17

Cash

Taking Britta to urgent care was a mistake. A guy can only take so much rejection before he wants to stop trying. Not that I’ve really put myself out there yet, though I promised A.J. I would. But honestly, how can I?

She nearly laughed out loud when the nurse insinuated that I was her boyfriend. As if I’m some big joke to her. Man. I hate this feeling. I haven’t been so bothered by a person’s opinion of me since…well, probably since Meredith.

“You can go through the drive-thru if you want.” Britta’s voice sounds loud in the too-silent car.

“Hm?”

“The drive-thru,” she says again. “At the pharmacy.”

I grip the steering wheel and make the turn into the pharmacy’s parking lot. “Right.” We’re in and out of the drive-thru in minutes, then on the way to her apartment. “You’ll have to tell me where to turn.” It’s a struggle to force those few words past my lips.

“I will.”

Silence descends again, and I do my best to ignore every sound she makes, every little sigh. Her question from earlier echoes in my mind on repeat. Since when did you start caring about me? She said it like I’m the one who has some obvious vendetta against her . Isn’t it the other way around?

Still, I can’t stop myself from trying to figure out the reason why I do care so much.

I’m not even sure exactly when I started caring…when I started craving her attention, her smiles, her loud, obnoxious laugh. But somewhere between being her enemy and trying to be her friend, I’ve come to wish she saw me as someone she could want.

“Turn here.” Britta’s voice startles me from my thoughts. I do as she says while she directs me where to go. She lives in a quaint little gated community with a few rows of what look like new apartments. “That’s my building there.”

Once we park, I get out and come around to open her door for her. She pulls herself up on the crutches without assistance and offers me a closed-lip smile. “Thanks for your help.”

Does she seriously think I’m letting her go alone? “I’m walking you inside.”

Her full lips press together in a disapproving frown. “That’s really not necessary, Cash. I can get up the steps on my own.”

I didn’t even know she had steps to climb to her apartment, but now that I do, she’s definitely not going alone. “I insist. I’ll carry your prescription and your bag for you.”

She huffs in irritation but moves out of the way for me to grab her stuff. Allowing her to lead, I hang back and watch as she awkwardly trudges forward on the crutches. “These things are almost as fun as filling out paperwork.”

I chuckle at her joke. Once we reach the steps, she stops and stares up at them as if the very idea of her trying to maneuver them is daunting.

“You sure you want to try the steps on your own?”

She glances at me with wide eyes. “I have to try, don’t I? You won’t always be here to carry me.”

My heart instantly pricks with a need I can’t explain: The need to say that could change if she’d let me. The need to tell her that she’s strong and beautifully stubborn, and if anyone could fly up the steps on crutches, it would be her. But I don’t say anything. Instead, I nod and back away, letting her do this on her own.

She plops down on the bottom step and hands me her crutches. “Could you just hold these for me?”

I take them without a word.

Pushing off with her left foot, she lifts herself back and up onto the next step. Then she does it again and again until she’s nearly at the top. I follow slowly, giving her space to figure this out. Finally, she reaches the top.

“All right,” she huffs, out of breath. “Now I just have to figure out how to stand up.”

I move past her to the top of the steps and hold out the crutches. She hoists herself up by the railing, then reaches out toward me.

“Thanks.” Her confident smile feels worth every bit of rudeness she’s tossed at me today. “That wasn’t so bad.”

She loses her balance and sways. I catch her before she falls into the wall beside us.

“Whoa there,” I say, wrapping an arm around her. Resisting the urge to look into her face, I set her back on her crutches.

“Guess I still need a little more practice.” Her color deepens to a dark shade of pink.

I give her a side-long glance as we reach her door, and she fumbles for the keys. “I’m not sure you should be taking the steps again for a while. The doctor stressed that you really should stay laid up for a week or two. Are you able to work from home?”

She blows a strand of hair out of her face and pushes her front door open. “Nope. And I can’t afford to take the time off, either. Elyse’s party is in a week.”

A yowl splits the air, startling me.

“Oh, hush, Sage,” Britta says in a baby voice. “I haven’t been gone that long.”

