Читать книгу To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before - D. R. Graham - Страница 9

Visiting my dad at the ranch was rough. Partly for the same reasons it has always been rough between us, and partly because it’s hard to see him struggling. When he was diagnosed with cancer I started going home more often to help out, and I thought maybe spending more time together would change some things between us, but it hasn’t.

I’m sitting in my truck in the driveway of the Palo Alto house, trying to adjust back into my life as a student. Della’s Volkswagen Bug is parked on the street, so she’s probably home. I was hoping the guys would already be back. For some reason I’m hesitant to be here alone with her. Not some reason. I know the reason. It’s because I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I left yesterday morning. Her completely natural fresh-face, her klutziness, the innocent way her cheeks flush over everything, and the sexy way she looked wearing only my T-shirt while her clothes were in the wash. That damn near killed me.

Even my dad could tell there was something up with me. I denied it, but the fact that I kept talking about her probably didn’t help convince him. The attraction is not good for the roommate arrangement. Neither is being alone with her.

A hand slams against my driver’s side window followed by Chuck’s ugly mug. He laughs because he startled me. “What’s up, Havie?” Without waiting for a response, he carries on to the front door behind BJ. Glad to have them as a buffer, I get out of the truck and grab my bag from the back. I better figure out a way to keep my attraction to Della locked up, quick.

As I enter the kitchen Chuck breaks into a run and shouts, “Honey, we’re home.” He cannonballs past Della who is stretched out on a lawn chair in the backyard. BJ also jumps straight into the pool with his clothes on to cool off from their road trip. Della was reading a textbook but puts the book down and pulls on a long-sleeve beach cover-up over her head to hide her white bikini. She notices me over her shoulder and moves a towel self-consciously to hide her legs, which are still speckled from the bed bug bites.

“Hey,” I say and pull up a chair next to her, trying to play it cool. Unfortunately, being close to her has the reverse effect. I’ve definitely never felt this way before. I’m in so much trouble.

“Hi,” she says softly with a sideways glance and her trademark blush. “How’s your dad?”

I lean back and run my hands through my hair as I watch the guys horsing around in the pool. “He’s feeling better now. The chemotherapy takes a lot out of him, though, so I did some work around the ranch to let him rest until he got his strength back.”

“What type of cancer does he have?”

“Non-Hodgkin lymphoma.” I stare at my clasped hands for a while, then glance at her. “They caught it early, so hopefully it will turn out okay.”

“I’m sure it will. How about your mom? How’s she holding up?”

“Uh.” I hesitate because Chuck and BJ don’t even know anything about my mom. Not sure if it’s because they never asked, or I never told. I lower my voice so only Della can hear and say, “My mom was killed by a drunk driver when I was ten. It’s just my dad and me.”

Della’s lips press together sympathetically and the space between her eyebrows creases. Her eyes meet mine as if she’s searching for something. Or maybe she’s not searching. Maybe she already found it. “I can’t even imagine what losing your mom as a child must have been like for you, but if you ever feel like you need to talk, I’m happy to listen.”

Emotion rises in my throat from her offer. I don’t know why. I’m not an emotional guy. But there’s something about the way she said it. So genuine. “Thanks,” I eventually say, after taking a deep breath to steady my voice.

Chuck swims over and folds his arms on the edge of the pool, looking slyly back and forth between Della and me. He can tell we’re having a moment and it makes him smirk because he thinks he’s got five hundred bucks coming his way. I stand to send the message that he’s wrong.

“What do you guys feel like for dinner?” I ask to shift the intensity. “Your choices are pasta, rice, or oatmeal.”

“Actually, my scholarship money came in today,” Della says. “I was planning to do a grocery run and make you guys a proper dinner as a thank you. If you want me to.”

“Hell yeah,” Chuck says as he climbs out of the pool.

“Sounds good to me,” BJ adds, still floating on his back.

I nod. “Sure. We’re doing a Costco shop for all the big stuff after we get back from the rodeo this weekend, but there’s a market down the street. Do you want me to come with you? We can pick up some things for the next few days, too.”

Chuck and BJ exchange a raised eyebrow with each other.

Della nods and stands. “Okay. I just need to change. I’ll meet you out front.” She ducks by me and disappears into the house.

BJ throws a pool noodle at me. “What are you doing, idiot? She’s been here a day-and-a-half and you’re already on the verge of failing.”

“What? I can’t offer to go with her to the grocery store to show her what you guys like to eat?”

Chuck takes his boots off and dumps the water out. “Whatever’s going on between you two has nothing to do with things you eat at the grocery store. I’ll take my five hundred bucks in cash or check, whichever is more convenient for you.”

“I’m not breaking any rules. I’m just being helpful,” I say and turn to head inside.

“I want my winnings in cash!” BJ shouts as I walk away.

There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t pursue anything with Della – including every complication that goes along with living together if it works out, or worse, if it doesn’t work out – the money I’d owe them isn’t even on the top of the list. Unfortunately, none of the reasons hold much weight when we’re in close proximity.

