But this one is perfect for me.
He hired a private investigator to help him keep me safe. I am a girl who has learned to take care of herself. I would never have asked him to do that. But the fact that he did it made my cold little heart pitter patter. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
We were too busy whispering in the dark last night for me to reward him properly. But I’m going to find some way to show him the depths of my appreciation.
Hello, tingling nipples. Yes, I hear you. Go ahead and say I told you so.
Braht exits the highway. We’re almost to Brynn and Tom’s house. That’s where I’ll be staying the next few nights. “Not because he can’t find you there,” Braht explained this morning. “But because Tom is available to play bodyguard these next few days.”
Meanwhile, Braht is going to keep up with Dwight’s movements, with the help of the PI. They both believe that Dwight may be re-arrested for violation of his probation agreement and that the whole nightmare might just go away.
My friends are the best. And Braht is amazing. The only thing I don’t like about this arrangement is that I can’t wake up next to Braht tomorrow. I’ll be in Brynn and Tom’s spare bedroom.
The fact that Brynn will make stuffed French toast for breakfast is, however, a comfort in my sadness.
Speaking of sadness, Braht looks glum this morning. In fact, he’s barely spoken at all since we got in the car.
“Are you okay?” I ask him suddenly.
A beat goes by. “Of course. I’m just a little tired.”
Hmm. I’m not sure I buy it. Too tired to pinch my ass on the way down the stairs this morning? Too tired to tease me about using my family drama as an excuse to pick up one more listing before the year ends? Too tired to rib me for writing out my to-do list at my parents’ table in six complementary colors?
That doesn’t sound like him. He’s never this quiet, either. It’s definitely something to watch. “When will I see you again?” I ask.
Maybe I’m crazy, but I swear his jaw clenches. “I’m not sure. We’ll play it by ear.”
The answer almost sounds cold. And it would scare me, except for the words he whispered in the dark last night just as I was drifting off to sleep. “I love you, Ash. And I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Nobody has said anything like that to me in my life, except for the people who birthed me. I know that even if Braht is in a funk, everything will be okay. He told me it would be and I’m choosing to believe him
We pull up in front of Brynn’s little Victorian house a couple minutes later. She comes running outside in her slippers, carrying an aerosol can. When I get out of the car, she looks up and down the street, like a secret service agent guarding the president. “Run along inside, Ash. If that motherfucker pops out of the bushes I’m going to pepper spray his ass.”
“But…” She is hustling me toward the front door. “You’re holding a can of olive oil spray.” It’s the stuff she uses in the frying pan when she’s cooking her meatballs.
“He doesn’t know that.” She aims the aerosol can first one way down the street, and then the other.
I roll my eyes at Braht. But he doesn’t smile. Instead, he steps closer to me, kisses me on the temple, and says, “Goodbye, honey bear. Take good care of yourself.”
His voice is tight, and I don’t like the sadness in it. But then Tom pulls up in Braht’s car. He gets out and pops the trunk, revealing my suitcases. He lifts these out, tosses Braht the keys, pats him on the back, and sends Braht on his way.
“Give me a couple of days!” he calls.
The door is shut before I even get a chance to say goodbye.
“Come on, Ash,” Tom says, giving me a quick hug. “Let’s go inside and plan out your day. I’m at your disposal.”
I’m still reeling from Braht’s hasty departure. No kiss? What the fuck?
But Brynn is waving the can around and looking tense. She’s so fierce and adorable looking, and my heart scrunches when I see she’s got the tiniest little pooch of a belly. When she motions with her olive oil to follow them inside, I do, trying not to look back at Braht.
22 Enter CandyLand
Ash
I swear I just walked into Willy Wonka’s factory. Before me is a sea of chocolate and gumdrop fir trees. And…is that a winter squash full of melty, cheesy dip?
“Brynn…what the fuck?” I say it with awe, because that’s the only thing you can do when Brynn has gone on a cooking rampage in preparation for the oncoming holidays. She and Tom have decorated her little Victorian home for a fall bacchanal, which I’m pretty sure will include dancing naked around a cornucopia while eating deep-fried cheese curds.
“I may have gone a little overboard,” she says. “But I’ve been trying out recipes for my holiday special. We’re going to shoot it here.”
That makes sense. There are colored leaf garlands on the fireplace that actually twinkle with starlight. Tom looks proud as he gives me the tour of his decorating efforts. There are shelves with a tiny village that has an actual waterfall, and mini cars, and mini dogs being walked by mini people. The fireplace is flickering with some kind of cinnamon fire and real logs.
Then I notice that Tom is wearing a flannel shirt and jeans and Brynn is wearing a matching flannel shirt, jeans and booties. It’s like…it’s like they’re morphing into a young version of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. If this is what Thanksgiving looks like, what the fuck is going to happen during Christmas? Am I going to enter an actual working North Pole? Are there going to be tiny elves to greet me? This is terrifying! Little elves! Brynn making gingerbread. Tom building a sleigh!
“Are you okay?” Brynn asks. “You’re hyperventilating.”
