I spot an ironing board with a white iron in the corner of the room, so I grab them. I’ve never ironed anything before, but I have seen my mom do it. She’s fussy, and she actually hates sending anything to the cleaners if she doesn’t have to. She’d much rather launder her own clothes.
The ironing board pops up, no problem. I set the iron to the steam setting since I think that should get out the wrinkles. It heats quickly, and I pull down one of the shirts. I feel weird about ironing it and even touching it because I know it’s Luke’s. I try really hard not to think about him, but I know he’d look amazing in the shirt. I also know he’d look even better out of it. He has the look of a guy who is never going to get a true dadbod. Ever. Unless by dadbod, it counts to have rock hard, eight pack, streamlined muscles, and natural athleticism that would make both personal trainers and even professional athletes jealous.
Nope. Absolutely not going there. Those thoughts are trouble, they make my body feel as hot and steamy as the iron I’m working with, and they are unproductive to my job. Guys are just trouble anyway. My parents were right to send me to an all-girls boarding school. They spared me the trouble of men until I was eighteen.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I shove those sorry thoughts in a sack and iron furiously. I’m not very good at it, and I end up making creases with the iron that weren’t there before. I barely keep from cursing. I hate that I’m not good at this stuff—domestic stuff. It makes me feel spoiled and useless.
Is anyone good at ironing? It seems to be a lost art. And whatever. I’m sure there are millions of people out there who had a regular upbringing and also can’t cook.
I’m done with the first shirt and starting on the second when I hear footsteps racing around above me. It’s very obvious Shade’s awake. Either that or a herd of angry opossums just broke into the house. Considering we’re in the middle of the city, that’s highly unlikely. Are opossums even angry animals? I don’t think so. But I know they hiss at their own butts and like to play dead, and I also know their body temperatures are so low, they almost never get rabies. They eat tons of ticks every year, and they actually provide the anti-venom for some snake bites because it doesn’t harm them. At least I think so. I remember doing a report on opossums when I was younger. They’re pretty freaking amazing.
Anyway, it’s obviously Shade up there. A minute later, before I can even move, he comes thumping down the stairs and appears in the doorway to the laundry room.
I’m struck by how much he looks like Luke with his dark hair, brown eyes, and darker complexion. Someday, he’s going to be a heartbreaker. Though not like his dad. Not like I would know or plan to find out. It’s honestly hard to imagine Luke breaking hearts. He’s such a curmudgeonly man, and I can’t imagine anyone giving him a chance, but then, maybe he hasn’t always been like that. Or maybe women like assholes. My mind suddenly inserts a shrugging emoji there.
I’m about to ask Shade if he’d like cereal for breakfast when he raises his hand like a sleepwalking ghost in some freaking horror-action movie, his face completely expressionless as he points at me. It freaks me out until I realize what he’s pointing at. The iron. Smoking. Burning. And the shirt. Oh god, the shirt.
“Yarp! Blueberry bagels and buttered biscuits!” I hastily jerk the iron up. The shirt was blue. I say was because it’s now dark brown with a giant iron mark burned into the front.
Apparently, there isn’t anything I don’t burn, food or otherwise.
Shade giggles. “Why are you talking about food?”
I set the iron aside and yank the cord out of the wall so that I don’t forget it’s plugged in and accidentally burn down the house for real. I wonder what the chances are of Shade forgetting about this and me hiding the shirt in the trash. But no. Luke probably goes through the trash. He strikes me as a suspicious son of a bitch.
“Well, I learned a long time ago not to use bad words, so I say other things.”
“You mean like shit, damn, bi—”
“Yes!” I cut him off, alarmed. “Yes, all those. Those are adult words. You should never use those.”
“You’re an adult, though. Why don’t you use them?”
“Because you’re listening and you’re not an adult, so you don’t need to hear them. And even though I’m grown up, it doesn’t mean I want to use bad words. They have bad meanings, and some people will think you look bad if you walk around saying them.”
“I think it’s cool to use bad words.”
Holy granola. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s very cool. I think it’s way cooler to find something original to say. Something that surprises people and makes them laugh. Laughter is worth way more than anger most times.”
“You were angry at the iron, but now you’re smiling about it?”
I hadn’t realized I was smiling, but I guess I am even though I feel woefully underprepared to take on this job. I seriously lack all the fundamental skills. Apparently, though, Shade is okay with me. So far, anyway, which is the thing that matters most. If he were a brat who threw tantrums and trashed the house on me, I know I’d have to quit. But now, I think he might even grow to like me, and I already like him. It’s easy to see he’s smart as all get out. He’s also very friendly. I think he’s probably an all-around nice person.
And no, I don’t think adults are the only ones who matter. I think kids, and what they say and feel and think, are just as important. I hated that when I was younger, no one would give me the time of day. I promised myself I would never treat another person like that. There shouldn’t be an age limit on when things start to matter.
“Are you hungry?”
“Starving!”
With a huge grin, Shade brushes his hair aside. It’s quite long. Long enough to get it cut, especially since it’s not a very good cut right now. The bangs are chopped and have grown past his eyes while the rest reaches his chin. It’s fine for a boy to have long hair, right? And I don’t think I could do a better cut myself. Afterall, we’ve already seen how my domestic skills are.
“I noticed there’s cereal. Or… cereal. Take your pick.”
“Cereal!’
Sweet potatoes, I’m glad this kid is easy going. A full-on meltdown over breakfast might be more than I could handle right now.
Shade obediently sits down at the table in the kitchen while I get his cereal. I conspicuously mix water into the cream, and he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t say anything while he eats, and I go back to trying to get the pots scrubbed clean.
For my first day with Shade, I wanted to do something exciting, but with no car keys and without knowing the neighborhood, we settle for the backyard. We play hard out there—tag, tossing the football, and hide and seek—before we come in and clean up his room. Then, we eat cereal together again for lunch. And after lunch, we head back outside and exhaust ourselves in the backyard again.
All in all, I’d call it a successful day.
Until Luke comes home.
Mr. Five O’Clock Shadow.
Literally. The first thing I notice when he walks into the backyard just after five is that he does indeed have a slight shadow along his jawline. Somehow it makes his features even sharper, and by sharper, I mean more handsome, intriguing, and shiver-inducingly delicious.