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"I knew you were British!" I say, trying to lighten the mood. "I could so tell. I have skills. Just like my amazing cooking skills that you keep denying." I don't want to push him into telling me about his father when he doesn't want to talk about it.
"Whatever you say."
The rest of the dinner we switch jokes and talk about random things like the weather and what not. It's a comfortable conversation with light-hearted quirks. It feels nice. I push away all negative thoughts and just enjoy the moment.
I hope it stays like this.
After dinner, I try to convince Rick to do the dishes while I clean up the table and set up a place to sleep but he refuses. He says he's never washed a dish in his life and doesn't plan on it anytime soon.
"You have to do your part of the share!" I say to him, while I hold a rag so I can clean up the table. "It isn't fair that I clean everything and set up a place to sleep."
"Well, then I'll set up a place to sleep! I loathe washing dishes. Anything but that," he says, crossing his arms. His eyebrows are knitted together and his bottom lips pushed out in a pout. If this were any other situation, I would've gushed over his cute expression, but right now – he was just plain irritating.
"No! you don't even know where the air mattress is!" I retort. "If you don't do the dishes, you won't get a place to sleep."
He sits down, crossing his arms. "Fine with me."
I throw the cleaning rag at his face. "You are so irritating! Fine, I'll do the dishes. You do the table. It sure as hell better be sparkling clean." I turn and head to the sink.
We quietly cleaned up for the next ten minutes. I wipe my wet hands with a towel and indicate Rick to follow me as I leave the kitchen. The air mattress is in the closet in the hallway. I open it and rummage around useless things that Mom and I just throw in there.
"That's strange," I say as I rummage through some tennis-related things in a box. I push the box aside and look in the next one.
"What is?" He asks, standing behind me.
"I can't seem to find it," I frown. I go through ten-to-fifteen boxes but I find nothing. I could've sworn Mom had thrown it in here after Uncle Jim had come to stay over. I can't think of anywhere else it could be in. "I guess you'll have to sleep on the couch."
"The couch?" He says, like it's a foreign word. Here we go again, I think as I shut the closet door. "I am not sleeping on the couch."
"Well, that's all you're going to get."
He scoffs. "I don't think so. I am not going to sleep on," he points back to the couch, "that hideous thing. It will kill my back!" He scrunches up his face. "I'm the heir to a hotel business. If you break my back, you're breaking the entire business. All my customers will blame you and the employees will –"
"Okay!" I put my hands up in surrender. "I get it. Save me the speech, would you?" I close the closet. "You can sleep in my room."
"Your room?"
"Well, yeah. Where else would you sleep?" I ask, turning to face him. His wet hair seems to be dying from his shower. His hair look silkier than mine. I scrunch up my face in a tiny fit of jealousy.
"What about your mom's room?" Rick suggests. "I mean, she's not going to be here for a while. Why not use her room?"
I start laughing. He gives me a why-are-you-laughing look. "I am not going to let you sleep in my mother's room! That's just creepy! Even I barely go in her room. You are definitely not going to sleep there." I walk to my bedroom and open the door slightly, sticking my head in to see if there's anything weird in my room.
I'm right. All my clothes are scattered around from packing and that includes some lingerie. My face reddens a little. What if he saw those? That'd be one moment I would not like to live in.
I shut the door closed.
"What? I thought I was going to sleep on your bed," he says, confused. He tries to push past me to the door. I put my back to the door and hold the wall. "What are you doing?"
"Er, there seems to be a problem." Wait, why should I even explain to Rick? It is my room and my house. I can order him to sleep on the couch for all I care. For once, I'm in control. "You're sleeping on the couch."
"What?" He says, terrified.
"I don't want you in my room," I say, crossing my arms. "I'm not letting a guy inside my room. Especially one I have no romantic connection with – or any connection with for that matter." I can't believe I said that.
"Oh, you want to play that low, huh?" He smirks. "You're the one who used me to get back at your friends. Who's the immature one now?"
I ignore him and trudge to the living room. The fire is still crackling, the heat radiating off to me. The strawberry-scented candles are still burning – a sweet fruity smell in the air. The memory of Rick and I dancing sinks back into my mind. The almost kiss.