I look at her and blink a few times. She must be told. “I’ve had a glimpse of your Christmas future and you need to shut that shit down.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry. This is just for the Thanksgiving show. Although you should see our plans for the Christmas episode…”
And with that, Tom whips out actual blueprints, unfurls them on the counter and starts explaining. Brynn hands me some butterbeer. I look around in case there’s some tiny person with pointy ears about to put slippers on my feet.
Goddamn, it’s comforting in here. I could almost forget about all the stress in my life. Almost. But not quite.
While Tom discusses a manger scene he’s crafting from birch branches, I nod appreciatively. But I’m privately planning my own to-do list. And it’s a doozy.
My parents have been saints. When I think of how hard they’ve worked in giving me a good home, and helping me after the Dweeb disaster, I get all misty eyed. I don’t want them to have to lose the cottage, too. It’s good for our family. To be honest, it’s good for me.
Tom is still talking, but I can’t focus. Either it’s the butterbeer or I’m having a Eureka moment. That’s like an orgasm for your brain. And there’s no stimulation required. Also there’s no orgasm, so as good as a Eureka! is, there’s no toe-curling.
My Eureka is this: I can save the cottage. I totally can.
I’m nodding really enthusiastically and I hope Tom doesn’t realize it’s not for him or for the three-tiered Christmas scene he’s going to build with moveable parts. No. It’s because my parents are selling our cottage, our dear sweet cottage, so they can have money to retire. I can sell the shit out of that house. I can sell it faster than any house I’ve sold before. In fact, I’m selling it right this very minute.
That’s when the Eureka shudders through my body.
I’m going to buy the cottage. Me! I just won’t tell my parents I’m their buyer until I’ve pulled it off.
It won’t be easy. The first step will be to put my boring, cold house up for sale. The real estate market in Grand Rapids has been booming, especially because millennials are aching to put down roots and brew their own beer by growing hops.
My backyard is right on the bike trail, which is almost as good as havin
g an acre for hops.
So, I’ll sell it, which won’t be hard. I can rent a tiny studio apartment and curtail all my shopping. It won’t be very nice, but that’s okay. In the summer I can stay at my parents’ cottage, which will stay in the family where it belongs. After my dad retires to Canada, we’ll have summers together, and I won’t miss them so much.
This will be hard, but I can do it.
I’m awash with inspiration and good cheer. I will make this happen, and then I will celebrate with Braht in front of the fireplace at the cottage, with the waves in the background. I picture a jar of honey, a bearskin rug, and a saxophone. Or something. I don’t know. I’m just brainstorming here, and smiling all the while. I think I even giggle and I am not a natural giggler.
Somewhere in the house, a bell rings. An angel either got its wings, or I’ve got some control back again. It feels good, being in control. My hard nipples seem to agree.
“So what do you think?” Brynn asks. I realize Tom has finished his spiel and they’re both looking at me expectantly. I am a bad friend. Bad, bad friend. So I try: “Yes?” hoping that’s vague enough and yet supportive of whatever they’ve just told me.
“Great!” Tom says and actually claps me on the back. “I’ll get started. You can help me with some power tools.”
Hmm. I wish I knew what I’d just agreed to do.
“While we’re waiting for him to get set up, we can work on this,” Brynn says and then puts something hard and firm in my hand. I’m afraid to look down. “I’m going to go throw up for a second,” she says cheerfully. “But as soon as I get back, we can start hot-gluing the shit out of things!”
She scampers out of the kitchen and I realize it’s worse than I feared. I’m holding a glue gun and there’s a bucket of sequins placed in front of me.
Sequins.
Where is Braht when I need him? And I really need him…now.
23 Make It Sexy
Ash
I cannot speak of what just happened. I must not speak about it. I feel too traumatized. It involved Christmas music—in November—Tom hammering things together, which resulted in Brynn getting hot and bothered.
And I hot-glued my thumbs together. That’s gonna leave a mark. The upside is that Tom decided he didn’t trust me with his power tools after that.
It’s been about seven hours since Tom became my bodyguard, and I’ve had just about all I can take. Nothing dangerous will happen to me. Dwight is nowhere nearby and, honestly, I’m sick of even the idea of him controlling my life.
Enough is enough.
“I need to go home,” I tell Brynn and Tom. “I’m afraid any minute you two are going to go put on matching sweaters and I’ll spontaneously combust. Poof!”
“So…Ash will be…ash?” Tom asks. Then he chuckles like a dork.
He just made a dad joke! Things are worse than I thought.
“Right.” I stand up in a hurry. I have to get out of here, stat. “Really, guys, thank you for an amazing day of food and holiday, but I need to get back to my little room of white walls.”
We all pause and think about that for a second.
“That doesn’t sound right,” I say. “I just need to get home and do some…stuff.”
Brynn looks me up and down and then says, “No.”
“No! Noooo? Why?”
Brynn and Tom share a look. I hate when couples Share A Look. It’s never good when that happens. Either they’re going to start making out in front of me or worse.
“Look,” Tom says, “Braht asked me specifically to keep an eye on you. Just for the weekend. He’s got…some…things…he’s working on. It’s important.” There’s something about Tom’s voice that’s not very Tom-like.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…look. You know how Braht is pretty cocky all the time? Sort of annoying? Stuck up? Facetious?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. We all know this.
