Page 4 of Her Favorite Fumble
He heard the toilet flush and then water running. Thanks to old floorboards and good hearing, he could track her movement around the cottage, until he finally heard the springs creak as she settled onto the couch.
Then he heard a low curse, followed by more movement around the living room. Finally, the band of light shining under the door went dark, and after some shifting around on the couch again, the cottage fell silent.
When, what felt like only a few hours later, daylight broke through the split in the curtains, Nick crept into the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee from the machine he’d set to auto brew. The woman—Lucy, he reminded himself—was still asleep under a pile of what looked like every crocheted and knit throw she could find in the cottage. And Helen liked being cozy, so there were a lot of them to be found.
In a world where Nick had better luck, he’d be able to sneak out and deal with her later in the day. But her car was parked behind his truck in the dooryard and he’d returned the keys she’d thrown at him.
Before Lucy inevitably made her case for another night—or, Lord help him, more—in the cottage, he needed to call Helen. And that was a phone call he didn’t want to make in front of Lucy. He didn’t know Helen’s granddaughter, but he’d heard some pretty unflattering whispers about Helen’s daughter, Iris, over the years. And Iris had been an only child, which meant she was Lucy’s mother.
Nick had no way of knowing how far that apple had fallen from the tree, but it was up to Helen to decide if she wanted Lucy in her home.
He was halfway through his first cup of coffee when the mountain of blankets on the couch began shifting. When a mass of curls popped out, like a bear emerging from hibernation, he had to bite back a laugh.
Lucy looked around, blinking. Then, with a groan, she swung her feet to the floor. Most of the blankets got pushed aside, though she did keep one knit throw wrapped around herself as she stumbled to the bathroom.
When she emerged a few minutes later with the blanket still wrapped around her, he took a mug out of the cabinet and slid it down the short counter so it came to rest next to the coffeepot. She smiled her thanks and grabbed the pot, while he wondered if she was going to want cream and sugar. But after pouring her coffee and replacing the carafe, she picked up her coffee and turned away.
Somehow she managed to get the mug to the table without tripping on the blanket, and then she wrapped it more tightly around herself before sitting down.
“Good morning,” she said after taking her first sip.
“Morning.”
She turned to look at him. “But not a good one?”
“What?”
“I said ‘good morning’ and you said ‘morning,’ so I’m wondering if it’s not a good one.”
He sighed from the depths of his soul. “Good morning, Lucy.”
She smiled before pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Is the furnace one of the things you’re working on?”
He shook his head. “The furnace is shut off because it’s not winter anymore. I slept with my window open a crack, actually.”
“Yay for you,” she muttered.
“You said you drove from the West Coast. Don’t you all live in air conditioning out there?”
“Yes, when it’s hotoutside. That’s totally different than just letting the outside cold in. Also, air-conditioned air isnotdamp like this.”
Nick didn’t think it was damp at all, but he swallowed more coffee instead of arguing with her. He had a feeling he wouldn’t win with her, and he’d need the caffeine to get through the day.
“I really should eat something with this coffee,” she said suddenly. Before Nick could stop her, she was up and walking to the fridge with the blanket still clutched around her. “Gran used to make the most amazing blueberry pancakes.”
He knew she wasn’t going to find much in that refrigerator, and definitely not the ingredients for amazing blueberry pancakes. Helen had cleaned out the fridge before she left, and it was mostly condiments now, with one open quart of milk. He couldn’t remember when he bought it, though, so he considered it highly suspect at this point.
“There’s no actual food in here,” she said.
“There’s a package of bologna. And some tomatoes.”
“That’s weird.”
“Hard to make bologna and tomato sandwiches without them.”
“Gross,” she muttered, though not quietly enough to keep him from hearing, before going back to her seat and picking up her coffee.
He tried not to be offended on behalf of his favorite sandwich. “If Helen had known you were coming, maybe we could have stocked up on your favorite foods.”
