Imperfectly Delicious (Imperfect Series #6) - Mary Frame Page 0,48
fair, he did say he would find something for me, but what if he can’t? I mean, can this really end well?
He’s the worst person for me to…have feelings for. Then again, every other man I’ve dated in my short laugh has seemed like the perfect match and look how well those relationships ended up. Maybe not-perfect is exactly what I need.
Despite all of the potential landmines between us, I can’t stop thinking about him and wondering what he’s doing.
I respond to some messages on social media and then stare off into space at the concrete wall of the laundry room. Compared to Guy’s apartment, this place is a real dump. These machines are from before I was born and most of them only dry halfway even if you run them through two cycles, and the quarter slots don’t always work properly.
Not that I can complain, having a roof over my head and being able to afford it in the city in a not-terrible neighborhood is an accomplishment in and of itself.
My phone dings with a text. I pick up my phone.
Fred: According to the doc I am now fit for public consumption. I can come in tomorrow.
Me: Are you ever fit for public consumption? That’s questionable.
Phone dings again, and I think it’s Fred responding but when I pick up the phone, it’s an unfamiliar number.
Hey. It’s Guy. Carson told me to tell you that he didn’t give me your number.
I laugh, suddenly breathless. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, heart pulsing a giddy tune in my chest.
Me: He’s not doing that sort of thing a lot lately.
Guy: It would be annoying if it weren’t so opportune.
What are you doing today?
Me: Oh, you know, living the dream.
I take a picture of my crossed legs propped up on the old washing machine and attach it to the message. Visible in the photo are my old ripped up jeans and converse, both of which are not a major contrast to the decrepit walls behind the beat-up washing machine that I think was manufactured in 1983.
Me: What about you? I type in and press send.
He sends a picture back. He’s got a goopy green face mask on. Behind him, Emma and Ava have matching green faces and they’re all making faces at the camera.
I burst out laughing.
Me: Wow.
Guy: Yeah, I get pampered a lot since I live with two women.
I grin at my phone, and another message comes through.
Guy: You working at your truck tomorrow?
Me: Yes.
Guy: Maybe I’ll see you.
I bite my lip. Not if I see you first!
No, that’s lame. I hit the backspace until the words are gone. I hope you do.
Ugh. I delete that one, too. I end up sending a smiley emoji. I’m so lame.
The next morning I’m a jumble of excitement and anticipation when I pick the truck up from the commissary and drive it over to the spot.
Guy’s car isn’t outside when I arrive, but it’s early. I park the truck, turn on the generator and get to work. It’s silly for me to be all, I don’t know, expecting something romantic. Like him, waiting with a flower in his teeth. Naked. I shake my head. I’ve lost it.
I shove all naked Guy thoughts out of my head and make a valiant attempt to keep busy prepping cakes, doing inventory, and making coffee until the back-door swings opens a couple hours later.
It’s Fred. “Hey, I need help with the very vegan vanilla frost—” I cut off when she removes her sunglasses, pushing them to the top of her head.
“Fred?” She’s stopped the doorway, wearing another fandom shirt I don’t understand, this one has two guys in a car, and it reads, Driver picks the music shotgun shuts his cakehole. Her eyes are red and swollen.
“Are you still sick?”
“No. I feel much better.” Her voice is strange and stilted. “Thank you.” And then she bursts into tears.
Chapter Fourteen
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
--William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Scarlett
I stare at her in shock. Fred doesn’t cry. She’s all snark and strength. I’m the one who cries, and she consoles me.
It takes a few long seconds for me to realize this is actually happening and rush over to her, pulling her into my arms. She’s holding a small white paper bag and I take it from her and put it on the counter.
“Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt? Who died?” I keep hugging her and she, surprisingly, let’s me.