“He wasn’t any of those things when he asked me to help out. He was 100% serious. It sorta scared the shit out of me.”
I let that sink in. That is scary. But there are things I need to do.
“If I can find someone big and burly to hang out with me, would that be okay? Just to give you two a break? I’ll come back tomorrow morning, bright and early, okay?”
There’s that Shared Look again. “Big and burly?” asks Brynn. “I thought you and Braht were a thing now. Like, a happy thing. A together thing.”
“We are,” I say confidently. “I’m going to call his brother.” When I register her look of panic, I reassure her. “His brother and I don’t have anything going. Really. One, his brother is gay, and two, I’m pretty much sure I’mfallinginlovewithBraht.” I say the last part really hushed and fast-like, so maybe they missed it.
Tom is grinning like Brynn just flashed him and he threw beads at her.
They didn’t miss that last part.
“Okay, then,” Tom says and Brynn nods. “Give Bramly a call.”
I text Bramly, but I’m hoping that Braht returns the call, not his brother.
No such luck, though.
Where is Braht, anyway? I’m equally annoyed with Braht’s disappearance as I am at myself for wondering about it. Just as soon as I allow myself to fall in love I start questioning and overanalyzing every little thing…
My phone rings, saving me from more of this circular thinking. It’s Bramly calling me back immediately, and we arrange to meet.
Tom drives me to my place and we’re met by tall, handsome Bramly, the younger version of Braht. And he’s got his camera with him. This is good. This is what I want.
“So, you want me to take pictures of your house?” Bramly asks.
“Yes.” I nod, hoping I don’t have to explain further.
“Care to explain?”
Shit. “Because I want to create a photo album of my house so I can always remember it?” I ask.
His eyes go all scrunchy.
I give in. “Because I’m selling it.” I wait to see if he’s going to ask more questions, but he shrugs and says “Cool. I just wanted to know what kind of lighting to apply and which lens. If you’re trying to sell it, then I have to rein in my artistic tendencies.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
He takes a deep cleansing breath and shakes out his shoulders. “Let me channel my most commercial muse, and I think we’ll be fine.”
“This is a paid gig,” I point out quickly. “And if the house looks great on the MLS website, I can find you more customers.”
“Yeah?” His eyes widen. I can almost see dollar signs in them.
He and Braht do share a gene pool after all. Go figure.
“Sell my house, LittleBraht. Make it sexy. And all my clients will want you to do the same for them.”
“Sexy, huh?”
“Well, within reason.” Maybe I’m playing with fire. “No naked people in the shots,” I clarify.
He sighs. “If you insist.” And then he’s off, moving about the space, muttering to himself. He takes the lens cap off his camera and begins framing shots.
I glance around, wondering what he sees. I didn’t really have to tidy up, because I’m already a very organized person. Honestly, if a buyer walked in that door right now, she might assume I don’t even live here.
And maybe there’s some truth to that. This house was an investment. It has always been a temporary place for me, somewhere to sleep and eat until I found what I was really looking for.
Until now, I didn’t even realize I was searching. It’s funny, the power of your subconscious.
I should be at the cottage right now, putting that on the market first. And I will make that happen. But putting this house on the market doesn’t make me feel emotional. Not like the cottage does.
Ergo, the next thing I have to do won’t be hard. I grab my laptop, brew some coffee and start typing away. Location, location! 3BR, 2 bath, quiet street. Right on the jogging path! And since I’m a realtor, I do
n’t even have to look up the comps. I already know the right price. In less than half an hour I’ve written up my little house’s listing and saved it to drafts.
However. Writing a listing for the cottage takes longer.
Make family memories in an adorable 3BR craftsman-style cottage with sweeping views of Lake Michigan. Lovely. Homey. You don’t deserve this place. STAY AWAY.
Just kidding.
Sort of.
I feel nauseated just listing the cottage at all. But I have to do it in order to keep up the ruse. I’ll list it on the MLS and then call my parents immediately to tell them I have an offer on the cottage already.
It won’t even really be a lie. I will have an offer. They just won’t know it’s from me.
There are sounds coming from the guest bedroom. I hear a sensual sigh, and I wonder what the heck Bramly is up to in there. On tiptoe, I make my way toward the room and peer around the door frame.
And it’s beautiful. Bramly has styled the bed like a promo shot for a B&B. He’s removed a throw pillow from my sofa and placed it just so on the bed. The covers are turned down on one side. And one of the silk roses I keep in a vase has been positioned on the pillow. Only it’s…sexual somehow. The angle of the rose against the pillow looks somehow debauched. Like it’s taking a post-coital snooze before round two.
Wow.
Either Bramly is a subtle genius, or I’m sexually frustrated. It could really go either way.
He takes a dozen or so absolutely perfect shots of my boring little house. I actually have to pry him away from the half bathroom. “I need a wider angle lens,” he frets. “I could make it look like those hand towels are enraptured…”
“Come on, Romeo,” I prod. “I need you to take a drive with me to our lake cottage.”