Rick tugs my shoulder.
I snap out of my little reminiscence.
"Why are you so red?" he asks me. I slap my hands to my cheeks and sure enough, they're warm as hot buns out the oven. I rub my hands to my cheeks, trying to make my blush fade.
"What do you want?" I ask, placing my hands to my sides. I play around with the fabric of my shorts.
"If I sleep here, then you have to," he says. He takes a seat on the couch. The fire lightens up his face and I can see all his facial features – one by one. He lies down and spreads a blanket around himself. His brown eyes stare right at me.
"And why do I have to?" I narrow my eyes down to his.
"Because it's fair then," he replies, snuggling under his blanket. But then he gets up and fluffs his cushion before lying back down. "Then, both of us will suffer tomorrow morning when our backs ache."
"And that's a good thing?" I put on my best-forced frown. I can't help it when my smile escapes. I don't know why but I get a tingly feeling. I actually want to sleep here with him – well on the opposite couch of him. Crossing my arms, I say, "Fine. If you really want me to suffer with you, I guess I'll have to stay with you."
I don't know if I'm imaging it but Rick has a smile on his face as I lay across on the couch. After I get comfortable under the blankets, I stare at the ceiling.
And then the awkward silence sets in.
Even though we're sleeping feet apart, it still feels awkward and tense. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. Tick-tock. I can feel the sweat on my palms. Everything is intensified – my heartbeat, my breathing, Rick's breathing. My five sense are at it's best.
Tick-tock. Ba-dump, ba-dump. Can Rick hear my heart? Why is my heart even beating so fast? Does he think I'm a freak? I slowly inch my head to my side to see if he's looking at weirdly.
He's not.
His eyes are shut. I notice how long his eyelashes are. Why do all the guys get things like long eye lashes? And they don't even know how lucky they are. I smile when he suddenly scrunches his face. Probably having a bad dream or something.
And then in that peaceful moment, as I fall asleep watching Rick with the fire crackling brightly, I realized that I had completely fallen for a rich asshole.
The next morning, I wake by the smell of bacon and eggs.
On a normal day, I would've slept in just a bit more because Mom would always leave me some for when I woke up. But she isn't here, it's only him. And because it's Rick – my current possibly crush – I jolt awake.
My hair immediately sticks out in every way possible. Thanks, morning hair. I bet Rick just would love to see me like this, I think sarcastically.
I bring my hand up to my mouth. My breath stinks. I never did get how girls just woke up and talked and kissed their boyfriends. I mean, unless you sleep with gum in your mouth, I'm pretty sure nobody wakes up with fresh breath.
Before doing anything else, I rush to the bathroom and brush my teeth and comb through my hair. When my hair refuses to remain decent, I throw it up in a bun and check my face before walking to the kitchen casually – like I just woke up.
"Finally, you're awake!"
Rick's moving the pan around and stirring when I walk in. his hair is in every direction – very messy – but it looks natural on him. It actually looks better on him. He's still in my dad's clothes – which he's pulling off pretty well – and by the looks of it, he's making breakfast.
I fake a yawn and stretch my arms to try to look cute. But the plan backfires. "Ow!" My back aches, just like he said it would.
"Your back too?" Rick says, placing the scrambled eggs and toast into a plate. "I swear, something's wrong with your sofa. It's no different to hard, cold cement surface." He sets his plate and sets one for me on the dining table.
"You made breakfast?" I say.
"Yeah," he grins, taking a seat. I hesitantly take a seat. "I mean, of course I know how to cook. You saw last night. I'm always alone in my apartments and places, so I taught myself how to cook. I'm always moving around for business, I should at least know how to cook. Take-out gets real sickening."
I pick at my food – just in case he poisoned it – before eating it. It's actually really good. Even Mom doesn't make the eggs so fluffy and the bacon so crispy. "It's good."
"I know," he responds, smirking. He takes a bit of his food. "So, the blizzard's almost completely stopped. The roads are being plowed. I think we can get going today. The bash is in a couple of days. Don't forget our purpose."
