Moore To Love Page 8

  “Oh, baby. You poor thing.” She lifts off the couch like a jack-in-the-box and reaches for a throw blanket from the love seat. Draping it over me, she guides me into a more relaxed position. “Here. You lay down and take a snooze. I’ll start some chicken soup.”

  Crisis averted. I do as I’m told and settle against the pillow, resting my eyes. Before my mother can chop an entire carrot, I’m out for the count.

  I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent positive that when the doctor said to take it easy he didn’t mean having my entire family and my best friend over to play a heated game of Bullshit.

  “Bullshit!” Reynold shouts, throwing his cards down on the table. “There’s no way in hell you have that card.”

  “Do you?” Tatum taunts, clutching her hand to her chest.

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing,” she cuts him off with a wicked grin. “Do you call Bullshit or not, Rey? Going once, going twice . . .”

  Reynold observes the rest of the players with an intense stare that would better serve him as an FBI interrogator. Everyone else remains stoic, focused on their cards or the intricate wood grain in the table top. I will never understand how such a silly, childish game like Bullshit can turn into DEFCON 5.

  It’s time for them to go. My head hurts, I’m tired, and if Reynold doesn’t win this game—he’s the sorest of sore losers ever—all hell will break loose. “Abort mission!” I shout from my reclined position in the living room. I haven’t moved all day because whenever I tried it felt like the world was teetering back and forth unnaturally on its axis.

  “What’s the matter, Leni? Nauseous again?” Mom abandons her cards to rush over to me.

  Tatum and Ashley follow suit, leaving Reynold to scour through the scattered cards and Dad to clean up the table.

  They huddle around me as if I’m some endangered species on the verge of extinction. “Back off, mother hens. I’m fine. I just need some peace and quiet and your Bullshit screaming hasn’t exactly allowed me that small luxury.”

  Mom pats my head lovingly while my two closest friends gang up on me.

  “Someone got the fun knocked out of her when she smacked into that tree.” Tatum elbows Ashley, who responds with another snarky quip. “Yeah, I think I know just the right person to force it back into her.”

  The two share a scheming chuckle that perks Mom’s ears up at Border Collie attention. “Huh? Who are you talking about? What did I miss?”

  “I’ll murder you,” I mouth, glaring at my supposed friends.

  Apparently the look of death I give Ashley does the trick because she quickly changes the subject. “Josie, did your son tell you we picked a wedding date?”

  Mom’s concentration is diverted from me and fixated on my card-hunting brother. “No! What do you mean? Reynold, you little shit!”

  Rey shrugs it off and goes to the fridge to help himself to another beer. “Girl stuff. I figured Ashley already told you.”

  The happy couple goes back and forth, placing blame on the other for not sharing the details. It’s late breaking news to me too so I’m all ears. Even if they’re ringing from the unnecessary racket.

  Tatum, sensing my mental combustion, breaks up the family feud with a loud, well-practiced whistle from between her fingers. “Whoa! Stop the bickering! Just tell us already.”

  The room falls silent—momentary bliss—and Ashley beams. “It turns out the winery Leni suggested had a last minute cancelation. We’ll have to pull a lot of strings and ask for tons of favors to get all the vendors lined up, but this seemed meant to be so . . . we’re getting married on November eighteenth.”

  My brother joins his bride in the living room and nuzzles into her neck. It’s plain to see they’re happy with their decision, but Mom and I set off into sudden panic mode.

  “November eighteenth? As in this November eighteenth? That’s less than two months away! Definitely not sufficient notice for the out-of-state family. I have to get a dress. The caterer. Your shower, Ashley! There’s not enough time. It can’t be done!”

  I allow my mother to spew her tirade of worries while my own mini-monsoon of concerns bombards my already throbbing brain. I still have so much to loose. I imagined I’d have more time to get in shape. And find a date. What the hell are these two thinking? And then it dawns on me. “Are you knocked up?”

  “Leni!” Ashley scolds in shock, but all eyes are on her. Even Reynold’s.

  “Well? Are you, dear?” My mother’s face is a mix between scared shitless and overjoyed. If the tables were turned and I was the one who was potentially preggers out of wedlock, she’d have whipped out the wooden spoon and chased me around my own apartment.

