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I settle down on a stool at the island, clicking off the basketball game as I do. “I think it’s just parents. I’d have to look.”
“Let me know what you find out,” she says, as though she really believes I’m going to research this.
“What did John do?”
Chelsea attacks her hair again. Gentler this time, thankfully. I didn’t want to have to grab the brush out of her hand to save her from herself.
The motion is hypnotic, and the sound of the brush moving through her blonde hair is going to haunt my dreams tonight in the best and worst way possible. This whole vision of her is.
Her cheeks are pink, her reddish blond hair is wet, and she’s got on mint-green flannel pajamas with llamas wearing Christmas wreaths around their necks. It’s an adorable look.
Then I glance down and swallow. While her top is a long-sleeved, full coverage flannel shirt, the bottoms are short shorts, showing off miles of her toned legs ending in fuzzy pink socks.
Adorableis NOT the word I would use for this. I’m not sure I have words. They’re gone. Along with my ability to form coherent thoughts and sentences.
“You’re not at work,” Chelsea says suddenly, and my gaze snaps back to hers.
“Uh, no. I’m leaving in a few minutes. Holiday hours and all that,” I tell her, hoping she didn’t notice me checking out her legs. “Are you going to tell me why you want to disown John?”
Her eyes blaze again, and her brush whips faster through her hair. “He catfished me,” she says through clenched teeth. “Or, rather, he pretended to be me and catfished a bunch of randos I’m supposed to date. Can you believe that?”
I can hardly understand this, much less believe it. “Slow down. Explain. He didwhat?”
Chelsea doesn’t slow down. But I follow her rapid-fire speech enough to understand that John created a fake dating profile for her and has been pretending to be Chelsea, chatting with guys and setting up dates he expects her to go on.
By the time she’s done explaining, I’m clenching my fists so hard my nails are practically embedded in my palms. I definitely agree—John deserves to be disowned.
“This is a new low, even for him.”
“I told you—he’s the worst. I can’t believe I got roped into this promise in exchange for staying here. Wait!” Chelsea’s eyes fly to mine, and she points the brush like an accusing finger. “What did he makeyoupromise?”
“Nothing,” I say, then remember that’s not quite true. “Well, he did say he had a favor he’d cash in at some point—”
Chelsea groans dramatically and shakes her head. “You’re going to regret it,” she says. “Whatever it is. Mark my words. He’s going to make you sorry.”
If John has really set Chelsea up on blind dates with guys from an app, I’malreadysorry. On the plus side, I doubt he could do anything worse to me.
* * *
Turns out, I’m wrong about that. Because when I call John on the way to work and tell him he’s gone too far this time, he calls in his favor forme.
Chelsea’s right—he is theworst.
“No,” I grit out, braking harder than I need to as traffic crawls forward. “I won’t do it. Absolutely not.”
“But you promised,” John says.
“That’s before I knew what it was.”
“Too bad—a promise is a promise.”
He sounds far too triumphant, and I know it’s because promises are one thing John holds unwaveringly. He won’t break them. And if you make one to him, you best not either.
From what he’s said, they were a big thing for his dad too. I have a feeling the weight of promises only became stronger after he died. As though John feels like kept promises are a way to honor something that was important to his dad.
And now, I’mreallyregretting this. When John offered up his place, promising he’d hit me up with a favor later, I just wanted out of my mother’s place. I figured that whatever John made me promise wouldn’t be a big deal. I mean, how much damage could he do when he’s a whole ocean away?
Traffic inches along, horns blaring. The Christmas spirit apparently expired already, and now everyone and their mother is on the road with their rage. This definitely isn’t helping my mood.
