Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  I set the pizza down on the sparkling white tile counter in the kitchen. I’m not a super clean person (obviously), but once I start, I won’t stop until it’s perfect.

  “He’s a dick.” Derek leans against the counter, his arms folded across his broad, flannel-covered chest. Which seems to be tonight’s default position for the men in this house.

  “No shit. But he’s also Rose’s grandson.”

  I pull paper plates from the cupboard above the fridge. Rose didn’t like paper plates—said they ruined a good meal. This dinner is already ruined, so paper plates, it is.

  “You’re not staying here.”

  “Umm… yes, I am.”

  “Emelia,” he says, using my full name in his serious voice, a combination which usually leaves no room for argument.

  “Derek,” I return, in a mockingly deep baritone.

  I put a few slices on his plate, snagging one of the crisp pepperonis before I hand the plate to him with an overly bright smile.

  He reluctantly takes it. “This isn’t a joke. I don’t trust the guy.”

  I shrug as I pile a few slices on my plate. “Too bad. I promised his family I’d look after him.” I walk to the table. “Grab us some drinks, will you?” I call over my shoulder.

  I glance to the wall clock, almost afraid to look, knowing I have to get up early and, now that I’ve lost my magic bed, sleep will be hard to come by.

  It’s only seven o’clock?

  The Twilight Zone theme song sounds in my mind. She stepped through the doors into another dimension, where bearded bikers steal her magic bed and time stands still…

  “Why does a grown man need looking after?” Derek asks, setting down two cans of Sprite, taking a seat across from me.

  “Because he lost someone he loves. And clearly isn’t taking it well,” I answer, my words muffled around a greasy bite of cheese and saucy dough.

  Derek studies me for a moment. “Fine, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  I almost choke on my food.

  Derek’s always been protective, but this is a whole new level.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I cough out, cracking open the Sprite and quickly taking a gulp. “You’re literally two minutes away if I need you—which I won’t,” I quickly tack on.

  Derek grunts and takes a bite of his disappearing slice, his tired gaze studying an imaginary spot on the table.

  Guilt washes over me. Since Rose passed, he’s spent all his nights here, looking after me, holding me when I cried, wiping my tears, and my nose, doing this after fourteen-hour days spent taking care of his hoofed patients.

  “Don’t be mad,” I say softly.

  His eyes slide to mine. “I’m not mad.”

  He totally is. He chases down the obvious lie with a long swig of soda.

  “I met a member of your fan club today,” I tease, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood. “A gorgeous blonde with legs for days… who was all like, ‘Why I do declare, Dr. D is simply a-mazing.’” I say this in an exaggerated Southern drawl while I dramatically fan myself. I wait for his smile. My hand drops in defeat when it doesn’t come. “Anyway, she sold me the dress today. Her horse—Coco, or something—is at the ranch.” I take a bite and wait for him to respond. When he doesn’t, I continue, “She’s going to call me to go riding sometime. You should come along.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” His chair scrapes the floor as he stands from the table, paper plate and soda in hand. He walks to the garbage, throws away the plate and empty can, and turns back to me.

  “I’m gonna head out.”

  My heart sinks. He’s really pissed.

  I move from the table and stop at his front. “Don’t worry,” I say, putting a hand on his arm, “it’s only for a few days.”

  He places his calloused hand over mine. His eyes soften as he looks down at me. “Sleep in the den and lock the door.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me for any reason. Anytime.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  He gives my hand a final squeeze and trudges out of the kitchen, taking the warmth of the room with him. Suddenly the idea of him sleeping on the couch doesn’t sound so bad.

  * * *

  After a stealthy shower, I tiptoe from the hallway bath, careful not to wake any sleeping giant assholes, and head to the den where I’ll be spending the night.

  I’m wearing flannel pajama bottoms and Greg’s favorite Harvard T-shirt. He got our friends and the condo in the divorce; I got an old T-shirt with holes. Yay, me.

