“Why not?”
“Jealous,” I groan and he begins to laugh softly, but then sobers. He’s painfully awkward when he finally explains.
“I was seeing someone, but we broke up in the first week of moving to the new B and G building. She ended it.”
“B and G ruins another relationship.” I want to bite my tongue but the words won’t stop. “I bet she was tall.”
“Yeah, pretty tall.” He reaches to the side table and retrieves his watch.
“Blonde.”
He buckles it and doesn’t look at me. “Yes.”
“Goddamn it, why are they always Tall Blondies? I bet she has brown eyes and a tan, and her dad is a plastic surgeon.”
“You’ve been reading my diary.” He looks faintly disturbed.
I press my face into his shoulder. “I was guessing she’s my polar opposite too.”
“She was . . .” He lets out a wistful sigh and my heart twists. The territorial little cavewoman inside me appears at the entrance to her cave and scowls.
“She was just so nice.”
“Ugh, nice. Gross.”
“And her eyes were brown.” He watches me mull this over.
“Sounds like a legit reason to break it off. You know what? Your eyes are too blue. This just isn’t going to work.” I was hoping for a clever retort, but instead, his tone is withering.
“You’ve actually thought that this would work?”
Now it’s my turn to say um. I’m halfway recoiled into my own shell when he blows out a breath.
“Sorry. It came out wrong. I can’t help being such a cynical asshole.”
“This is not news to me.”
“It’s why I don’t have a girlfriend. They all trade me in for nice guys.”
He looks at the ceiling with such deep regret in his eyes I have an awful thought. He’s pining for someone. Tall Blondie broke his heart when she moved on to someone less complicated. It would certainly explain his bias against nice guys. I try to think of how to ask him, but he looks at the clock.
“We’d better hurry.”
Chapter 22
Please give me a crash course on the key players in your family. Any taboo topics of conversation? I don’t want to be asking your uncle where his wife is, only to find out she was murdered.” I rummage around in my bag.
“Well, before last night when I carried forty-five individual flower displays into the hotel because they couldn’t find her a fucking cart, I hadn’t seen my mom in a few months. She calls me most Sundays to keep me up to date with the news of neighbors and friends I never cared about. She was a surgeon, mainly hearts and transplants. Little kids and saintly types. She’s going to love you. Absolutely love you.”
I realize I’m pressing my hands over my own heart. I want her to love me. Oh, jeepers.
“She’ll say she wants to keep you forever. Anyway. My dad is a cutter.”
I flinch.
“It’s the nickname for surgeons. When you meet my dad, you’ll understand why. He was mainly on call for emergency room surgeries. I’d hear all sorts of things over breakfast. Some idiot got a pool cue through the throat. Car crashes, fights, murders gone wrong. He was forever dealing with drunks with gravel rash, women with black eyes and broken ribs. Whatever it was, he fixed it.”
“It’s a hard job.”
“Mom was a surgeon too, but she was never a cutter. She cared about the person on her table. My dad .
. . dealt with the meat.”
Josh sits on the sill lost in thought for a minute and I search in my bag for clothes, giving him some privacy. I start swiping on makeup in the bathroom.
After a few minutes, I peep through the gap in the door. In the reflection of the dresser he’s shirtless, gloriously so, and he’s unzipped my garment bag. He holds the dress between two fingers with his head tilted in recognition. Then he rubs his hand over his face.
I think I’ve made a mistake with my blue dress.
My Thursday lunchtime dash to the tiny boutique near work seemed like a good idea at the time, but I should have worn something I already had. But it’s too late now. He unfolds an ironing board and flaps his shirt over it.