Page 100 of Pucking Rebound
Smiling at Piper, who is all curled up in a ball and sleeping soundly, I move with the stealth of a black panther and slide off her sofa to switch the television off, then cover her with a blanket.
I turn off the lights and leave her to sleep.
Piper is always telling me how she worries about me, but I worry about her just as much. She works long hours in the gallery and spends five nights out of seven at the gym. She hasn’t had a vacation in two years. Today, tomorrow, and New Year’s Day will be the only days she will allow herself to take off. She’s a workaholic and hides herself away in her gallery. I know she only does that because throwing herself into work is a far betteroption than facing reality. Completely alone in this world, a bit like me, she’s a little lost and unsure of where she fits in.
Lost souls together, I’m happy we have each other. She might not be my blood sister, but she sure feels like she is.
I point to Piper’s cats. “Behave. And please don’t kill me in the night.” Banksy wags his tail as if confirming that he won’t, but I don’t trust him and I swear he made Raphael pee in my purse the last time I stayed over. Fucking psychotic ringleader.
My phone on silent, it vibrates in my hand, and I pray it’s not Graham texting from yet another random number, which he’s not done since this morning. Thankfully.
Relieved to see Jordy’s name, I reply instantly to his text asking if he can call me.
Me:
Yes, Piper is fast asleep. Carb overload. Far too much pizza.
I’ve had too much myself and need an early night.
Jordy calls me as soon as he receives my reply. I hit accept and press my phone to my ear. “Mr. Miller.”
Walking into Piper’s guest bedroom, her huge comfortable bed calls my name. I slide under the comforter and pull it up under my chin.
“Ms. Ramsay. I want to see your face. Can we FaceTime?”
“Yes.” I remove my phone from my ear and hit the video button.
It doesn’t even get a chance to ring once, and Jordy accepts the call. His handsome face fills my screen.
“Hey, baby.”
“Hey, Wingman,” I reply.
He’s at home and sitting on his sofa. The television commentary in the background is a dead giveaway about what he’s doing. “Are you watching the football game?”
“It’s finished. I was just watching the commentators talking post-game shit.” He puts his phone down and I stare at a view of the ceiling for a second before his face comes back into view again. “I've propped my phone up with a cushion so I can see you better.” He sits up, his naked torso clear to see as he picks up what looks like his sketchpad and pencil lying on the sofa.
“Why are you already in your pajamas and in bed? It’s still early.”
“I’ve been in my pajamas all day.” I turn over onto my side and prop my phone up with a cushion the same as him.
Tucking my hands under my cheek prayer style, I confess, “I haven’t even had a shower.”
“Dirty girl.”
“Only for you.”
His dark eyes stare down the camera. “You look beautiful tonight.”
He tells me I’m beautiful all the time. Sometimes he’ll catch me off guard with his surprising words, like now. Other times, they make me feel warm and glowy inside, but most of the time, he makes me feel seen. It boosts my self-esteem and causes excitable butterflies to dance in my stomach, turning my insides to goo.
“I haven’t washed my face today.”
“You’re a Christmas rebel.”
“Piper decided we were doing and eating whatever the hell we wanted today. Are you sketching?” I ask as his hands move back and forth across his sketchbook.
“I am.”