Britta hobbles inside, but when I don’t immediately follow, she angles toward me. “You can come in, she doesn’t bite.”

“I didn’t realize you had a cat.”

Britta sighs. “Well, I do. She’s adopted and spoiled and hates when I’ve been gone all day.”

I follow her inside, dutifully carrying her things until she directs me to set them on the kitchen table.

Her apartment is crisp and clean, showcasing her design skills in a different type of way than what I’ve seen so far. Just like the bright, bold colors she wears, her living space seems to mirror her personal style. The walls are white and full of colorful paintings and funky décor. Somehow, Britta manages to have a disco ball, head-shaped planter, and neon sign look exactly like they all belong together.

Everything feels so her .

“Thanks for bringing my stuff in,” she says, getting my attention off her stuff and back onto her.

“Yeah. No problem.” A furry body slides around my ankle, and I jump.

“There you are, pookie.” Bending clumsily on one crutch, Britta picks up the calico tabby and snuggles her right up against her face. “Momma missed you.” After placing a kiss on her head, she holds up one of the cat’s paws. “Sage, this is Cash. Cash, say hello to Sage.”

“Uh, hi,” I say awkwardly with an even more awkward wave.

“Sage doesn’t usually like men, so don’t take it personal.”

“Got it.”

Britta sets the bright-green eyed cat down, who goes right back to weaving in and out of my ankles. I remain still, not wanting to upset it.

“Huh.” Britta eyes her cat, confusion threading her dark brows. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“I told you, she doesn’t usually like men,” she reminds me.

“So you said.” But she must be wrong because this cat is rubbing up against me like I’m made of catnip. Awkward tension hangs in the air between us while Sage purrs her satisfaction.

I should go so Britta can have her space. But with this woman, I’m finding I rarely do what I should.

“Let me make you dinner,” I blurt. Britta’s eyes snap to mine. “You shouldn’t be on your foot,” I say with a little more surety. Seems like a solid argument, all things considered. I mean, she did just sway into me while trying to gain her balance. “And it’s time for your pain meds.” Without waiting for her permission, I grab the bag with her prescription.

“Cash.”

Ignoring her, I reach for the meds and tip my head toward her couch. One of the biggest, most plush couches I’ve ever seen. “Go rest and I’ll bring it to you.”

She looks as if she might argue, but to my surprise, she doesn’t. She hobbles toward the couch like I hoped she would. Maybe she’s feeling a touch guilty for trying to refuse my help all day; who knows. Either way, I’ll take it.

“Where are your cups? I’ll grab you a glass of water.”

A sigh drains out of her along with her stubbornness. “Top cabinet by the fridge.” As soon as I grab some water and her pills, I deliver them both.

She sits with Sage curled in her lap, leg stretched out onto the cushion beside her, but it’s not as elevated as it should be. “Here you go.”

She knocks back the pills with a sip of water. “Thanks.”

“You really need to elevate this.” I point to her right ankle. “May I?”

She stares at me, looking for what, I don’t know, but it’s like her eyes are glued to every move I make. Giving me one curt nod to let me know I’m allowed to touch her, she rests back against the cushions.

I grab the pillow from the far end of the couch, raise her leg, and tuck it underneath. “Would you like a blanket?”

She shakes her head.

“Okay, what’ll it be for dinner? Tacos? Italian?”

Tugging her bottom lip into her mouth, she glances toward her kitchen. “I have some thawed chicken breast in the fridge. There might be some pasta in the cupboard.”

Italian it is then.

“All right, sit tight.” I lightly tap her leg as I rise to make us some dinner. Fumbling around for ingredients in her tiny kitchen isn’t so bad when she’s within earshot, bossing me around from the couch.

“Use the pan with the silver handle, please. It’s the easiest to clean.”

“You got it.”

“And only use the black-coated tongs with that pan. I don’t want scratches.” I smile at her command and do as she instructs.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once the gluten-free pasta I found in her cupboard is boiled and the chicken is browned, I start to work on a pan sauce that Aunt Betty taught me to make in high school. Thankfully, Britta had the two main ingredients in her refrigerator: cherry tomatoes and chicken stock.

