Islamthedoorto Holland’s car and march up to The Downer. Rose is working the evening shift at Mood Reader, so I have the house to myself.
There’s no sign of Mack’s truck, so I’m guessing he’s still working.
I can’t decide if I’m relieved or bummed by that news.
That’s the problem with developing feelings for your friend.
He’s the person I want to talk to, but I’m trying to keep my distance so I don’t make things confusing.
I kick off my shoes inside the front door and storm into my bedroom. I rip my work clothes off and tug on a pair of denim cutoffs and a t-shirt—Mack’s t-shirt, as it turns out. It’s the softest, most comfortable shirt I own. That’s all.
I stomp into the kitchen, wrenching the freezer door open and snatching the pint of cookie dough ice cream I always keep for such an occasion.
Mack’s truck rumbles up in front of the house, and like a moth to a flame, I wander to the front door. Through the sidelight window, I watch as he steps out. He’s wearing his work attire. Jeans and a forest-green t-shirt today. I feel slightly let down that we’re not matching, which is ridiculous. He’s got on a Mack Electric baseball cap and steel-toed boots. He takes his hat off and runs his hand through his dark hair.
I think I moaned.
Does he know how good he looks when he does that? How that little dip along the inside of his bicep muscle taunts me in my dreams?
As he walks to his front door, I can’t help but notice something else about his appearance. The man looks dead on his feet. Don’t get me wrong, he still looks incredible, but I can tell he’s exhausted.
He catches me watching him through the window, and I hold up my spoon in greeting.
He changes courses and heads my way. I pull the front door open.
“Big.”
“Boo.”
“I’ve had a terrible day.”
He waits for me to continue.
“Horrible. No good. Very bad. Just call me Alexander.”
“What are you talking about?”
I flail my hands around. “You know, like the children’s book? Gosh, theonetime I make a literary reference, and Rose isn’t even here to appreciate it.” I want to stomp my foot, but I don’t. Because I’m a grown woman. Instead, I take a huge spoonful of ice cream and shove it into my mouth. “Sorry,” I say around the bite. “Ow. Cold!” I press my free hand to my head. “Brain freeze.”
Mack crosses his arms, looking amused.
I swallow, and he bobs his head toward his truck.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“What? Where?”
“For a drive.” He turns and walks away.
I stow my ice cream and lock up the house. Mack has the passenger side door open, and I hop up next to him. There’s a large, iced coffee resting in his cup holder. The condensation on the outside of the plastic cup is running in rivulets. Mack nods at it. “It’s yours.”
I should protest. I should tell him he bought it for himself and he should drink it. He looks like he needs the extra energy. He’s being too nice to me, and it’s making my throat all tight. I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, he reaches out, picks up the cup, and shoves the straw to my lips.
“Take a drink,” he orders.
I wrap my mouth around the straw obediently and take a deep sip. Mack’s eyes never leave me as I savor the splash of vanilla flavor that permeates the bitter, refreshing drink.
“Better?” His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat.
