Ice, Ice Baby

Holden

The morning after at Molly's percolates with more than just coffee. Gossip brews alongside the java as Holden and Britt navigate their fresh, yet fragile, connection under the watchful eyes of town regulars. As whispers float over breakfast tables, these two find themselves steeped in the promise of something deep yet dauntingly fleeting. So, sip your hand-crafted beverage slowly, and savor the blend of sweet beginnings and bitter truths swirling through my small-town air. Love here is both a warmth in the chest and a catch in the throat, served up with a side of ‘everybody knows your business'.

Playlist: "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" by Stevie Wonder

When I wake up, Britt's not in my bed. I knew this was too good to be true. If it wasn't for the satisfied ache in my muscles, I'd wonder if last night was just a really, really good dream.

A clatter from the kitchen makes me sit upright. I grab a clean pair of boxer briefs from the drawer and yank them on. As I stumble toward the bedroom door, I almost break my neck tripping over a discarded heap of feminine clothes.

Definitely not a dream. And if her clothes are still here, then maybe Britt is, too.

Sure enough, she's rummaging around the kitchen wearing only panties and one of my Slammers t-shirts. I watch her for a while, leaning in the doorframe, amused by her attempts to reach the tallest shelves.

"Morning," I say at last.

"You don't have coffee," Britt complains.

Just watching her has me semi-hard. "Oh, is that why you're burrowing through my cupboards like a sexy raccoon?"

She pauses, then turns to me. "I need caffeine before I can unpack everything that's wrong with what you just said."

Her rumpled hair and pinched frown are too cute for words, but I doubt that's what she wants to hear right now.

"You're not going to find any here. I usually grab a cup at Molly's."

"Right. But I'm here. Now. And I like coffee." Britt squints at me. "You don't bring women home much, do you?"

My lips twist. I don't even want to think about other women for one single second. After last night, there is no ‘before Britt' in my mind. "No. I usually go to them."

"Wrong answer. The correct response is, ‘There are no other women.'" She scoffs. "No art, no decor, not even coffee. How do bachelors survive? Whatever. It's fine."

I amble over to kiss her forehead. "We can get you coffee. Get dressed and I'll take you out for breakfast."

Britt immediately perks up. "There's a diner. That's right. And the coffee… is okay. By the way, do you rent here?"

"No. I own it. Why?"

Britt looks around with the same critical eye as a real estate agent. "Just curious." She reaches into the collar of my shirt which will from now on be forever known as her shirt and, somehow, produces her phone. Her thumbs tap busily away at the screen for a moment. "There."

Before I can ask what she was doing, she slips back into the bedroom. When she re-emerges, she's fully dressed.

"Pants," she commands, pointing at my bare legs. "Now. Since someone kept me up all night, I need that sweet, sweet mediocre bean juice ASAP."

* * *

Lynsie is working at Molly's this morning. Doc and Nurse Aggie are sitting at another table. Arnie and Mickey, the sportscasters who cover our games, are arguing about something in the corner booth. I catch the names of a few teams; they're either figuring out their fantasy leagues for the season or debating who's in line to win the Cup.

Lynsie is perfectly cordial to Britt, but she catches my eye as she walks away with our order. If Beth hasn't already let the cat out of the bag, Lynsie will take up the mantle. I don't mind, but I wonder if Britt has any idea what she just signed up for.

Britt sighs with relief when she takes a sip of her coffee. "It's better than I remember."

"Or maybe you're just in a good mood," I counter.

Her eyes sparkle over the white porcelain rim of her mug. "Mmm. And why would I be in a good mood, do you think?"

"Maybe I can remind you later. Speaking of which… what are your plans for the day? Or however long you're here."

"I have until next Monday," she says. "And I want to go see Tierney after I get my car. After that, I'll see about getting a room in the motel."

"Sure." I nod, but I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed that she won't be staying with me.

Britt laughs as she threads her fingers through mine. "Holden, you're more amazing than an alien tentacle, but I need a place to leave my things. Don't worry, I'll make time for you to help me clear my head again."

We chat a little over breakfast, although Britt does most of the talking. She already knows about Sorrowville, but there's a lot of her history that's a mystery to me, and I like learning more. I still don't know what had her so upset last night outside of that fact that it's family related, but by the time I pay the check, I've heard a lot of stories about her childhood exploits with Tierney and have a better sense of what her life is like in the Twin Cities. It sounds a lot more interesting than here. Personally, I don't mind the country life. Cities aren't for me, but it's obvious that Britt expects a lot more options and action than a town like Sorrowville has to offer. It's another reminder that this thing between us is only temporary.

No matter how much I wish that could be different.

This woman fascinates me and trips my trigger in a way I never knew was possible. And one I know will never happen again. After Britt Jensen, if I want to get married and have a family, I'll be settling.

Once we're done with breakfast, I drop her off at Power Play to get her car. To my delight, she gives me a kiss before she slips behind the wheel. Even better, she takes my phone and types in her number.

As she drives away, she holds up her thumb and pinky and mouths, Call me. I can work with that.

The front door opens, and Joely pokes her head out. She's five-foot-nothing, with a mass of long dark hair. She's worked at Power Play for what feels like forever, and despite the fact that she's flat-out stunning, I think of her as a sister. A sweet but occasionally annoying sister. The minute she figures out why I'm here, she'll lay into me just as vigorously as Beth did last night.

"Are you coming in for chili?" she asks. "You're a little early, but I can let you in."

"No, thanks." I pat my stomach. No point in delaying the inevitable. Word will get around to her sooner or later, so it might as well come from me. "I just had breakfast with Britt."

Joely's eyes just about bug out of her head. "She stayed over? A new girl. A new girl you actually like. Lord. When was the last time you cleaned it?"

"I clean," I insist.

