44
Ripley
After we returnedto Boone’s following the Great Bird Rescue, or at least that’s what I was calling it in my head, Boone put my ass on the couch, and then got Esteban settled in his huge family room.
When I told him I needed to get the bird, I hadn’t really considered exactly what I was asking for.I just moved my bird into Boone Thrasher’s house.Where I’m staying temporarily.As in, maybe for another night or two.
Hope called on the way home from the Fishbowl, but given the fact that I didn’t want Boone to overhear any of the conversation we were guaranteed to have, I silenced the call and texted her to let her know I’d get back with her as soon as I could. And then I’ll have to ask her if I can move Esteban to her place when I go back to crashing on the futon.
I really hope she doesn’t have a problem with it. Otherwise, I’m going to be out of luck.
When Boone finishes feeding Esteban, and avoids getting pecked in the process, he pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ve got about five calls to return and a radio station interview I’m two hours late for.” He walks to the table, grabs the remote, and hands it to me. “I gotta handle this shit before I do anything else.”
My stomach twists. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I never would’ve—”
Boone leans down and silences me with a kiss. “I do what I want, and there’s nothing else I would’ve rather done this morning, so don’t apologize. It ain’t the first time I’ve missed something, and it won’t be the last.” He stands again, but tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Although I gotta say, this is the best excuse I’ve ever had. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
He strides from the room, and I’m left alone with Esteban as he crows, “Don’t apologize.”
“There’s nothing else I would’ve rather done this morning.”
Boone Thrasher feels like he’s almost too good to be true.
I lean back on the couch and stare up at the TV screen. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, I could be looking online for another part-time job, or even trying to figure out where I could possibly rent an apartment that will let me have a bird ... but instead, I flip on the TV and cuddle into the comfortable couch, letting myself drift for a few minutes.
Maybe my life is finally turning around.
* * *
In a not-so-shocking turn ofevents, I discover I’m not really good at doing nothing.
When someone opens the door an hour later, I’m sitting cross-legged on a bar stool, organizing Boone’s spice cupboard. I’ve already done the fridge and the pantry.
Call me crazy, but when I got hungry andcarefullymade my way over to the pantry to find something to eat, I was horrified at the disorganization. First, Boone has a ton of food. Probably enough to feed an army, but it was all just shoved onto the shelves in a mishmash.
My OCD tendency reared its ugly head, and while I devoured an entire bag of Lay’s potato chips, I rearranged every shelf. It felt good to be somewhat useful instead of just taking up space on the couch, so I moved on to his fridge. That was a complete disaster.
Now, I’ve got paprika in one hand and peppercorns in the other when I hear the garage door shut and a man’s footsteps coming down the hallway. He stops when he enters the kitchen carrying two giant takeout bags with a familiar yellow circle around a winged buffalo.
“What the fuck?” That’s his first question when he sees my arm cocked, ready to bean him in the head with the paprika.
“Who are you?”
He’s got to be at least six foot four, three hundred pounds. Basically, he’s built like a linebacker, and no amount of spices would stop him if he decided to squash me like a bug.
But I’m scrappy, so I won’t go down without a fight.
His eyebrows go up. “You gonna throw that at me? ’Cause my hands are kinda full right now with your lunch, Ms. Fischer.”
“How do you know my name?” My mind races to recall if I’ve seen this guy before, and I come up empty. “Who are you?”
“Anthony Prentiss, head of Boone’s security team. And for the record, the only spice that really scares me is dill weed. Don’t know what it is, but I don’t want any weed in my food unless it’s the good kind.”
His deadpan answer knocks a chuckle loose from me. “Then you’re lucky dill weed is already in the proper alphabetical order and I’m on the Ps now.”
“You’re a weird chick. Boone didn’t mention that.” He continues past me to the table where this morning we ...
Well, suffice it to say my cheeks burn with embarrassment, but thankfully it’s not like I left an ass print behind on the table.