And that man wasn’t ever coming home.
So for the two-year anniversary of his death, I did the healthy thing. I paid my visit to his grave, gave blood in his memory, and started cleaning. I put on some upbeat music and tried to make it something positive.
Things had started well. I packed up all Brandon’s hunting gear and brought it to Josh. That had been easy. I knew that’s what Brandon would have wanted me to do with it. Then I threw away his toiletries and cleared out the medicine cabinet.
But when I started on his clothes, the situation went south.
Some of his clothes still smelled like him, and they reminded me of places we’d been together. Like the T-shirt he picked up in Venice Beach on our second date, and the jacket he wore when we rented that cabin in Big Bear that one winter. I started a pile for a few items I wanted to keep, things that had sentimental value for me, and after a while that pile was bigger than the donation pile.
So I grabbed some tequila, had a shot of liquid courage, and started moving items from the keep pile into trash bags. And I was actually getting through it, until I found a receipt in the pocket of his favorite jeans. A receipt from Luigi’s, the stupid Italian place in Canoga Park we liked. The last place we ate together.
That’s when I’d lost it. The rest of the night was a lot of drinking, crying, and, as evidenced by Jason’s presence in my living room, drunk dialing.
I sat on the sofa with him and crossed my legs under me. Tucker jumped up next to me and put his head in my lap.
Jason smiled, handing me a weird silver package from the coffee table. “Breakfast.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “Is this…camping food?” The package read Backpacker’s Pantry, granola with milk and bananas. It was warm.
He handed me a spoon. “This is my favorite oatmeal. I buy it by the case. It’s great for a hangover. Plus, no dishes.”
No dishes was good since I still didn’t have a working kitchen sink. The top of the bag had a zipper seal. I pried it open and tasted it. “This isn’t half-bad,” I admitted. “I’ve never had actual camping food before.”
“You’ve never been camping?”
“Well, yes. But we drive in. There’s an electrical hookup and running water. We bring a cooler of food and we plug in the griddle and cook on it.”
He looked amused. “That’s not really camping. That’s hanging out outside.”
“Oh, I forgot. You’re a camping purist.” I smiled weakly, my head throbbing. I closed my eyes as a mild wave of nausea rippled through me, and I let out a breath through my nose.
“You’ll feel better in a few hours,” Jason said behind the spinning darkness of my eyelids.
“So, what else do you cook?” I asked, picking up my bag of oatmeal again.
“Grilling and boiling water for dehydrated food are about all that’s in my wheelhouse.”
“Oh. Well, if you can boil water, you can make coffee.”
“I make amazing coffee,” he said. “I use a French press.”
“Oooh, now you’re speaking my love language. Say ‘French press’ again,” I mumbled.
He leaned over and put his lips next to my ear. “French presssss,” he whispered.
I gave him serious side-eye. If this hangover didn’t kill me, his shameless flirting was going to finish the job.
“Hey, thank you,” I said, after a minute.
He smiled at me. “For what?”
“For coming. For taking care of me. For not letting…” I looked around the room at the mess. “For not letting this change things.”
He didn’t look at the clothes. His eyes never left mine. “Well, we have a date today. I waited all day yesterday for it. No way was anything going to stop me from seeing that through.”
“Jason, I can’t go anywhere today. I feel like crap.”
“No, the date’s here. We’re on it now. ID channel and chill.”
I laughed, and the sore muscles in my stomach reminded me I’d spent the night barfing.
Jason picked up the remote and turned on the TV.
God, he was wonderful.
* * *
Four hours into ID channel and chill and he’d only held my hand. Besides those quick kisses in the bathtub, he hadn’t tried to make a move on me. I don’t know if this was due to my hangover or the overactive flight instincts I’d shown him on the night of our first kiss, but he kept a safe distance. I think he knew that if he pounced me, I’d probably make him leave. He was right. And oddly, his reserved behavior just made me more comfortable, and it kind of made me want to pounce him.
I wondered if that was a strategy…
My hangover felt a million times better. I sat with my legs crossed next to him on the sofa, and my knee just touched his thigh. It was such a small contact, but it had been sending bolts of electricity through me for the last hour.
Being with him in person felt just as natural and easy as it did on the phone—except with sexual tension.
It was like we couldn’t look at anything other than each other for more than a few minutes at a time. Our faces kept turning back to each other, and finally we just kind of gave up and ignored the show and talked instead. To his credit, he didn’t seem to care how I looked at the moment and he appeared to be perfectly happy just sitting there with me instead of on a date doing something more exciting.
His phone chirped, and he picked it up and frowned.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“I just have a lot of promoting to do. Ernie emailed my schedule for this week. I have to meet with my publicist tomorrow, and Ernie’s found me a personal assistant for my tour.”
“So you’re busy tomorrow?”
“I have that meeting tomorrow at eleven, then a photo shoot right afterward. But I’d love to see you for breakfast or dinner. Or both.”
“Both, huh?” I said, trying not to sound as satisfied as his suggestion made me feel.
His mouth drew up on one side and he put a hand on my knee. My stomach somersaulted. “If I want to see you, I’m going to ask to see you.”
“And you want to see me twice in one day?” I teased.
“No. I’d rather spend the whole day with you.”
Now I had the grace to blush.
“Hey, I really like that photo of you over your bed,” he said, sitting back against the sofa, giving me a grin.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m naked in that.”
“I’m a photography enthusiast. I’m interested in it for purely artistic reasons.”
“Uh-huh, I’ll bet.” I twisted my lips into a pleased smile. That particular image was something I was proud of for reasons he didn’t seem to realize. I decided not to tell him just yet. Maybe he would figure it out. The fact that he liked it, and didn’t know what it was, was a huge compliment on many levels.
I stretched. “Want something to drink?” We had a pizza coming and I had been a horrible hostess. I hadn’t gotten off the sofa once since we started our murder marathon.
“Sure. Just water.”
I got up and walked into the kitchen and froze. The kitchen was put back together. The fans were gone, and the counters and floor had been cleaned.
Openmouthed, I went to the sink and peeked into the cabinet underneath. Everything was put neatly away, and a shiny new pipe and knob had been installed. I closed the doors and turned on the water. It ran. The dishes had been washed. My tequila glass sat upside down in the sink, drying on the rack.