And in less than a second, he's already into his business-like tone.
"Well, I'm all ready to go. I packed already." I crunch on the bacon. I love bacon. "But, we might want to check the driveway and your car. I mean, it snowed at least over two feet."
"I'll go get shoveling. You get everything ready. Oh yea," he gets up and disappears before running back, "here." He hands me a packet of papers.
"What's this?" I ask. I take the packet as I put down my fork. Running through the pages, I catch a few glances at the words. Say hello. Greet, shake hands – ask polite questions.
"A script. Your script."
"Why would I need a script?"
"Well, for instance, I notice that you like to surprise me," he says. "I followed your plan, and you ended up throwing in a big statement to the news saying we're together. If I don't make you a script – with strict instructions – who knows what you will do?"
I grin sheepishly. "Don't worry. What else could I do that could run our situation down even deeper?"
"You could – you know what? I'm not even going to say anything so I don't give you any ideas." He puts his plate in the sink and turns back to me. "Memorize the script. I'll go get the car ready. Be ready in at least an hour."
"Roger that." I finish up my breakfast, too.
I spend the next hour or so grabbing all my bags and all the things I need. I'm in jeans, a baggy sweater, and a thick jacked with a red scarf around my neck and the hood of the coat enclosing my head. I go over the script over one last time. I'm pretty sure I have almost everything covered: who the people are, how important they are, what I should say to them. If it weren't for the fact Rick basically had the right to sue me for the incident at the hotel, I would've actually had fun at his birthday bash.
Suddenly, the door opens, letting a cold draft in and some snow. Rick's standing there – shovel in one hand – and completely shivering. "Come on! Before the snow picks up speed again!"
I nod quickly and stuff the scrip inside my jacket before grabbing my suitcase and running outside – making sure to lock the door first. The pathway is shoveled so it's not that hard to get to his car. I almost slip a few times, but I catch myself. I throw my luggage in the truck – no thanks to Rick who just gets in the car – but I let it slide because he did shovel everything.
And then it occurs to me that I've never been in his car.
My excitement reaches to another level. At first, I was excited to be going on a road-trip with Rick alone. But to also know that we're going to be traveling in a luxury car? That's just epic.
I open the passenger door to his car and hop in, the fans blowing warm air into myface. Of course, his car is a Mercedes Benz.
"A Mercedes Benz S class?" I ask as I put my seat belt on. "Nice."
He looks like a marshmallow under his layers and layers of clothing. I gave him all my dad's clothes that fit him. I didn't want him to freeze again. "How do you know exactly the name of this car?" He starts up the car and slowly goes down the road – careful of the slippery roads.
"Well," I say, "when I was about sixteen, I did all this research about cars because my Mom promised me if I passed my driver's test she would chip in some money to get me a decent car. That's why I know so much."
"Interesting," he says.
"Why?"
"Most girls around that age usually search up famous brands of makeup and what type of clothes you should wear – but here you were, learning about cars." He's grinning now, clearly amused.
And then I say the oldest corny line in the book. "I'm not most girls." He starts laughing and I join him. In love stories, the boy always compares the girl to most girls and she always replies with the same line.
The drive goes pretty smooth. I mostly eat the bags of food I brought ninety-percent of the time. He puts on some classical music – which sounds pretty okay – and keeps his eyes focused on the road. At some point, it gets quiet and we just talk. We talk about our lives, hobbies, ourselves. It almost feels like a date… except it's not.
I don't even realize but I think I actually starting falling for him more. I learn about his habits – scratching his chin when he's nervous, running his hands through his hair when he's frustrated – and how he hates seafood. I learn about how he had to have a private tutor while taking over the business because he dropped out of college to run the business.
We don't talk about his father.
I stay away from that topic. I stay away from prying too deep into his life that it's too annoying.
Before any of us knows it, we're in New York again.
Hey guys, sorry I took longer to update this time than usual. I had some stressful week so I stayed away from any of this and then this weekend just came up with more drama!
Anyway, thanks for all the messages of telling me update and supporting me!
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See ya! BYEBYE xD