“Who taught you how to cook?” Her question holds a hefty dose of skepticism. Or maybe jealousy. I turn the heat down low and continue stirring.

“My aunt. The one who raised Jules and me after my dad passed.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “I’m sorry about your dad.”

The old ache that springs up every time someone says something similar pulses through my chest. “Yeah, me too. He was…the best.” More silence fills the apartment, along with infrequent pops from the sizzling pan in front of me.

When I hear her shift on the coach, I make my way to her side. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I just need to, um, use the restroom.”

I help her to her feet and hand her the crutches. “Do you mind if I stay for dinner?”

She blinks at my abrupt question.

I continue before I lose my nerve. “I thought maybe we could make a game plan for Elyse’s party. Since you can’t be on your feet, I thought…” I shrug. “I don’t know, I thought maybe I could help you with some stuff.”

Again, she blinks at me as if she didn’t hear me right. Finally, slowly , she nods.

Feeling like I landed an impossible move at the skatepark, I back away and give her some space before she changes her mind. “All right. I’ll get the table set, then.” As soon as she hobbles down the hall on her crutches, I quickly plate up the food and set the table.

By the time she returns, I’ve mentally sorted through a plan I’m convinced she can’t refuse.

“Wow,” she breathes, stopping once she reaches the table. Her fingers curl over the top of the high-backed chair in front of her as she eyes the food. “This looks amazing.”

“Thanks. It’s not much, but hopefully it tastes okay.”

“Well, it smells great at least.” She holds the crutches to slowly lower herself into the chair.

As I join her, I’m struck with how intimate this little dinner is. It’s just Britta and me. No one else around. No reason for her to keep pretending to hate me. Nothing between us except good food and the possibility of forming an unforgettable memory.

“I always pray before meals,” she says quietly. “Hope that’s okay.”

I smile. “I’ve noticed, and yeah. It’s okay.”

She bows her head and prays over the food, thanking God for the hands that prepared it. A totally inappropriate thought enters my mind, one that features those hands wrapped around her waist as I tug her onto my lap. Britta’s amen has me blinking the thoughts away and asking God for forgiveness.

She twirls her fork in the pasta, running it through the sauce before bringing it to her full lips. It’s impossible to tear my eyes away as I watch her savor the food I made for her. She closes her eyes in a split second of rapture, just long enough for me make the fastest mental sketch ever and tuck the imaginary sheet of paper away for eternity.

“Good?” I ask. My voice comes out as a deep rasp that doesn’t sound at all like me.

“Very.” Putting a hand to her mouth, she finishes the bite and smiles. “I’m thoroughly impressed, Cash McBryar. The internet didn’t mention anything about you being a whiz in the kitchen.”

My hand freezes, my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. “You’ve looked me up on the internet?”

She winces and drops her gaze to her plate.

“Come on, Britt, you can tell me,” I coax, leaning forward to capture her big hazel eyes. “I’m dying to know what you found out.”

She slowly lifts her eyes, glaring at me from under the thickest, darkest lashes I’ve ever seen. “It overshot the truth.”

I laugh so loud it startles Sage. She runs from the room like there’s a dog on her tail. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t doubt for a second the internet has spread some tall tales about me.”

A.J. comes to mind and all the crap he had to deal with when his and Liss’s relationship went viral. I’ve never been as popular on social media as him since my professional career was short-lived. But there are still bound to be some rumors on there.

With startling clarity, it occurs to me that maybe this is why she has something against me. Did she read something that ruined my image for her? I watch her for any hint of what that thing might be.

“You know you can ask me, right?” I hold her gaze and wait. “If there’s something you read that might’ve tarnished my reputation, you can ask me about it.”

“I didn’t read anything disparaging,” she says to my relief. Her eyes brighten with delight. “Of course, had I known that you were this good a cook, I might’ve asked for payment in the form of meals in exchange for my design services.”

My smile widens. “And I would’ve obliged. Way cheaper than what I’m paying you.”

Her lips purse like she’s trying to hold back a smile. “I might be overcharging you.” She pinches her fingers together. “Just a tad.”

