His eyes widen. “They have videos like that on YouTube? Hair braiding tutorials?”
“Yup.”
“Huh.” He looks down at Drew, his hand flattening down his tie. “All right. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”
I watch him exit the kitchen, smiling at the idea of Reese, Mister Serious, hovering over his laptop late at night without Dylan’s knowledge, because knowing him, he will want this to be a surprise. He becomes a hair braiding expert overnight and twists Ryan’s hair into some elaborate pattern, completely flooring his wife.
I can also see him getting extremely frustrated when he can’t figure it out after countless tries and leaving heated comments below the videos, explaining his aggravation.
NumbersGuy: This tutorial is too complex. You need to break this down better and explain your steps as you go through them. No one can follow this. The image quality is also quite terrible. Do better.
Either scenario makes for a funny story.
I retrieve my apron off the wall and slip it over my head, wrapping the long strings around the front of me and tying them together into a loose bow.
A gift from Joey when I first started working here. Right after we first made nice.
I run my fingertips over my embroidered name, remembering how excited I was when I first put this on.
Did I know then that I’d be making a career out of this job? Or how much I’d end up loving it here?
My phone beeps from the back pocket of my jeans, breaking into my little moment of nostalgia. I pull the device out and open up the new text.
Mason: Sorry I had to cancel breakfast.
I go over the message twice. Slowly.
There’s nothing unusual about it. A standard apology, but it reads strange. No sweet introductory greeting. No nickname thrown in, sweetheart or gorgeous or little devil.
I like that one. I like thinking I’m Mason’s greatest temptation. His only sin, he once said.
But this message isn’t his typical style at all. It seems too impersonal for him. Something he might send a stranger, or someone he doesn’t bother to give nicknames to.
What gives?
I quickly type my reply.
Me: That’s okay. How was class?
Mason: Great.
Great . . . that’s it?
Huh.
I stare at the screen, expecting more. More than just one word. I’m certain it’s coming. Maybe a ‘Let’s do breakfast tomorrow instead’, or a ‘Can I have you for lunch?’ to which I will then respond with something overtly sexual, and he will confirm that he does indeed mean lunch in the true meaning of the word, and also the implied innuendo.
‘You eat your strange French toast. I eat you, yeah?’
Warmth spreads low in my belly, until my screen fades to black.
What? Really?
I light up my screen again, confusion pinching my brow.
Well, this is different.
Maybe he’s really busy at the moment? No time to elaborate because . . .
Reasoning settles over me like a thick fog.
Class. He must be starting another class. His typical first one of the day. He can’t text and instruct a class.
Of course. This makes perfect sense. God, Brooke. Use your head.
I convince myself of this completely logical explanation and set my phone on the worktop.
He’ll probably text later, like he usually does. Or stop in at some point.
I smile at the thought.
The front door chimes as I’m setting out my ingredients for the five dozen cupcakes. Movement catches my attention. Joey steps through the doorway wearing dark washed jeans and a bright blue polo. He stares at me, his expression unreadable as he moves across the kitchen.
I open my mouth to utter a greeting, something to ease us back into our regular everyday banter, when he halts me with a hand in the air.
“Let me just start off by saying how much I hate not speaking to you,” he announces, stepping closer and lowering his hand.
My grip tightens on the bag of flour. He does?
“I know this is all my doing. I should’ve apologized to you yesterday but I felt like maybe it would be better if I left you alone. Teasing you like that wasn’t . . . right of me. I regret doing it. I saw how upset I made you and it fucked with my emotions.” He leans a hip against the worktop, his arms tightening across his chest.
Typical Joey. Even in an apology, he makes it all about him. He’s lucky I like him that way.
I cock my head. “Oh, really? It fucked with your emotions?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “I barely ate last night and turned down a quickie in the shower. I hope you realize how little that happens. And by little, I mean never. Billy thought I was coming down with some weird virus that diminished my sex drive. He wanted to take me to the hospital.”
My mouth twitches. I open up the bag of flour. A white cloud of dust bursts onto the back of my hands and sprinkles the wood. “Good Lord. You two are dramatic.”