Page 23 of Manors & Mischief

I knew it! He totally abandoned me! Walked off with my PB&J and never came back.

He’s silent, and his mom sighs. “Dev, I know you’ve had your fair share of hardship. I’m not downplaying that. You’ve been through more than most. Getting injured and not being able to fulfill your dream. Then the property not working out.”

“Dad,” he says, voice hard.

“Your father,” she says, her voice tight and almost flippant. “But who saved you when you needed it? Who rallied around you? Other than me, of course.”

“The town,” he answers in the same gruff tone I’m familiar with, like he’s been made to say this same reply before, and he doesn’t like it. “I get it, Mom.”

“You don’t know that she’s going to ruin it.”

“I don’t know that she’s not.”

“Then talk to her. Goodness, I love you with all my heart, but you can be a rotten, stubborn peach sometimes. People are basically decent, but if she doesn’t know your concerns, how can she do anything about them?”

He’s silent again. I can just see the tip of his work boot in the small sliver of space available for my prying eyes. This is definitely not a conversation I should be eavesdropping on, but if they didn’t want it to be public, they should have shut the door.

To be honest, he sounds like a whiny stick-in-the-mud. He’s just so sure I’m going to ruin the house, which is infuriating. I actually thought we were getting somewhere earlier. Sure, I knew he was coming over to give me the quote under duress, but then he was actually kind of cool for a moment in the kitchen. A very brief moment, apparently.

A chair groans in the office, and I spy Devon’s standing form. My heart skips a beat. I spin quickly, retreating into the first bathroom I see, shutting the door behind me and hoping Devon didn’t see me snooping outside his mom’s office.

From the other side of the door, muffled voices reach me, then the faint thud of footsteps. Except, they don’t quiet as he walks down the hallway, they get louder. I clench my fists, staring at the big wood door when it starts to creak open. You’ve got to be kidding me.

No.

This is not happening.

My heart drops into my stomach, then skyrockets back up. I twist in a circle, not knowing where to hide or what to do. In the end, I’m facing the door again, pretending to walk toward it.

Devon Lachey steps into the bathroom and pulls up short when he sees me. My heart takes off like a rocket ship again, thumping away in surprise, embarrassment, and anger with the explosivity of rocket fuel. I pull my shoulders back and with all the muster I can gather from the depths of my soul ask, “What are you doing?”

His lips thin. “I think the question is what are you doing?”

“What people usually do in a restroom.” The attitude in me comes out as if on autopilot. What I just heard outside his mom’s office only adds gas to an already burning fire of dislike. I don’t care if he does have the best forearms I’ve ever seen, I cannot let a man treat me like this. “It’s not usually polite to talk about. But you, you probably have a whole plethora of poop jokes. Those are probably the only jokes you tell. Do you find bathroom humor funny, Devon Lachey?”

“I meant, what are you doing here? In the men’s room?” he questions. “Though I’m glad to hear you were taking a giant dump.”

I freeze, spotting the row of three porcelain, not-so-funny urinals on the wall that I obviously missed because I was only coming in here to hide.

“Those didn’t clue you in?”

“My mistake. Let me just get out of your way, and I wasn’t pooping, I was just saying⁠—.”

“No, no. Please tell me more about your bathroom behavior that we shouldn’t discuss and my plethora of poop jokes.”

I gather up all the bravado I can and walk past him. Just when I grab the door handle, he says, “Why are you everywhere I don’t want you to be?”

“Because the world doesn’t kowtow to Devon Lachey’s wishes?” I yank open the door, about to make my exit in a purely spectacular way. Last word? Check. Keeping my head on straight? Check. Didn’t look at hunky forearm? Check.

But then the most aggravating man in the world says, “Don’t I know it.”

The bathroom door shuts behind me. I peek over my shoulder, and sure enough, Men’s Restroom is labeled on the front with a black and gold plaque. Even if I had seen it, I probably would’ve still walked in given the slim chance he would be heading into the bathroom where I was trying to hide. Yet, his parting words sit on my heart like a lead weight.

I shouldn’t feel sorry for him. He doesn’t even like me, but I can’t shake the idea that there is more to Devon than he’s putting out there. At least to me. To me, he’s mostly been cold, calculated, and aggravating. Yet, I can still feel the spot where he touched my cheek earlier and hear the softness in his tone when he spoke of Mrs. Lewis. Then there’s some injury that his mom spoke of…

I need a shower, that’s all. That spot I keep imagining is probably left over grime from working on the house all day. I’ll head back home, get that shower, and I’ll feel so much better.

The door behind me opens again, and I cringe.