She comes back downstairs dressed in a white blouse, white tennis shoes, and pink pants that are rolled at the ankle. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and although she doesn’t seem to wear makeup, her lips are shiny as if she put on some sort of gloss. I try to ignore that, and as we leave the house, I remind myself of all the reasons it would be a bad idea to pursue her. I have canvas grocery bags in my truck, so I offer to drive, then open the passenger door for her. Walking around the back of the truck to the driver’s side, I mumble, “Come on, Havie. Stop acting like you can’t take your eyes off her. It’s a trip to Trader Joe’s, not a date.”

As I back out of the driveway, her gaze scans the interior of the truck, checking it out. I keep it clean, which she seems surprised by. “How far is the drive to your dad’s ranch?” she asks.

“Close to four hours. It’s near Three Rivers, California.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

I nod and turn left at the lights. “Yeah. It’s a nice area. I can take you there sometime.”

She smiles and runs her palms along her thighs as if she’s nervous or something. “I grew up in a village about four hours outside of Moscow. It’s not a nice area. I won’t take you there sometime. I mean, for your own sake. Not because I wouldn’t take you if you wanted to go. I’m just sure you wouldn’t like it there. That’s all. I would take you. It’s not sight-seeing worthy, though.”

“Sight-seeing worthy or not, growing up in Russia is interesting. Is your extended family still in the village?”

“My dad’s side of the family is. My mom’s side of the family is actually former Russian aristocracy, so they fled Russia a long time ago. Her parents weren’t thrilled about her marrying a poor country boy that she met at university.” Her eyes widen as she glances at me. “No offence. I have nothing against country boys. Not that I have a thing for them, either. Just nothing against them. Or poor people. Love is the most important thing. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I chuckle as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Should we call you princess?”

She smiles, relieved that I wasn’t offended by the poor country boy diss. “No. If we were in the nineteenth century I would have been on par with a more fully dressed Kardashian at best. Nowadays I’m just a middle-class Russian-Canadian immigrant.” She winks. “You can address me as Lady Della if you like, though.”

Being a descendant of aristocrats explains a lot, maybe not her goofy humor. That might be more a country pauper thing. I’m still smiling as I pull into a parking spot. We both hop out and I ask, “Do you speak Russian?”

“Yes, my parents both speak it at home, especially when they’re mad at me.”

I grab a grocery cart and follow her into the store. As she heads to the produce section, I chuckle at the image of her parents shouting at her. “I can’t imagine anyone ever being mad at you.”

“Oh, trust me it happens.” Her nose wrinkles as if she’s not proud to admit it but is too honest to deny it. “You don’t know me well enough yet to know I can be very grumpy if I’m stressed. And I get PMS moody, not that you probably want to know that, but maybe you guys should know if you’re going to have a female roommate.” She pauses to choose avocados from the display and places them in the cart. “You said you’re an only child, so if you haven’t spent a lot of time around sisters or girlfriends. I mean, I’m sure you’ve had lots of girlfriends or have a girlfriend.” Her eyes dart sideways to check my expression before she distractedly pokes a row of papayas one at a time.

Was that her way of asking if I’m single?

Before I have a chance to say anything she starts talking again like a racehorse out of the gate. “You definitely probably have a girlfriend, or maybe you like men. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to assume or imply anything, or not imply anything.”

She’s unquestionably fishing for my status. And I could tell her. But that might unlock a whole load of awkwardness. For both of us.

“Sorry,” she says after she notices that my mood shifted into something more serious. “I’m just trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to say that women, some women, me, I get irritable sometimes.” She picks a bundle of asparagus and a clamshell of cherry tomatoes. Then, in an oddly impressive way continues her animated gestures as she talks with her hands full. “Bottom line, living with me means you can anticipate some eye rolls and an occasional snappy tone of voice once a month. I apologize for that in advance. And if you ever get angry at me I’ll remind you of this conversation in an I-warned-you way, which will likely only aggravate you more.” She studies the firmness of a mango before making eye contact with me again. “And you’ll likely end up shouting at me in Russian.”

I smile and grab two lemons and two limes. “I’ll steer clear of you once a month. And I promise not to learn any Russian.”

“I have more flaws.” She pulls a grapefruit from the display and scrambles to catch the others before they roll down the slope. “I’m completely uncoordinated, as you might have already noticed. You’d be surprised how angry a person can get when, due to clumsiness, you break or ruin something they love. Just ask my sister about her former diamond earring that is now in the Greater Vancouver Regional District sewer system thanks to a mishap that involved a public toilet and a bee. You don’t need to know the details. I can be annoying when I’m in a chatty mood, which is almost always. Also, sometimes when I get nervous I jam my foot in my mouth and offend people by saying something inadvertently offensive or borderline stupid.” She glances at me almost as if she expects me to confirm that one.

I add a bag of apples to the cart. “Well, nobody’s perfect. And it’s entertaining for me when you do something embarrassing like your attempted touchdown dance that nearly blew out your ACL after figuring out the alarm code.”

Her face turns almost magenta and she clenches her eyes shut as if she’s attempting to erase that incident from either her memory or mine. She haphazardly tosses a head of lettuce, a bunch of carrots, and a bag of baby potatoes into the cart. Then, without saying anything, she speed-walks ahead and turns the corner into the cereal aisle.

Sexy and a goofball. Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone quite like her.