  With the knots of my damp hair mostly combed through and my mouth minty fresh, I lie down on the soft leather couch, ready to put this day behind me. Tomorrow will be better. Well, maybe not tomorrow, but the day after will definitely be better.

  Thinking about tomorrow, my eyes squeeze shut against images of the only funeral I’ve ever been to. It’s funny how some memories fade over time and others, that you wish would, don’t.

  I look out the windows to the moonlit sky and mentally hunker down for a sleepless night. My teeth clench knowing the mega-jerk’s probably already fast asleep in my magic bed. A magic bed that can somehow lull this insomniac to sleep in minutes. I push out the barrage of homicidal thoughts, close my eyes, and let my mind take me where it wants to go. I’m no longer the driver, though I’m not sure I really ever was.

  I go through my insomniac mantra:

  I will not attach feelings to my thoughts.

  I will not look at the time.

  I will not open my eyes.

  The faint humming sound of the boiler calms me, and my breathing starts to slow into a rhythm.

  Maybe I’ll find sleep after all.

  My eyes shoot open. My heart stops. Hot needles spread from my chest to my toes.

  No! No! NO!!!

  Images flash of Ben stretching out his hand under my pillow, wrapping said manly hand around my… Purple. Passion. Vibrator.

  Just shoot me now.

  I sit up and take in a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm my racing heart. So, what? I have a vibrator. Big deal. Who cares what he thinks. Technically, I haven’t even used it yet. Not that it matters. I’m a grown-ass woman—if I want to open a vibrator store, that’s my business.

  I grab my phone from the end table, checking the time: 9:24.

  I need a plan.

  What would Bridget Jones do?

  Think, Emmy. Think…

  With my heart trying to break free from my chest, I stand from the couch, march to the door, swing it open…

  And scream.

  It’s not an earth-shattering scream, but in this house, it will do the trick.

  Almost immediately I hear heavy feet thumping down the hall. I take a few steps back. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Thanks a lot, Bridget.

  The house-shaking thumps draw closer…

  Too late to back out now.

  Here we go.

  I jump onto the nearest chair and give another small scream for a realistic effect.

  Ben storms in, wearing boxer-briefs, his hair sticking up from sleep, his body tensed. The moonlight illuminates him as he quickly scans the room. The weight of his gaze lands on me, the chair, then slices back to me.

  He does not look happy. At all.

  “What the fuck, woman!”

  “There’s a rat… or a raccoon. I, uh, think it’s under the couch,” I stammer.

  He raises his brows.

  “A raccoon,” he says, flatly.

  “Under the couch.” I point. He just stares at me. “It could have rabies or something,” I tack on in a rushed panic.

  He shakes his head, mutters a curse, and turns to walk out.

  “Don’t go!” I yell, jumping down from the chair, grabbing his arm. “Please, just catch it or something.” The desperation in my voice is real, just not for the reason he thinks.

  He glares at me for a moment. I can feel the heat radiating off his
body.

  “Pain in my ass,” he growls as he flips on the light and stalks toward the couch. I tear my eyes away from his thickly muscled thighs and perfect bubble butt…

  Focus, you perv!

  “I’ll get the broom,” I say.

  “Don’t need a broom.”

  “Okay, be right back. Thanks! You’re the best!” I say, a bit too cheerfully from the door.

  He pauses, glances back at me, eyes narrowing, then slides the couch over.

  Move, Emmy. Move!

  I fly past the living room, down the hall, to my room. I feel triumphant as I dive for the bed. My hands shoot under the pillows, searching, searching, finding… nothing.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I toss the pillows off the bed, starting to really panic. Maybe it moved down the sheets? I scoot back while flattening my hand over every inch of crumpled sheets. I hear a thump as it hits the floor.

  Hallelujah!

  The light turns on.

  I freeze with my ass in the air.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I sit back on my haunches, school my expression, and face him.

  Uncle Rick always said a good offense is the best defense, so here we go…

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” My tone implies he’s an idiot.

  “Got no fucking clue.”

