by Chelle Bliss
“Sucks, babe,” he mutters as he lowers his hand and my head to the pillow.
“It’s fine,” I say, disregarding the years of neglect from my parents. Neglect no one knows about because my parents are always good at showing their other side to the public and paparazzi.
Nick shoves his hand into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and taps on the screen. His eyes are on me as he says, “Hey, Ma.”
He pauses, and my eyes widen.
Why is he calling his mother?
“I’m good.” He rakes his eyes over me as I lie on the bed, frozen like I’ve suddenly become paralyzed. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
“No.” I wave my hands in front of him. “Don’t do it.”
He shakes his head, pushing my hands down in one easy and gentle motion. “I have a friend staying over…” He smiles, winking at me. “Yeah, Ma. A woman friend.”
I want to slink away and crawl under the bed, hiding from everything, including his mother.
“She isn’t feeling too well. Nothing horrible. A rough night and one too many drinks. I was wondering if you could drop by in a few hours and maybe bring her some soup or something because I have to go to work.”
“Nick,” I call out, pleading with him to tell her never mind. “Don’t ask her to do that. I don’t need anyone to bring me food.”
He shakes his head again, but this time, he turns his back to me. “Her name’s Jo. Let yourself in, and if she’s asleep, she’ll be in my room.” He pauses again, standing completely still. “Yeah, my bed.” Again, another long pause as his mother speaks. “No, she’s not my girlfriend. We haven’t even slept together yet.”
Oh. My. God. He said yet.
“Nick,” I gasp, pulling a pillow over and placing it on my face, unable to even face the world, let alone him or his mother. “I can’t believe he said that.” My words are muffled in the pillow, but I can hear his laughter.
“Thanks, Ma. You’re the best,” he tells her before the sound of his feet grows louder as he moves closer to me. “Jo.”
I throw my arm over the pillow as soon as it starts to move away from my face. “Go away.”
“Don’t be that way.”
“I can’t believe you called your mother,” I mumble against the cotton pillowcase. “She’s going to think I’m…”
The pillow is gone, and all I see is his face, covered in sunshine, looking like sin. “She’s not going to think anything. My mom isn’t like that. She’s sweet, loving, and a gentle soul. You’re making a big deal about nothing.”
“Nothing?” I blink, my mouth hanging open.
His fingers come to my chin, pushing my mouth closed. “It’s soup.”
“You really shouldn’t have put her out. I can take care of myself for a few hours. I’m not dying. I’m only hungover. I’m sure she has better things to do.”
He smiles, touching my cheek so tenderly, something in my chest flutters. “It’ll make her feel useful, and I’ll be able to work without worrying about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me either.”
“Such a hard-ass. Does that steel exterior ever crack?”
“I…I—”
“I didn’t think so. I have to go, but Mom will be here in a few hours.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll be right here.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know, but I’m sure you’d figure out something, given half the chance.”
Somehow, I stop myself from giving him the middle finger or throwing a smartass comment in his direction. “I’m not moving.” I yawn, stretching. “I’ll be out before you make it to the driveway.”
“Good.” He smiles down at me, brushing his fingers one more time against my cheek, and that same weird fluttering hits my chest. “Sweet dreams.”
“Have a good day at work.”
“Bye, babe.”
“Bye.”
I stare at his back and then the door after it closes and he disappears. The entire last ten minutes didn’t feel like two strangers having a conversation. It felt more like two people who’ve known each other for a long time. Like two people who were in a relationship. It felt like a man caring for a woman in a deeper way.
Stop being a moron.
We are strangers.
We will always be strangers.
I close my eyes, but there is a smile on my face, because even if we are and always will be strangers, it feels nice to have someone worry about me without expecting anything in return.
10
Jo
“Sweetheart.”
I groan, my stomach turning and my head still pounding.
“Jo,” a woman says, “wake up.”
I flutter my eyes open, immediately blinded by the sunlight. Blinking, I try to focus on the ethereal figure in front of me with her bright-red hair and sunrays behind her, looking like they emanate from her being.
“I brought you some lunch, sweetheart.”
I blink again, confused and dazed. “You did?” I ask, my voice still groggy and my throat killing me from earlier.
“I’m Angel,” she says softly.
I smile, staring up at her. “You look like one.”
She’s beautiful and radiant. If Michelangelo ever needed a muse to create his masterpiece in the Sistine Chapel, he’d use her as the perfect specimen.
She smiles back at me, looking every bit as sweet as Nick described her. “Do you need help getting up?”
“No, ma’am,” I reply, pushing myself upward with my hands flat on the mattress. “I’m not sick, sick. Just a little…”
“Nick told me. We’ve all been there, but the nice thing is, it doesn’t last too long.”
The room doesn’t spin when I sit up like it did earlier. I blink away the sleep, trying to find my bearings. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way. I’m really okay.”
She waves her hand, keeping that sweet smile on her lips. “It was no trouble. I don’t live far away, and I didn’t have to work today, so I was busy making dessert for tomorrow anyway.”
“You’re very kind,” I say softly, still feeling guilty.
