After hours, though, it’s a different story…
“Hey—is this a bad time?” he asks when I pick up the FaceTime call on Tuesday night.
I shake my head, grinning widely. “Nope. It’s after hours so I can assure you it’s a very good time for you to FaceTime me while dripping with sweat.”
He glances down at himself, as if he weren’t aware his white tank is clinging to his chest and leaving nothing to the imagination. “Oh, right. I just got back from practice.” He tugs at the front of his shirt a few times, as if, now that he’s aware of it, it’s making him uncomfortable.
“You can take it off if you want—I promise, I really don’t mind.”
He offers me a sexy grin before putting the phone down for a second. When he picks it up again, he’s shirtless and I’m trying my best not to drool all over my iPad screen. “Your turn.”
I oblige him by removing my shirt as well, prompting him to let out a rumble of appreciation when I hold up the tablet again.
“Okay, before you get too excited I should probably tell you we can’t actually…do anything right now. The walls of my apartment are just way too thin.”
He chuckles. “And you’re worried about your neighbors?”
I bite my bottom lip in hesitation. “Um, no, not my neighbors…”
Spencer’s amused expression morphs into a tight, unreadable frown. He’s quiet for the moment and I can see him debating whether to say something so I just remain silent and let him think. “Alright,” he finally says, his tone wary and unsure, “don’t take me asking this the wrong way, but I just need to know…is there—are you seeing someone else as well?”
My mouth falls open in horror. “What? No! Why are you asking that?”
Spencer lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s just…you don’t want to stay over, and now you’re worried about being overheard,” he reasons. “I’m sorry, I know I sound completely insane but this has happened to me before and I—”
“Spencer, no,” I say gently, my heart breaking at the note of pain in his voice. I want to track down whoever cheated on him and break their fingers with a hammer. “I promise that’s not happening here.”
He nods, seeming partially reassured, although there’s still some wariness in his expression. “We haven’t talked about being exclusive or anything…”
“I’m exclusive,” I rush to say. “I don’t want anyone else.”
A flash of relief crosses his face. “Good. Same here.”
“Listen, about the not staying over and everything…it’s because I live with my mom.”
His brows shoot up. “Your mom?”
“Yeah. She had a stroke a few months ago so I moved out of my studio and back home with her. And it’s why I took the job with you guys, because I needed a steady income to help pay for her rehab.”
“Shit. Will, I’m sorry. Is she okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, she’s doing great, actually. I mean, considering where she was a few months ago…she’s walking around without any assistance, and she hasn’t lost any cognitive function. But she’s lost all movement in her right arm and they’re not sure if she’ll get that back.”
“And that’s her dominant arm?”
I nod. “Yeah. Her therapists are doing a whole bunch of exercises with her to build up strength and control in her left arm, but she’s impatient and stubborn as hell. Her favorite thing in the world to do before all this happened was cooking, and she just doesn’t seem to get she can’t do the same things she used to. She can’t debone a chicken, or peel potatoes, or empty out a giant pot of pasta. Even cracking an egg is difficult.” I let out a heavy sigh as I think of all the times I’ve had to intervene when my mom was putting herself in danger by taking on too much in the kitchen. “So someone needs to be here during mealtimes to make sure she won’t hurt herself.”
“Wow. I’m sorry, Will,” Spencer says, and the genuine care and compassion in his gaze hits me right in the chest. “Has she thought about using some of those kitchen gadgets that help with chopping and mixing and all that? Emily has one that does pretty much everything and it’s not very heavy, it could be lifted with one hand.”
“I’ve thought about something like that,” I admit. “But those things are pretty expensive. And like I said, Mom’s stubborn. She’s completely set in her ways, I’m not sure she’d even use it. Right now I’m happy to help her with the things she can’t do one-handed, and in the meantime I’m just working on getting her to accept the probability that she won’t ever get full function in her right arm back.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” he says.
I smile. “I’m lucky to have her.”
I see a flicker of something cross Spencer’s face but it’s gone so quickly I feel like I must have imagined it.
It’s a couple days later that the package arrives. I’m just coming out of the bathroom after a shower when I see my mom standing at the door to our apartment talking to a delivery guy.
“Will, honey, do you know anything about this?” she calls.
I pad barefoot toward the door, glancing down at the large, square box still sitting on the delivery guy’s trolley. The side of the box is printed with the logo Thermo-mix. My brows shoot up in surprise. “Um…no.”
“It’s addressed to Claire Crawford. Is that you ma’am?” The delivery guy asks.
“Well…yes,” Mom says. “But I didn’t order this.”
“Well, someone did,” he points out with an air of complete indifference. “And I need you to sign for it.”
“Here, I’ll sign,” I say, taking the stylus from the guy’s hand and quickly scribbling over his electronic pad.
Once he leaves, I shut the door behind him and crouch down so I can haul the box into my arms and carry it to the kitchen counter.
“Will?” Mom asks, following after me. I can tell by her voice she’s completely baffled. “What’s going on?”
I read the address label on the package, confirming that it is indeed meant for my mother. “It seems someone’s sent you a present.” I grab a knife and slice open the outer packaging, revealing the carefully packed and very expensive cooking contraption.
“But…who would have bought me one of those?” Mom says as I pull the appliance from its packaging and set it on the bench. There’s a bunch of other stuff in the box as well: a cookbook, a canvas bag of some kind, and a few other parts that I’m guessing are either spares or things that need to be attached later.
“Well, I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I think it might have been my boss.”
“Your boss?” Mom asks, clearly incredulous. “Why would your boss buy me one of these?”
I shrug. “Because he’s a nice guy.”
Wanting confirmation of my theory, I grab my phone from where I set it charging on the counter earlier and send off a text to Spencer.
Me: So an interesting package just arrived for my mom. You didn’t happen to buy her a thermy thingy did you?