CHAPTER 15
Lather, Rinse, Repeat
Harley
Dax: I’ll pick you up at 7. Wear something nice.
Dax: I did not mean that you don’t always wear something nice. It’s customary for the man to give the woman a time for the date and to make sure she feels comfortably dressed for where they’re going.
Me: Stop being weird. I’ll be ready at 7, wearing something NICE, since I’m so hideous every other time.
Dax: There you go! That’s the spirit! But please, for the love of God, don’t eat any brownies.
Me: *middle finger emoji*
I stare down at my phone with a cheesy smile on my face, looking at the text exchange Dax and I had earlier. After I dropped him off at The Backyard when we were finished with breakfast, I went to the office to check out the new postcard that came. This one was from Minnesota, with a picture of a woman carved out of butter on the front. All three postcards had the exact same message, typed up onto a label and affixed to the back of the postcards:
Doing fine! Don’t worry about us! Love, Chris and Lincoln
No other message or demands for anything, and no word on whether or not whoever has them will bring them back. Nothing but what looks like two otters who went on a damn vacation. I called my private investigator and had him add Minnesota to the other locations when looking into anyone associated with The Backyard who might have traveled to those places recently.
Now, I’m pacing back and forth in my kitchen, waiting to go on a date with Dax after already looking in the mirror eight hundred times since I finished getting ready. I’m still not a hundred percent certain the long-sleeved, cotton, very short, flowy dress that ties behind my neck with a large hole showing off some of my back that I paired with a pair of brown, knee-high heeled boots is nice enough for wherever Dax is taking me, but it’s nicer than what I usually wear.
A fist pounds three times against my front door promptly at 7:00, according to the clock on my microwave, which finally has the correct time on it since I bought it, thanks to Dax.
I shove my phone into a small clutch, and butterflies start flapping around in my stomach when I walk from the kitchen through the living room, my heels clicking against the hardwood. Pausing in front of my door, I set my clutch down on a side table in the entryway, take a deep breath, and press my palm to my stomach. I’ve never experienced this nervous-excitement going anywhere with a guy before. Dating was always a stressful situation, because I knew I was taking time out of my day I didn’t have, to do something I didn’t really want to do. I’m so excited to go on a date with Dax that I don’t know whether to do a little dance before I open the front door or vomit into the black-and-white ceramic umbrella stand next to it.
When in the hell did I get an umbrella stand? Did he seriously get me an umbrella stand when I wasn’t looking?
Grabbing onto my door handle and flinging my front door open to ask him just that, I’m stunned stupid when I see Dax standing on my front porch.
I spent a month working with Detective Douchebag, and even though he was annoying, he sure was pretty to look at in his tailor-made designer suits every day. I’ve seen Dax cleaned up before plenty of times. But I have never seen LumberDax, with his soft, neatly trimmed facial hair, fitted white button-down with the top two buttons undone, showing off the tattoos around his chest and neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows for more of that tattoo forearm porn I guess I like now, with a fitted black, pinstripe vest, black skinny jeans, and black motorcycle boots.
Ovaries: We’ve got nothin’. We are deceased.
“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” Dax whispers, saying exactly what I’ve been thinking while I ogled him.
His eyes slowly trail over me from my head to my feet. The way he’s looking at me so appreciatively making me happy I stuck with the dress I did, while I try not to fidget at his perusal.
I have to hold onto the doorframe to stop my knees from giving out when he steps into the doorway with me, bringing us chest-to-chest. In my heels, he’s only a couple inches taller than me, which means our mouths are conveniently closer together now.
“Why did you get me an umbrella stand?” I ask, needing to say something before I pass out from how good he smells.
“The better question is, what kind of a person doesn’t already own an umbrella stand?” He scoffs. “I also got you one other thing.” Dax pulls something out from behind him and steps back a little to hold it out in front of me. “I got you a fern.”
“I see that.” I nod, looking at the small green plant in a small blue pot in the palm of Dax’s hand.
“I counted eight dead houseplants in there yesterday.” He nods behind me to the interior of my house.
“So you thought I needed to murder a ninth one? You’re an enabler; that’s what you are.”
“Give it a name,” he orders, holding it out closer to me.
“What? Why?”
“Studies show that if you name a houseplant, it won’t die, because it becomes a pet and not just an object, and you’ll remember to take care of it. I’m supposed to get you flowers, but you don’t look like a woman who would give a shit about getting a bouquet of flowers, so I got you a fern. Take the fern, and name the fern.”
Realizing he’s trying to be sweet, I’m supposed to be allowing that to happen, and I really do hate getting bouquets of flowers from guys, because it’s so dumb and cliché, I snatch the fern out of his hand.
And immediately drop the fern to the ground between our feet.
“Okay, in my defense, I didn’t name her yet, so really, this is your fault. You shouldn’t have passed her off until a name had been decided on, going by your rules,” I complain, listening to Dax chuckle as I bend down. “Come here, Marilyn Mongrow. Welcome to the Thunderdome. This is where plants come to die.”
Scooping the soil back into Marilyn’s pot, I stand back up and stick her on the side table right inside my front door, grabbing my clutch as well as the little something I got for Dax. Turning to face him again, I hold out the small, sealed, see-through plastic bag.
Dax takes it from me, looking down at what’s in the bag.
“It’s an Emotional Support Limb,” I tell him, pointing to the bright orange label that has been stapled to the bag that clearly states in big, bold letters Emotional Support Limb.
“I can see that,” he says, the corner of his mouth tipping up in amusement as he rips open the sealed bag and pulls out the small, plastic baby doll arm that’s inside.
“I’m not very good at the whole giving thing. Or receiving. Or relationships as a whole, to be honest,” I remind him.
“I know. I got the memo.” He smirks, turning the plastic doll arm around in his hand to study it.
“You’ve only heard the tip of the iceberg. I don’t think you actually—”
“I’m not kidding,” Dax interrupts me, pointing the tiny, plastic baby arm at me. “Your dad literally sent me a memo about why you are awful at dating. There were bullet points.”
I groan, closing my eyes and dropping my head forward.
Dax immediately slides one of his arms around my waist, and I open my eyes just in time to see the baby arm come up under my chin and force my face up, which of course makes me laugh through my misery.