“Why don’t you get yourself together, and I’ll prep your soup. Meet me in the kitchen?”
I nod and rub my eyes. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me so much. It was really no trouble. Anyway, when Nick said he had a girl friend at his house, I was more than a little curious.”
“Friend,” I correct her.
“Who’s female.” She winks and turns, walking out of the room.
I sit there for a minute, staring at the door in a haze before finally making it to my feet. Slowly, I walk to the bathroom, feeling a heaviness in my head and my entire body. When I look in the mirror, I recoil at my reflection. I look like hell, with bloodshot eyes, makeup half on and half off, smudged across my face.
When I glance down, there’s a washcloth on top of a stack of towels, along with a new toothbrush. Nick. The guy thinks of everything. Maybe he keeps a drawer of toothbrushes for the countless women who, no doubt, make their way in and out of his bed on a regular basis. I am probably the first one he didn’t have sex with who received the morning care package.
A few minutes later, with a freshly washed face and a new change of clothes, I make my way to the kitchen. Nick’s mom is standing at the stove, stirring the soup she’s made in a small pot.
“Feel better?” she asks as I slide onto a stool around his kitchen island.
“Much better,” I tell her, moving my hand to my stomach as it grumbles from the delicious smell.
“Good.” She turns and smiles at me. “I made chicken noodle. Easy on the stomach.”
“Homemade?” I ask, because who whips up a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup at the last minute? No one I know, especially none of my friends’ parents, who are also too busy with their careers to go to those great lengths.
&nb
sp; Her back is to me when she says, “Of course.”
She says of course like it’s crazy to think any other way. I grew up making myself a small pot of chicken soup that was dehydrated and came from a tiny packet and a red box.
“Of course,” I whisper back.
I sit in silence, watching her as she grabs a bowl, dishing out a hefty helping of the chicken soup she created with her own two hands. She slides it across the counter, immediately crouching down to rest her head on her palm. “I hope you like it.”
I reach for the spoon that had been laid out for me before I sat down. “Aren’t you having any?”
She shakes her head. “I ate already, and I’m not much of a soup lover.”
So, not only was she selfless in making me homemade soup, but she cooked something she had no interest in ever eating herself. Man, Nick doesn’t know how great he has it, having a mother who cares this much about him. I’m pretty damn sure every time he didn’t feel good, he was made the same chicken soup by the same loving mother.
“It smells amazing.” I peer down at the huge chunks of carrots, celery, potatoes, chicken, and more than enough noodles to satisfy any eater.
“Eat. Eat,” she tells me.
I grab the spoon, immediately digging in.
“Blow on it first,” she offers, and my heart is heavy because she’s so sweet, exactly like you’d expect a mother to be. “I don’t want you to burn your mouth.”
“Thank you,” I repeat, cringing as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
“It’s fine. Old habits die hard, baby.”
Blowing on the soup, I sneak a peek in her direction, seeing her watching me, studying my face. I bend my neck, facing my soup, avoiding her gaze as I place the spoon in my mouth, and all the flavors explode across my tongue.
“So, how did you meet Nick?” she asks before I have a chance to swallow.
I hold up a finger, savoring every morsel that’s in my mouth a little longer than is probably necessary because I don’t want to answer. “Oh my God, this is so good.”
“It’s nothing. Only simple chicken noodle.”
“No. No. It’s absolute perfection,” I reply, trying to stay off the topic of Nick and me.
“So, Nick…”
Damn. “I was on vacation, and there was a problem at my hotel. He overheard and offered me a place to stay for the night.”
She stares at me for a minute, tilting her head. “And you were drunk when this happened?”
“No. I was drunk last night because of his cousins and my inability to say no.”
Angel’s face lights up. “Put those four together, and it always spells trouble.”
“I figured that out the hard way.”
“So, that means you’ve been here more than a night?”
“Two.”
Two days and I’ve already met his cousins and his mother. She’s made me soup. He’s seen me puke. And none of them seem fazed by any of this, nor are they judging me for my choices or poor life decisions.
She studies me again, tapping one set of fingers against the stone countertop.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask.
She smiles, shaking her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m surprised by you being here is all.”
“Well, yeah. I’m sure your son having a stranger stay in his house is disconcerting.”
She laughs softly. “It’s not that. Nick can and does take care of himself. It’s only that Nick…”
“Shit. Is he gay?” I ask, my eyes widening because I hadn’t thought of that. He’s so flirty, but maybe he’s sweet like his mom. He hasn’t made any moves on me. Innuendo, yes, but nothing actually physical.
Her laugh grows louder, and then she sobers. “Baby, I wouldn’t care if my son were gay as long as he was happy. But no, Nick is not gay. He’s always been a ladies’ man.”
“So, then…”
“Nick has never had a woman sleep over. He has a lot of rules about sex and relationships, and one of them is no sleepovers.”
I furrow my brows, confused. “What? Why?”
“He says it complicates feelings.” She shrugs. “Men. They’re a conundrum.”
“Well, technically, we aren’t in a relationship, nor are we having sex. I’m a stranger or maybe a new friend, but a couple…we are not.”