  I start to gather the sheet from the bed. “I’m getting something to wrap the raccoon in,” I say like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Surely somewhere on this planet, there’s a raccoon wrapped snug in a sheet.

  “You want to wrap the raccoon in a sheet,” he repeats.

  Well, when he says it like that.

  He closes the distance between us. I go to scramble off the bed, but he blocks my escape. I sit on my knees, my eyes meeting the wall of his chest. Jagged pink scars snake from his side to his back.

  “You on drugs?” He grabs my chin and jerks it up to meet his probing eyes.

  “What?” I say in disbelief, hitting his hand away. “I’m not on drugs.”

  I go to push past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in, further invading my space.

  “You wake me up, screaming your ass off ’cause you saw an imaginary fucking raccoon—”

  “Or rat,” I interject on a whisper.

  “I find you ass-up, stripping my bed ’cause you’re gonna wrap it in a fucking sheet… either you’re on drugs or you’re fucking nuts, lady. Which is it?”

  I stare into his accusatory gaze, and my blood boils.

  This is his fault. All he had to do was let me sleep in my bed. But noooo, he had to go and be an asshole.

  I feel my temper rise, followed by my voice. “You know what? Fine.” I give him a hard shove, and thankfully he steps back. “There’s no raccoon—”

  “No shit.” He states the obvious with an implicit sneer.

  I climb off the bed, my movements clumsy, his answering snicker adding fuel to my growing rage. I put my hands on my hips and level him with my stare. Or at least I try to.

  “I’m ass-up in my bed because I was looking for something I didn’t want you to find. But you know what?” I turn my eyes to the floor, scanning it until I spot the purple perpetrator lying innocently near the thrown pillow. “I couldn’t care less what you think.” I pick it up and turn, pointing at him with it. “And you know what else…” I motion with the vibrator to the bed. “This is my magic bed.” I punctuate my statement by climbing in and roughly gathering the comforter under my chin, vibrator in-hand like a purple lightsaber. “Go find your own.”

  God, that felt good. Take that life!

  He folds his arms over his chest, shooting daggers my way. “First, I told you I already saw all your shit. Second, I give two fucks how you get off. Third, this is my bed, so get your crazy-ass up and out of it.”

  I prop up on my elbows and unflinchingly meet his gaze. “Just so we’re clear: There’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this bed. End of story.” My words are steel, my resolve absolute.

  He shakes his head. Agitation radiates off him, and he looks to the door. That’s right, buddy, don’t let it hit you on your perfect bubble ass on the way out.

  The Star Wars theme song plays in my mind.

  I grin.

  He looks back to me. His chest rises, his nostrils flare, but his hands fall to his side in defeat. “Fuck it,” he mutters as he turns for the door.

  The light turns off. I close my eyes and hear the door shut. I think about locking it, but my bed is already working its magic…

  Until it dips.

  With a body.

  A very big muscular warm body.

  My eyes shoot open, but I don’t move. I refuse to move. He’s not going to win.

  “I hate you,” I whisper on a harsh breath, meaning every word.

  “Sleep tight, shortcake.”

  I can actually hear his grin.

  Bastard.

  3

  Witches are Assholes

  I refuse to question why I’m pretending to be asleep, tucked in the crook of Ben’s arm with my hand resting on his chest as his steady heartbeat vibrates against my fingertips.

  If I were to ask myself why I’m snuggled against this total jerk when every logical bone in my body says I should be scrambling to get away, the answer would be just too pathetic so I won’t ask.

  Because I feel safe.

  Because I like the way he smells, the warmth of his skin, the steady sound of his breaths.

  Because I’m lonely.

  I twitch my fingers and flutter my eyelids—because, you know, sleeping people do that—and peek from under my lashes, to see that he’s texting someone.

  I wonder if he has a girlfriend. I think he would have mentioned a girlfriend in his emails. I think Rose would have told me if he was attached, but she never really talked about Ben’s personal life, so who knows.

  I watch through fluttered eyelids as he brings up the phone.

