Long Slow Burn. Isabel Sharpe
“I’ll call and straighten it out. Then I’ll get the wine.” He staggered forward into the pizza he’d bought after work and half finished before nodding off. Squish. A tepid slice stuck to the bottom of his bare foot. When he shook free, the sauce-slathered crust dropped back to the plate but the mozzarella clung. He hopped a few times, lost his balance and fell back on the couch, his cheesy foot sticking into the air.
Why always in front of this woman? If she laughed, he’d join her.
She didn’t laugh. She sighed.
He hated those sighs. “Help, cheese is trying to eat my foot.”
“Nathan.” Amusement in her voice this time. Good. He could usually get her to laugh. Someday soon he hoped to earn respect along with that laughter. Maybe affection. Maybe more.
She disappeared and came back with a paper towel, her hair in an endearingly sloppy ponytail, her slender, toned body hidden under baggy gray sweats and a shapeless sweater. “You are truly something.”
“Aren’t I?” He grinned up at her, the oh-so-charming, cocky boy-man she expected, and took the towel to wipe his foot clean. “Thanks for the rescue. I have to call Dr. S., then I’ll get your wine, I promise.”
Dreading the next installment of his advisor’s disappointment, he strode over the crooked, scarred hardwood floors of the narrow hallway to his bedroom, painted a vibrant blue by Kim before he’d moved in early in the month. She’d done amazing things with blasts of color here and there, but the apartment had definitely seen better days. As far as Nathan was concerned, however, any place Kim lived was paradise. He still couldn’t believe fate—or rather his previous landlord selling the building—had made this miracle possible.
After searching through piles of laundry and stacks of paper, his phone appeared on the floor next to his drafting table. He made the call quickly to get it over with, then found Kim in their old-fashioned kitchen, whose drab colors she’d ambushed with bright red canisters, colorful bowls of fruit and intricately patterned decorative tiles.
“What’s that smile for?” She’d picked up his pizza plate and glass and carried them to the sink. Why hadn’t he taken the time to do that? Fifteen seconds wouldn’t have made his screwup with his advisor worse, and it would have kept Kim from having to treat him like a little boy again.
“You won’t believe me.” He nudged her out of the way at the sink and took over washing. “Dr. S. forgot our meeting. He couldn’t apologize enough.”
“Are you serious?” She stopped drying her hands on a red towel. “You’re not kidding?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t.” He gave a final rinse to the pot he’d used to heat stomach-soothing oatmeal for breakfast, and set it upside down in the drying rack. “I told him not to worry, that I’d waited outside his office only fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.”
Kim shook her head in exasperation. “I swear, you are the luckiest person on the planet. Totally self-indulgent and it never catches up to you.”
“Self-indulgent? Me?” He pretended comic outrage, though the barb hurt. Comments like that from Kim only bolstered his determination that while they were living together she would come around to seeing him differently. Yes, he’d always been disorganized. Ask his mom how often he’d left homework materials at home in the morning and at school in the afternoon. But he was plenty smart, and had been a good student all his life until the previous semester, when the panic and mental blocking started. “I was exhausted and fell asleep. That’s human nature, not self-indulgence.”
“Exhausted from being out until four in the morning. That’s self-indulgence.”
“I was at a friend’s bachelor party.” He tossed down the sponge he’d used to wipe the sink, and leaned against the counter so he could watch her. “You can’t leave those early. It is written.”
Kim scrunched up her face. “Where?”
“In The Man’s Guide to Being Manly.”
“Aha.” She spooned flour into a metal measuring cup. “I knew that book existed somewhere. Did you write it?”
He puffed out his chest, flexed his biceps. “You need to ask?”
“Oh, um, of course not.” She put away the flour, consulted her recipe, dumped a stick of butter into the mixer bowl with some sugar and turned on the battered yellow machine. She seemed tense, had been for the past few days. He hoped she hadn’t had another setback on the Carter bid. He didn’t understand her thirtieth-birthday deadline for giving up on Charlotte’s Web Design. Seemed an artificial stopping point to him. But then he hadn’t been struggling for five years, day in and out, to keep his dream alive the way she had.
“Can I help?”
“Wine.”
“Yes. Wine. I’m on my way. I have your list.” He patted his pockets frantically. “Somewhere.”
She picked up the paper from the counter, where it lay in plain view, and smacked it into his hand, leaving flour smudged on his palm.
“Oh, there.” He waved cheerfully, groaning inside, took the elevator down and jogged through the chilly March wind to the liquor store, a couple blocks east on Oakland. If he ever managed to do something macho and smooth around Kim she’d probably have a heart attack from the shock. Luck didn’t ever seem to be on his side where she was concerned.
Wine bought, he strode briskly back toward home, carrying the four bottles. His cell rang; he fumbled in his pocket, shifting the wine to his hip. It was Kent, who’d probably punch him if he knew the thoughts Nathan had regularly about his sister.
“Hey, Kent.”
“How’d it go this morning? Did you make it out of bed?”
“Barely. You?”
“Barely. I was nearly late to a meeting.” Kent chuckled. “John will remember that party for the rest of his life. Those women were incredible.”
“They were.” If you were sexually attracted to Barbie.
“Any of them would make me very happy for at least an hour. Maybe two. Poor John’s given up that chance forever.” Kent laughed harshly. “Same woman, day after day, for the rest of his life. He’s had it.”
Nathan chuckled dutifully. He was used to Kent’s bluster, not unlike the talk Nathan’s four older brothers and father indulged in. Lately, though, he wondered how much of it was really Kent and how much was sour grapes after his New York girlfriend dumped him.
“Oof, I need more coffee.” Kent yawned loudly. “Anyway, here’s the deal. Kim’s friend Marie called. She’s throwing Kim a thirtieth-birthday surprise party and wants us to help.”
He liked that idea. Kim needed more fun in her life. “How?”
“You’ll have to ask her. From me she wants childhood memories and all that.” His voice shifted into a caricature of a fussy female. “Let’s put together a super fun-filled scrapbook!”
“No way.”
“I got her number and told her you’d call her. Ready?”
“Hang on.” Nathan put the bottles down on the sidewalk, found a pen in his jacket but no paper so he scrawled Marie’s number on the liquor store bag. “Got it, thanks.”
“Basketball Sunday?”
“I’m there.” He hung up, tore the edge off the bag and dialed Marie. “Hey, this is Kim’s roommate, Nathan. Kent called me ….”
“Wow, that was fast.” The voice was rich and friendly. “What did he tell you?”
“That you need my help with