living room. The space would have been a comfortable size but with four couches, each upholstered in a different shade of mustard, I felt like I’d just stepped into a dollhouse. The furniture clashed beautifully with the green striped wallpaper, not that you could see much past the bookshelves, TV cabinet and piano.
Knickknacks. Pictures. Trinkets. Harry was a collector.
“This is not what I expected,” I said as we passed through the kitchen. Again, it would have been spacious if not for the six-chair dining room table in the center.
“What did you expect?” she asked.
“Less . . . stuff.”
“If you’ve lived as long as I’ve lived and don’t have stuff to show for it, then you haven’t been living right.”
I chuckled. “Maybe you’re right.”
Mom and Dad’s house was open and airy. I’d always thought it was Mom’s minimalist style. But maybe she simply didn’t have enough photos or souvenirs to display.
Harry passed through one more doorway to the laundry room—which was surprisingly empty with only a washer, dryer and a metal drying rack. “Did your mother teach you how to use these?”
“My mother hasn’t done a load of laundry since she married my father. But if you’re wondering if I know how to wash clothes, yes. I won’t ruin your appliances or flood your house.”
Laundry was about the only household chore I’d done in years. In Nashville, I’d employed a weekly housekeeping service and a gardener to care for my property. My dry cleaning had been sent out under an alias to ensure it all came back. But when it came to washing my T-shirts, underwear, socks and jeans, I’d always worried about delegating it to an assistant. The last thing I wanted was to find out that my dirty boxers had been sold online.
There were some weird people in this world.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Harry said, tapping her dryer. “I’m helping Marcy with rooms today.”
“All right.” I nodded and flipped open the top of the washer, fitting the sheets around the agitator.
Harry walked out of the laundry room. “Don’t lock the door.”
“Okay.”
The front door closed as I dumped a scoop of laundry detergent into the machine. I turned it on, then retraced my steps through the kitchen. When I hit the living room, the sheer abundance of stuff snared me. And since Harry hadn’t told me not to snoop, I snooped.
The books on the shelves ranged from non-fiction to cozy mysteries to historical romance novels with shirtless men on the covers. There was a shelf dedicated to tattered copies of the Bible. The piano was an upright, the top protected by a lace doily. Framed photos were bunched together by family. I recognized Marcy’s face from what must have been her senior portrait. Beside it were pictures of kids and grandkids.
I picked up a photo of a boy wearing a green football uniform. His helmet dangled from the hand at his side. His shoulder pads were too big and his white pants sagged at the waist. But the kid’s smile stretched ear to ear.
That was how it should be. Kids should smile when they played football.
Had I ever smiled like that in youth sports? Maybe before my talent had taken hold. Before fun had been replaced with pressure.
If there was a photo of me like this one, it would be in a storage tub at Mom and Dad’s place. They didn’t hang framed pictures on the walls because Dad preferred art from a local gallery.
A gallery I’d been to once, and only once, because as soon as I’d seen the curator—a woman with sleek red hair and bedroom eyes for my father—I’d known exactly why Dad liked the gallery.
A rush of envy hit as I returned the kid’s frame to the piano’s top.
Lucky guy.
The moment I stepped through the Winnebago’s door, Nellie’s scent filled my nose. I cracked the windows, leaving it to air out the smell of oranges and orchids, while I pulled a hat over my hair and put on a pair of sunglasses.
Risky as it was to brave downtown on a Saturday morning, staying here would only make me think of sex. How Nellie had moaned my name last night while I’d sucked on her clit. How her pussy had pulsed around my cock as I’d plunged myself into her tight body. How beautiful she’d looked beneath the moonlight, with her hair tousled and her clothes askew, as we’d walked to her car.
“Get her out of your head.” I dragged a hand over my mouth, then set off across the gravel path that ran the length of the motel. I was five feet away from the sidewalk that led to First when a man’s voice carried my way.
“Maybe we could come back in September. Before it gets too cold.”
“I’d like that,” a woman said. “I can keep my eye out for plane ticket deals. Or we could let Nellie buy them like she offered.”
“Not happening.”
Nellie? Oh, shit. My feet ground to a stop on the concrete but it was too late for me to escape. I glanced left just as Nellie’s parents rounded the corner of the motel.
Darius Rivera spotted me and his face turned to stone.
I swallowed hard, my shoes like cement blocks. It took effort to pick up my feet and approach, hand extended. “Mr. Rivera.”
Kylie’s eyes narrowed.
Darius stared at me for a long moment, and I was sure he’d dismiss me, but then he fit his palm against mine. The fact that he’d shake my hand proved he was a good man. The better man. “Cal Stark.”
“Nice to see you, sir.” I nodded to Kylie. “Mrs. Rivera.”
She glared and damn if it didn’t make her look just like Nellie. I would have teased her about it if I didn’t think she’d rip off my balls.
“I was just heading into town,” I said. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“We were going that direction too,” Darius said.
I expected them to put some distance between us. But as I started down the sidewalk, they fell into step beside me.
Every second was torture. I realized after a block that I wasn’t breathing. Sweat beaded at my temples.
“Well, this is awkward,” Kylie muttered.
I huffed a dry laugh. “Pretty much.”
Yet even after admitting it, we didn’t talk about anything. Not a single word. Not that there was anything to say. So we walked, step after step, until the bustle of downtown forced me to shift behind them.
My gaze flew over their heads to Nellie, standing outside the White Oak.
Her eyes were on her phone. She smiled at the screen, her fingers flying, then she tucked it into her shorts pocket. She was killing me with those shorts. Bare, smooth skin all the way to her sandals. Her loose tee draped off one shoulder.