“Shocker.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Let’s just say we’re even for that grueling workout you foisted on me.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. We’re even.”

Her laughter dies down, and she picks at her pasta with her fork. “Seriously, though, I’ll refund any funds I don’t use for the project.”

I wave her off. “It’s fine. I know work has been slow for you recently.”

Her face pinches, and I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. “Liss told you, didn’t she?”

Blowing out a breath, I tap my fingers along the tabletop. “Yeah.” I shouldn’t have said anything. I just didn’t want her to feel like she owed me something.

“Well, I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.” She takes a sip of her water, sets it down, then runs one finger down the side of the glass. “I’m sure business will pick back up in the spring.”

“And if it doesn’t?” I shouldn’t push or pry; I know this. But my concern for her goes too deep to let the topic drop completely. Not until I know she’ll be taken care of.

“And if it doesn’t…” She lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, averting her gaze. “I may take an opportunity that has recently presented itself.”

“Which is?”

She continues running her finger along the condensation on her glass. “A performing arts academy in Oregon contacted me about teaching dance.”

My stomach bottoms out as the words leave her lips, but I do my best to maintain my calm composure. “Wow, that sounds right up your alley.”

And it does. Wasn’t I just thinking along the same lines the other day? I take a quick sip of my own drink to quench my suddenly dry throat.

“Yeah, I guess.” She’s back to pushing the pasta around on her plate.

“You’re not excited about possibly getting to teach?”

Her eyes hold a bit of vulnerability that I’m not used to seeing from her. “I think I could be,” she says weakly, almost hesitantly. “But I’ve made a life for myself here. Even with the job being closer to my family, I don’t know that I’d want to leave California.”

I turn her response over in my mind, then ask, “So it’s not the teaching part you’d be opposed to but the moving away part?”

Her head dips in a little nod. “I love Cali. My friends all live here…” A small laugh leaves her lips. “I don’t know, though. Maybe Oregon has a better crop of men to choose from. The dating scene is abysmal.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Todd’s not doing it for you, then, huh?”

The look she sends me tells me everything I need to know. Of course he’s not what she needs. Britta needs someone who’s strong enough to withstand her downright bratty attitude. Someone who takes care of her even when she’s stubborn, someone who won’t back down when she pushes their buttons. But she also needs someone gentle enough to listen when she needs to vent and hold her through life’s hurts.

“I think you and I both know a relationship with Todd was never going to work out,” she says in a small voice.

I let a beat of silence pass between us, waiting for what, I don’t know. Maybe to gain the courage to ask her out and fulfill my obligation to A.J. Or maybe I just want her to admit that she doesn’t dislike me as much as she first did, that I’m growing on her.

But I don’t gain the courage, and she doesn’t say anything. So instead of continuing to hold out hope, I simply say, “I think when we’re praying for love to work out, God lets the people who are wrong for us fade out so the right person has room to step in.”

Her lips curl upward in a faint smile. “Look at you. Getting all philosophical on me.”

I scoff. “Definitely not. Just trying to make sense of my own lonely life over here.”

“Do you feel like that’s what God did for you?” Her eyes spark as she rests her chin on her hand. “Did he remove the wrong person so the right one could show up in all her skinny, California beach babe glory?”

A laugh sputters out of me. “Wow, that was oddly descriptive.”

Her shoulders move up and down in a helpless gesture. “Seems like the kind of girl you’d be into.”

My gaze narrows on her, wondering where the heck she gets her information. Probably the internet. “I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not. Not that I would never date a girl like that, but I’d like to think my taste in women is more varied.”

“Hm.” Her lashes lower as she takes another bite of her food.

My disappointment grows when she doesn’t offer up another sassy quip. I’m not sure what I was hoping for, but it definitely wasn’t for her to look so dejected. I want to ask why she cares about the kind of girls I like to date, anyway, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Just like I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth—that my type of woman is curvy and sassy and headstrong. Mouthy with a side of inappropriate laughter. Funny and smart and wildly talented in her own way, forcing me to up my game just to keep up with her.

But I can’t tell her any of that.

Because I won’t pine for someone who doesn’t want me.

Not again.