Читать книгу To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before: The Hottest Western Romance of 2019! - D. Graham R. - Страница 8

Ew. What was that? Something just crawled across my face. I reach over and flip the lamp on. It’s a cockroach. On my pillow. Gah! Disgusting. Get it off. No, no. They’re everywhere. I hop up to stand on the mattress as a wave of giant shells scurry, like an insect army, across the floor to the bathroom and closet where it’s dark.

And I’m done sleeping. Maybe forever.

Yuck. The hotel manager moved me to this room after I mentioned that last night’s room didn’t have hot water. Cold water is better than bugs. Why am I so itchy? I rub my palms over my arms vigorously. Do cockroaches bite? Do they carry disease? I’m going to catch the plague. Maybe I should call my dad and ask him what to do. No. Don’t be a baby. Figure it out. Think. Well, one thing I know for sure, I can’t stay at this disgusting motel. What time is it? Four in the morning. I don’t care. I would rather be a homeless person.

I jump off the bed to zip up my suitcases and don’t even bother to change out of my pajama shorts or brush my teeth, which would horrify my mother. She doesn’t even come downstairs for breakfast until she is fully showered and dressed for the day. I don’t care right now. Well, maybe a little. It only takes a second to throw a sweatshirt over my tank-top before I leave.

My car is parked right in front of the door, so I toss my luggage into the trunk and pop the hood. I don’t know anything about car engines. My dad always serviced it for me. But I’m going to be an engineer. I should be able to figure out why it wouldn’t start yesterday. The engine wouldn’t turn over at all, so that must be the battery, right? It might be a little tricky to get a new battery at four o’clock in the morning, if that’s even what the problem is.

I could sleep in the car. Slightly uncomfortable, but infestation-free. Or, maybe that’s not a good idea. The woman on the sidewalk who looks like a prostitute—not judging—is talking to a guy who could be a drug dealer—not judging. I sort of am judging. My guess is that this is not the safest place in the world for sleeping in a disabled vehicle.

I still have the key to the Palo Alto house. Easton said they’d be out of town for two days. I could maybe stay there and find a place before they get back. The guys were nice enough. Polite. Fun. All attractive, which is unrelated to this train of thought, yet notable. And they’re easy going. They wouldn’t care if I crashed there. But it sort of feels like taking advantage of them.

There really are no other vacancies near the school—at least not any that would be better than the motel. A girl in my last class said there is a room for rent in the house she lives at. I wrote her number on the back of the deli receipt. It’s actually cheaper than the Palo Alto place, but smaller, too. And a forty-minute bus ride to the school. Plus, it’s her and two guys. So, not really that much more suitable. And it’s a little early to call her up.

I pace as I think and become increasingly annoyed with my dad. My accommodation situation wouldn’t even be an issue if he hadn’t blocked the money in my savings account when he found out I was applying to Stanford. His name is on the account, but it’s my money from my last ten birthdays, my job as a department store cashier, and my inheritance from my grandfather. It’s not a lot of money but will cover my living expenses for a few years. So frustrating. And unfair. In fact, my sister never even had to use her savings because Dad paid for her entire nursing education. He also bought her a condo because she went to the school he wanted her to go to. Whatever. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to pay out of his pocket for me to take something he doesn’t approve of, but the money in my savings account is mine. And, unfortunately, the scholarship funds haven’t been deposited into my personal account yet. Sorting out the scholarship and banking issues will probably take several more one-hour line-ups. And possibly a lawyer to deal with my dad. I’m not looking forward to any of it.

I’m itchy.

The stores aren’t open across the street. Hopefully the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot opens at five. A sketchy looking guy sitting at the bus stop is staring at me. Maybe I should go into the office.

The fifty-something clerk is asleep behind the counter, so I sit on a chair next to the tourism pamphlets. They’re so old. It looks like they haven’t been restocked since the nineties. The coffee is burnt to the bottom of the pot, the plastic plants are covered in a layer of dust, and the ceiling has creepy holes in it, like a camera is hidden in it, or a creature. I’m for sure going to have nightmares about this place at some point.