  Wait a minute…

  Is he taking a freaking selfie of us? A million reasons why he’d want a picture of us flash in my mind, none of them good.

  Panicked, I scramble to get off the bed, but his massive steel arm tightens around my waist, keeping me put.

  “Going somewhere?” he asks, his rumbly morning voice tinged with amusement.

  Startled by his unrelenting grip, I look up to meet his cold devil eyes.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” I say, pushing against a solid wall of muscle, but he doesn’t budge.

  He turns his attention back to the phone like he’s not holding me hostage against his chest. His warm, manly-smelling chest.

  “Wonder what your boyfriend’s gonna think of these,” he says as he casually scrolls through a series of pictures of me really sleeping, some with the purple perpetrator still tucked in my hand, and then to the last picture of him grinning with me cozily curled against his side. “This one’s my favorite. You’re kinda cute when you’re not talking.”

  He made it clear last night that he didn’t like me, but this is going too far.

  “Why are you being such an asshole?” I ask on a shaky breath, searching his dark eyes for a spark of humanity in their sinister depths. Nothing.

  “I want you gone.” His words are stark and absolute, which makes this faux-intimate position we’re in feel precisely like what it is.

  “Fine.”

  “Today,” he returns, his eyes unwavering.

  “Fine,” I growl, trying to twist myself free from his arm.

  He tightens his hold, just enough to say he’s not done with me yet. “I don’t care how much Catherine offers to pay you to stay here. You’re not gone tonight, I show him these.” He holds up the phone.

  I scoff. “You don’t even know who he is or where to find him, so your blackmailing skills suck.”

  “Try me.”

  I clench my teeth, wanting to call his bluff, to tell him to go ahead and show Derek the pictures, but I can’t.

/>   Derek’s seen me at my lowest, but the thought of him seeing me with a vibrator tucked in my hands, pathetically curled up next to a strange man, who it’s pretty safe to say hates me, is just too low.

  Ben wins. Again. Bastard.

  “Trust me. I can’t wait to get away from you,” I grit out, truth filling my eyes and my every word.

  “Could’ve fooled me.” He cocks his brows, his eyes punctuating our current position.

  “I was asleep. Don’t flatter yourself.” I push against his chest and bring my leg up so I can use it for leverage in my escape.

  I freeze when my inner thigh comes in contact with… oh, my god.

  My eyes flash to his, and surprise steals my breath.

  He’s hard. He’s freaking hard.

  I jerk my leg away.

  My dream of him being an asshole because he struggles with some sort of Napoleon Penis Complex vanishes.

  “It’s morning wood, babe. Don’t flatter yourself.” He chuckles, throwing my words back at me with a satisfied smirk.

  It’s official: I hate him.

  “Go to hell,” I sneer, though I’m pretty sure we’re already there. Or at least I am.

  He moves his arm from my waist, and I hurry off the bed, putting some space between us. Hot anger makes a swift appearance, and I turn back to him. “I’ve met a lot of pricks in my life, but you, by far, are—”

  “The biggest. Yeah, I get that a lot.” He gives me a smug grin before turning his attention back to the phone, dismissing me.

  I stand there, slack-jawed, honestly stunned that he’s so different than how I imagined him to be.

  “For someone who can’t wait to get away from me, you sure move slow,” he deadpans.

  The overwhelming urge to go Million Dollar Baby on his ass has me taking a step forward. “You know, it broke my heart that no one ever came to visit Rose, especially you, because she loved you so much, but now I’m grateful.” I swallow back the lump in my throat. “None of you deserved her.”

  With that, I walk out, not waiting for a response. My angry steps carry me to the entryway. I grab the dress from the coat rack and make my way to the den where I should have stayed last night.

  Another bad decision I can add to my growing pile of shit-choices. I’d gone from a girl who people counted on to make life-saving decisions, to a girl who screams about imaginary rats, sleeps with vibrators, and steals pretend moments of affection from bearded motorcycle jerks because she’s that lonely.