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Not long after that, Nick left. There hadn’t been much to say once he’d accused me of using and discarding women. Well…I could’ve told him to fuck off, but that wouldn’t have changed his opinion of me. Plus, it wasn’t my style.
I’d agreed not to pursue her, but that was because I wasn’t pursuing anyone right now. I hadn’t, however, agreed not to text her for cupcakes. That was more than I could promise.
Returning to my living room, I got back to work. These fucking ducks were going down, even if they took me down with them.
Chapter Six
Daisy
The knock on my door startled me. No one ever knocked. If my family was coming over, they’d text first then barge in when they arrived. It was how we rolled.
I peeked out the window beside my door, and Nick waved at me.
Huh.
He’d never been to my place before. Well, not while I’d been living here. He’d probably hung here a lot when my oldest brother, Beau, lived here, but that had been years ago. Beau was married with a kid now, his days of living in the apartment above our parents’ garage long gone.
“Nick.” I leaned my shoulder against the half-open door. “What brings you here?”
“I was in the area. Thought I’d check in on you.”
My natural instinct was to tell him I wasn’t up for company. I hoarded my private time like a dragon with gold. But I had to go help my mother in half an hour. I could be hospitable when I had an escape hatch.
Stepping back, I opened the door wider. “Come in, but I have to warn you, I’m due next door soon.”
His steps hesitated a beat before he closed the door behind him. “That’s okay. I know you’re not one for social calls.”
“Nope.” I poked my thumb toward the main house. “You want sweet tea and cookies, go see Whitney Mae next door. She’ll even serve them on a cute tray and the glasses will have lemons printed on them.”
He chuckled. “You think I forget the kind of treatment I always get from your mom? I still crave those little cookies with the raspberry jam in the middle.”
“Thumbprint cookies are a Whitney Mae classic.”
“Yes.” He swiped his hands together. “If you get the chance, put in a good word for me and let her know I’ve been missing those things.”
I shook my head. “Boys and their sugar.”
“Yep.” He zeroed in on my hair. “You cut it.”
I touched the blunt edge that now ended at my jaw. “I did. I needed a change.”
“Hmmm. It’s different.”
Before the breakup from hell, my hair had flowed to the center of my back. Andy had loved my hair. I’d loved my hair. About a week after ending things, I hadn’t been able to stand it touching me. I’d cut it myself, and my mother had forced me to her salon to get it evened out.
Now, it was short. A “French bob,” the stylist had called it. All I knew was I looked like a different person in the mirror, and that was what I’d needed.
“Different is good,” I replied.
“It can be.” He eyed my hair again. “You can always grow it back out.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He strolled around my tiny living room, which was also my kitchen and dining room. There wasn’t much to see. Pale gray walls and crisp white trim. Two comfortable, worn brown leather couches—hand-me-downs from Beau. A couple stools at the narrow kitchen island. A desk with two monitors in lieu of a TV. When I was being a productive member of society, I spent most of my time doing freelance web design there.
“You’ve got a different aesthetic than Beau,” he remarked. “No beer bottles lining the windowsills.”
“I’m not much of a drinker, and clutter makes me twitchy.” I perched on one of my two stools. “Plus, Beau had never rinsed out those bottles. I don’t think you want to know what was living in them.”