The clerk snores himself awake and blinks groggily at me. “Hey there. I didn’t hear you come in. You need something?”

“Do you have jumper cables?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” I shoot up out of the chair. I was half-joking when I said it and honestly didn’t think he would. “That’s fantastic.”

“Are you checking out?”

“Yes. Please.” I slide the key across the counter. He already made me pre-pay for the night so it’s just a matter of signing a piece of paper and I’m free to go.

“I’ll get my truck and meet you around front.”

Yay.

It feels like I’m breaking and entering into the Palo Alto house. And, apparently, I am. Easton didn’t mention anything about an alarm, but I hear beeping. Uh, oh. How long do they give you? Thirty, sixty seconds? I don’t even know where the panel is. Shoot. I’m going to end up in jail, and none of us have any money to bail me out. Ending up a convict will absolutely support my dad’s argument that moving here was a bad idea.

Okay, stop panicking. Where’s the panel? It sounds like it’s in the hall that leads to the garage. I sprint and quickly open the cover. 1234, nope. 0000, nope. 9999, nope. How many chances do they give you to screw up? At least there’s no rent in jail. Think, Della. What would three cowboys choose as their alarm code? Boots? Horse? Bronc? Spurs? Or, how about 2057. The house address? Nope. How about the address backwards?

Ha. Bingo. It’s disarmed. Woohoo. I’m a genius. Running man. Sprinkler. Booty bounce. Whoa, slip and hit my knee on the tile. Ouch. Okay, dancing is not my strong suit, not even celebratory jigs. I’m going to stop that now.

The light flicks on. “Hey.”

Bah! Sweet Mother of Pearl. I gasp, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from leaping out of it. Easton fills the width of the hallway. When I notice the baseball bat on his shoulder I instinctually step back.

He chuckles and places the bat on the floor, leaning it against the wall. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you were an intruder.”

The sight of him causes adrenaline to gush through my veins. Not the bad kind from the thought of being mistaken for a burglar and attacked by a massive, muscular man with a bat. The good kind from only the thought of the massive, muscular man part. A man who happens to be smiling as if he’s glad I’m the intruder.

“I didn’t realize you’d be moving in so late.” He smiles and glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. “Or early.”

“I, uh, hi. Sorry. I would have called if it weren’t so late slash early. Long story. I should have called, but I thought you were supposed to be out of town.”

“I didn’t go. My dad’s not feeling that well after his last chemotherapy treatment, so I’m driving out there today to visit him.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I rub my knee where it’s already starting to grow a lump and wonder if he witnessed me fall. “Do you think it’s serious? Your dad?”

He shrugs and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Probably. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, so if he’s showing pain it’s not a good sign.” He glances at me and his eyes search my face as if he’s trying to read my expression. “Sorry for cursing.”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” I wave my hands in an attempt to ease his unnecessary repentance. “You don’t have to change who you are for me. I’m not a total prude.” Except that I kind of am. Or, always have been. I guess I don’t have to be.

He glances at the alarm panel. “You cracked the code?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” I can’t help but grin at my own cleverness.

“There you go. Women are smart enough to be engineers.” He turns and walks down the hall towards the kitchen. “Since we’re both up, you want some breakfast? I can make us an omelet.”

Hmm. Yeah, breakfast with Easton would be good. But I was only planning on crashing here and then leaving. Sneak in a shower, maybe a dip in the pool. Make one of those smoothies. And then gone. That was the plan. Easton being here is definitely not part of the plan. My reaction to Easton calling me smart is also unexpected. He has some sort of magic effect on me. Everyone probably feels that way around him. That’s why Stuart photographs him. He’s got that something special. It. He’s got it. Whatever it is. I like it. Which is why I am going to join him for breakfast in this very big, very empty house. Just the two of us. Alone. By ourselves.

Oh, grow up, Della. It’s eggs with a guy, not sex.