“There’s a reason he doesn’t even have beds in his two spare bedrooms. He doesn’t like houseguests of any kind. So, you see, you being here is…different for him.”
I stare at her, blinking and confused. “I’m only passing through.”
“Uh-huh,” she mutters, smiling at me like she knows something I don’t. “Having my homemade chicken soup and sleeping in his bed.”
“Well… I… Uh…” I pause, allowing myself to get my bearings. We aren’t anything more. We haven’t even kissed or embraced. He is being nice, and I am passing through. “I slept on the couch the night before.”
She winks at me with those eyes. “Keep telling yourself whatever you want to make yourself feel better. I know my Nicky better than anyone, probably even better than he knows himself.”
I swallow, frozen for a second. “You think…”
She shakes her head. “I think nothing.” Her smile says otherwise.
“Eat. You need some meat on your bones.”
I frown. “I’ve been on a diet for a few weeks.”
The look of horror on her face is unmistakable. “Why?”
I lift the spoon toward my lips. “I work in Hollywood, and my publicist said I needed to lose a few pounds. Cameras aren’t friendly.”
Her hand slides across the countertop, coming to a rest on top of my arm. Her eyes meet mine, boring into me, but her face is soft and sweet. “Beauty comes from inside, honey, not the outside.”
“If only it were that simple. But thank you, Angel.”
“Come to dinner tomorrow,” she offers, giving my arm a squeeze. “You can take a day off your diet and have some of the best homemade Italian cooking you’ll ever taste.”
“I don’t know. That may be crossing a line Nick doesn’t want to cross.”
“You’re his friend, right?”
I nod.
“He’s brought friends before.”
“Girls?”
“Well—” she mutters, smirking. “—no. But you’re still only friends, and we’ll make sure everyone knows that too.”
“I don’t know, Angel.”
“It’s decided. Family dinner tomorrow at Grandma’s house.”
I stare at her, knowing I won’t be able to win this argument. “Okay,” I promise, giving in. “I’ll come.”
Her smile widens. “Perfect.”
11
Nick
Mammoth lifts his head, staring at me. “How long’s she staying?”
I shrug, wiping the grease off my hands. “Don’t know, man. Don’t care. She’s kind of nice to have around.”
He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “She got you.”
“What?”
“She got you, man.”
“She doesn’t have me, asswipe.”
“After half a decade of kickin’ pussy out of your bed, you’re letting pussy that you haven’t even tasted stay in your bed. She got you.”
I glare at him, wiping my hands a little harder than before. “Again, jagoff, she doesn’t have me. She’s only staying a couple days, and she was sick last night. Was I supposed to leave her on the couch?”
He points at me with a smug grin. “Tell yourself whatever lies you need, but she got you. I don’t care who the chick is. If I don’t love her, her ass is on the couch and not in my bed, sick or not.”
My lips harden along with my glare. “You talk a big game, but you’re one big pussy too. I know how you are with my cousin. You’re as whipped as the next guy.”
“I know I’m whipped, but I’ve had a lot of years and miles to get to his point. You’re whipped, and it’s been what…” He pauses, laughing louder. “Two fuc
kin’ days.”
“You’re an asshole,” I snap, walking away from him.
The speaker in the garage comes on, making the hideous noise it always does. “Nicky, you have a visitor,” Tamara calls out with glee in her voice. “She’s waiting for you in the parking lot.”
“Pussy-whipped in under forty-eight,” Mammoth mutters as soon as the microphone kicks out.
“Fuck off,” I bite out, throwing the rag on my tool chest. “You were pussy-whipped from the moment you met my cousin, but you keep pretending you weren’t chasing her tail.”
“Oh. I know what I am and when I was, but as soon as you come to terms with the fact that there’s something brewing deep inside you for this chick you barely know, the better off you’ll be.”
I throw up a middle finger as I head out of the garage, leaving Mammoth and his words of wisdom behind. Jo’s sitting on the hood of her car with a brown paper bag at her side. She looks more casual than I’ve ever seen her. with her palms resting next to her legs, body bent forward slightly.
She looks like a vision in the dimming sunlight of the late evening. The sky blazes with shades of blue, pink, orange, and yellow, giving her the ultimate backdrop to show off the beauty she no doubt knows she has.
As if sensing my presence, she lifts her head, her eyes locking with mine. For a moment, neither of us says anything as I move toward her, my footsteps fast and loud on the sticky blacktop.
“Hey.” There’s a faint smile playing on her lips as she drinks me in with those blue eyes. “I promised you dinner, and I didn’t forget.”
My eyes move to the bag and then back to her. “You should be resting.”
“I was hungover, Nick, not sick. I’m fine now.”
I stop moving a few feet away, letting my gaze dip to her tanned legs, which are shown off in the most spectacular way in her black shorts. “Mom come by?” I ask.
Her face brightens at the mention of my mom. “Yep. She makes the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.”
“My mom is an okay cook. The best soup ever?” I laugh, swiping my hands down the front of my shirt. “You clearly haven’t had that many home-cooked meals.”