Joely lifts one judgmental eyebrow.

"It's clean enough."

"For you, or for her? A woman. A rich, successful woman."

I curse under my breath. "I didn't even think about that."

Joely shakes her head at my ineptitude. "Well, I promise she did. At least tell me you de-crumbed the bed."

I rub the back of my neck. "I mean… she didn't say anything."

Joely seems delighted by my mounting discomfort. "She was probably shocked you had sheets, a curtain rod and a bed frame as opposed to bare mattresses laying on the floor."

"Hey, if a woman is noticing all these details, I haven't done my job right." I'd like to think she wasn't too put off by my bachelor pad. Although, she did have a lot to say about my lack of a coffee maker…

Joely crosses her arms. "It's a job now?"

I waggle my eyebrows at her. "I'm in the business of pleasure."

Joely strolls over to flick me with one finger. "You're in the business of delivering packages."

I wiggle my eyebrows even harder. "I delivered my package last night."

She fakes a gag. "And that's how you earned the nickname ‘Express.'"

I stumble back and press my hand over my heart as if she's delivered a mortal blow. "I didn't come here to get abused."

The door opens again, and Beth's head pops out. "He didn't come for my chili, either. So, why are you here, Holden?"

Arguing with these two is like arguing with family: the ribbing is affectionate, and there's no hope of ever winning. I lift my hands in defeat. "I was about to leave. Joely's the one who accosted me!"

"He was dropping off his girlfriend," Joely announces.

I elbow her. "Snitch."

Joely just shrugs.

Beth steps all the way out, so that the three of us are clustered around the entrance. She sizes me up. "Still think she's the one?"

"Now more than ever," I admit. Although how I'm going to convince her of that is a mystery I have yet to solve. "But despite the knowing part, the logistics are almost impossible."

Beth sniffs. "Well, time will tell, I suppose."

I turn the question back on her. "How did you know Coach Foster was the one?"

The bitterness in Beth's eyes could etch glass. "He knocked me up the first time we had sex. We got married. I had three kids. I found out he had five. And the fucker had the good sense to die before I could divorce him. Hello, life insurance."

I shake my head. "That's not a love story."

"No, but it's the only story I've got. And I love my boys. And all of you. So… that's enough." Beth averts her gaze, staring out across the street, although she doesn't seem to be looking at anything at all. No wonder she's not sold on the idea that I've found ‘the one,' if that's what her marriage was like.

"I'm sorry, Beth," I tell her. "You deserve better."

She rolls her shoulders like she's shaking off a bad memory. "This is a restaurant, not therapy."

"Can't it be both?" I ask. Joely, too, looks sympathetic. I wonder how much of this story she's heard before.

But Beth reaches for the door handle. "Not today. Come back when you're ready for chili and you're not worried about bad breath and gas."

We watch her disappear into the bar. Joely catches my eye for a moment before following her boss out of sight. My happiness from the last twelve hours has curdled slightly in the wake of Beth's story. I'd never heard the details, and now I wish I hadn't brought it up. It only takes me about two minutes to drive home, and thoughts of Beth and Britt mingle together as I go.

I drive up to the house only to find that there's a car parked in the driveway and an unfamiliar, pimply teenager on my porch, his arms laden with gray plastic bags.

"Hey, man," I call from the driveway, "I think you've got the wrong house."

The kid drops his stuff on the porch and pulls out a sheet of paper. He reads whatever's written there, then leans back to check my house number. "Nope, I'm in the right place."

I climb the steps. "But I didn't order anything."

"Well, someone did, and it's your problem now." He leaves the bags where he dropped them and trots back toward his car. As he passes me, he presses the paper into my hands. Sure enough, that's my address on the top.

My gaze sweeps his lanky body. He's like all awkward limbs. "You know, with the post office, we never talk to customers like this."

"Well, with Walmart delivery, you get what you pay for." The kid turns to me and has the audacity to aim finger-guns at me. Dammit, that's my move. Who is this twerp?

The badge on his chest provides an answer, although I have to read it twice to make sure I'm not losing my marbles. "Blink. Your name is Blink?"

"That's what they call me." He executes a little jump off my steps. He probably thinks he's cool or something. I glare at him.

"Just so you know. I'm the delivery man in this town."

Blink cackles. "You're a fed. I'm commercial. I'm a man of the people."

"You only wish you had my benefit package," I grumble.

He puffs out his cheeks and stuffs his hands into the pocket of his eye-searingly baby blue hoodie. "I do. Now, stop slowing me down, I gotta go. They've got a damn tracker on me."

I brace my hands on my hips. "The government doesn't do that!" I call after him.

"Whatever, bro." Blink dips back into his car and peels out.

Blink. Ha. What a goofy name. He'll never last in this business.

I retrieve the bags and carry them inside. What the hell is this stuff, anyway? There's a bath mat. A garbage can for the bathroom. Bath towels. Kitchen towels with cute little sayings stitched into the fabric. Dish soap. A shower curtain and liner. Toilet bowl cleaner. Crap, she noticed. A toilet bowl brush. A toothbrush caddy. Two jars with tops. Toothpaste. A fox-shaped hand-soap dispenser. Soap dish. Fancy-scented soap bars wrapped in plastic. Hand towels, which are apparently different from kitchen towels, although I wouldn't know the difference if it wasn't for the label. Toilet paper. Charmin wipes. Shower curtain rings. Light bulbs.

It's obvious who's responsible for all of this, especially when I dig down into one of the bags to find a pound of fancy coffee beans, a coffee maker, and a grinder. This is supposed to be a no-strings-attached hookup, right? So, what's with all this stuff?

I don't even know what to do with half of it. I lay out some, stuff the rest in the closet, and tell myself that just because Britt cares about my house doesn't mean she has any intention of sticking around.