“So, you decided to move in,” he says as he clicks the gas element on. “I didn’t realize it would be at four-thirty in the morning.” He laughs. “Sorry I forgot to tell you the alarm code.” His hair is woven into one long braid that trails down his spine. He’s not wearing a shirt again, so every detail of his chiseled back is on display. Cooking half-nude. I guess he’s not particularly concerned about splatter burns. He probably doesn’t feel them. Like a superhero, impermeable to the injuries of mere mortals. He turns to face me with the spatula poised in the air, as if he’s waiting for something. Did I miss the question?

“Um, sorry, what did you say?”

“What made you decide to shack up with three men? I know it’s not because you found Chuck and BJ irresistibly charming.” He points at the fridge. “Cheese or no cheese in your omelet?”

“Cheese is good. I like cheese.”

He smiles and leans into the fridge to take out all the ingredients. Cheese is good. I like cheese. He must think I’m odd. I am odd. And how am I supposed to tell him that I didn’t actually decide to move in, I was just going to be a squatter for the night? He looks over at me again because, yeah that’s right, I haven’t answered the question yet. It’s so hot in here. I pull off my sweatshirt and say, “Cockroaches.”

His eyebrows angle together as he attempts to decipher my cryptic conversation skills.

“Cockroaches made my decision for me.”

He places a bowl on the counter and stares at me with his mouth slightly agape. All of me. Not my face. My body. What’s he looking at? Okay, I know I’m in my pajamas, and my hair’s a mess, and my breath probably smells horrid, but I don’t think it warrants actual shock on his part.

“What happened to your skin?”

I glance down at my arms. They’re completely covered in red marks, like spider bites but all over in tracks. And they run along my chest. And, oh my goodness, all down my legs. What is that? I’m scarlet. It’s a cockroach disease. That’s why I’m so itchy. Even itchier now that I’ve noticed. My scalp is itchy now. I stand and jig around because it feels like insects are crawling all over me. “What is it?”

“It looks like bed bugs got you.”

“Bed bugs? Are they still on me?”

He chuckles. “Probably not, but they might be on your luggage and in your clothes.”

Yuck. Disgusting. Thank goodness I left my stuff in the trunk of my car and didn’t track them in here. “Ugh. That motel was wretched. I probably have lice and tics and scabies, too. I should go.”

“You don’t have to go. Just have a shower. I’ll make a Mojave remedy for you. It will take away the itch. You can wear one of my T-shirts and we’ll put all your other clothes in the washing machine. The dryer should kill any that might have hitched a ride.”

He’s sweet. And calm. I feel better already. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t plan to rent to a dirty vagrant with communicable diseases.”

“Chuck has worse.”

My eyes widen and my expression makes Easton laugh.

“I’m kidding. I think.” He laughs even harder and starts cracking the eggs, completely unfazed by my grossness.

I slink out of the kitchen and run up to the bathroom in my room. Well, not my room. The room that’s for rent. The room that I’m currently contaminating, so probably obligated to rent even if I don’t live in it. Oh, my gosh. Maybe my dad was right. Coming to Stanford was a bad idea and this is the universe’s way of sending me the message. Hey, Della, go home. Who do you think you are? Quit.

Only, I don’t want to quit. It’s not that bad. Sure, it’s only been two days and everything has pretty much gone wrong. It could be worse, though. In the grand scheme of things people deal with much worse hardships than broken down cars and unsanitary living conditions. But what if this is only the beginning and it does get worse? I can always drop out and go home. Think positive, Della. It could also get better.

I undress and step into the shower. The water pressure is amazing. Perfect for rinsing conditioner out. The guys probably don’t fully appreciate this minor detail. Maybe Easton does. His hair is nicer than mine. I want to live here. And Easton is already making breakfast and a Mojave remedy. Plus, my clothes need washing. Hopefully dry-cleaning kills bed bugs too, otherwise I’m going to have to burn most of my wardrobe. Oh well, nobody dresses formally here anyways.

You know, come to think of it, my sister lived with Alex before they were married. My parents eventually got used to it—not until they actually got married. But still. Precedence has been set. Okay, I’m staying. Until things get worse.