and the way I basically asked him to kiss me while he was half-naked in the bed we were sharing. And I should tell him it’s okay that he turned me down, that it’s more than okay—that it’s for the best!
But when I open the door, I see Nick, fully dressed, standing in front of the hotel room desk, arranging food.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You take a long shower.” He turns around. “So I went downstairs and took advantage of that continental breakfast. Their pastries aren’t exactly up to Chloe Sanderson standards, but I think I got a pretty good spread.”
He points at each item as he describes it. “I got a blueberry muffin and a chocolate chip. Skipped the lemon poppy seed because I know poppy seeds are your sworn enemies.”
“They get stuck in your teeth and they’re pointless,” I say softly.
“Several varieties of yogurt for the protein, and every kind of sugar-filled cereal they had. I left the bran flakes down there because I know you think bran is boring. Oh, and I got you a coffee.”
I take a step toward the desk, then notice that the bed is made. “You made the bed?”
Nick shoots me a confused look. “Were you planning on going back to sleep?”
“No, it’s just . . . we’re in a hotel, Nick. One of the very few opportunities you have to pawn the bed-making off on someone else. And besides, the cleaning staff will unmake it so they can wash the sheets.”
Nick shrugs. “I’m used to making the bed every morning.”
You’re just such an adult. I don’t even realize I said that out loud until Nick says, “You’re constantly reminding me that I’m an elderly man, remember?”
Ugh. Why is it such a turn-on that Nick has his shit together? That he can make a bed and obtain food? Maybe it’s pathetic that I’m so touched by various packaged food items pilfered from a continental breakfast, but other than the meals Don sometimes cooks for us at Annie’s, I can’t even remember the last time someone took care of a meal for me. The kind of people I go on dates with don’t tend to focus on meal preparation, and even when Dad was living at home and able to use the stove, he didn’t make meals for us. Milo and I fended for ourselves, which led to me learning to make basics like spaghetti for us every night in high school.
Also, I would bet my meager life savings that Mikey Danger doesn’t even know how to make a bed.
“Okay. Um. Thank you, then,” I say, grabbing a coffee and a blueberry muffin. “This was really nice of you.”
Nick meets my gaze. “I went downstairs. Not a big deal.”
I take a sip of the coffee and grimace. “Wow. This certainly isn’t Nick Velez coffee.”
Nick smiles, the half smirk that means we’re both in on a joke, one of my favorites. “They can’t all be winners.”
“I’ll take what I can get right now,” I say. I reach for my phone and realize that, in all the drama of last night, I left it in my bag. I cross the room, shoving the muffin in my mouth, and dig it out. When I touch the screen, I have multiple missed calls from Tracey.
“Oh, no,” I say, spraying muffin crumbs onto the screen.
Chapter Fifteen
I know Nick is taking it easy on me because he lets me listen to yacht rock the whole way home. It might have something to do with how I started crying right after I called Tracey back. She reassured me that nothing was seriously wrong, but Dad got into a shouting match with Ralph across the hall because he swore, again, that Ralph was sneaking into his room and attempting to reprogram his TV. This happens a lot and, like Tracey said, it’s not urgent, but I want her to call me every time Dad has an episode. If I don’t go check on him and calm him down, then who will?
“I don’t know why, but he keeps pressing the input button on his TV remote, and then the TV doesn’t work because he can’t figure out how to switch it back, and then he blames poor Ralph across the hall for the problem,” I explain to Nick.
“What does Ralph do about it?” Nick asks, keeping his eyes on the road.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Ralph seems to spend most of his days watching his own TV. I don’t think he’s ever been