  “No! Of course I’m not pregnant. Wow! I had no idea you’d all be so skeptical and judgmental over this. I imagined everyone would be happy that we’ve decided to do this sooner rather than later. I guess we can call the venue and see what they have a little further out. I don’t want to cause any problems for anyone.” Ashley’s on the verge of tears, rambling on and on while she paces. I have to hand it to her—if this were me and my fiancé’s family had pulled the shit show we just pulled, I’d be waving sayonara to the whole lot of them, including my non-supportive husband-to-be. But not Ashley. She’s a saint. I’m almost positive she’ll be canonized when she gets through those pearly gates just for dealing with all of us.

  The room is in a quiet commotion of hushed whispers in separate corners. I can’t take the pathetic look of defeat on Ashley’s face and my brother’s hum-de-dum, blasé attitude about something that has his girl so upset.

  I’m usually the not my circus, not my monkeys type of gal, but I’ve seen enough and God help me . . . I want this night over with for once and for all so I can get the much needed rest I was prescribed. “Ashley, don’t you dare change a thing! This is your big day. No one else’s.”

  “Hey, it’s mine too.” Reynold finally speaks.

  “Oh, shut it, nitwit. Now you want to say something?”

  Thankfully, Reynold gets the point and zips his lips, leaving Ashley and I to our moment.

  “Ash,” I amble over to her slowly, gripping her shoulders with a tight squeeze. “If you want to get married to my ass of a brother on November eighteenth, then get married on November eighteenth. We’ll figure out the details—together, if need be—and make it work. This is about you and Reynold and anyone who has boo to say about your date being inconvenient for them needs to reevaluate their place in your lives. Got it?” I realize I’ve dug my own grave and put a nail in the coffin by backing up her cockamamie plan, but the girl is in tears. I can’t have that. Not on my turf. So what if I don’t have a date? Who cares if I’m not down another twenty pounds. All eyes will be on Ashley anyway. It’s not my day. It’s hers.

  “You really mean that? You don’t object?” Ashley swipes at an errant tear and it’s as though it’s only me and her in this room full of watchful eyes.

  “I could never object to finally having you as a sister. You know I love you. You’re my best friend.”

  “Hey! That’s my job!” Tatum butts in from behind me.

  I roll my eyes and turn to her with reassurance. “Yes, Tatum, you are and always will be my bestie for life, but Ashley is too, so deal with it.”

  “I’m just messing with you. You know I love her, too.” She comes over to put one arm around me and the other around Ashley, pulling us in for a group hug. “I know I have no say in this, but I’m with Leni. Go with your gut. Don’t listen to these crazies. Love ya, Mr. and Mrs. Moore!”

  Mom and Dad grunt from the kitchen and Tatum retreats to kiss their asses and help Dad tidy up the rest of the mess from this evening.

  Left with Ashley and my brother, I reiterate my honest feelings about the situation. “I’m serious, guys. If that’s your date, stick with it. Do what makes you happy.”

  The two lovebirds gaze at each other and smile before falling into a warm embrace. “November eighteenth it is!” Reynold sings, li
fting Ashley in the air and swinging her around.

  I quickly dart my attention to my mother who’s no longer a deer in headlights. There’s no doubt this will make for millions of side conversations and late night complaints, but for now she’s content because her little prince is content in the arms of his saintly princess.

  My work here’s done, or so it seems, because Reynold and Ashley are engrossed—emphasis on the gross—in a lip lock fit for a late night Cinemax flick. The public display of affection churns my stomach and reminds me of my concussion and its possible aftermath. “Okay, now, everyone get out! I need my beauty sleep.” I don’t care that it’s blunt, I don’t give a crap that it’s rude. I’m done with this day and I’d like to end it on a happy note.

  My family starts to disassemble and I find my spot back on the couch that has housed my ass for the last six hours or so. Just when I think the crew is set to sail away off into the night, there’s an unexpected buzz at the door. Damn it all to hell! I was this close to silence. What now?

  Total blackout moment. Did someone call for takeout and forget about it? I could swear I paid the paperboy last week. “Who the hell could that be?” I’m clueless. And did I mention how dog-tired I am?

  Everyone takes turns kissing me goodbye on their way to the door and Mom scurries past to answer it with her purse already in place on her shoulder. “Let me get it.”

  I gladly accept her offer and stay put. However, when the door swings open and I see my surprise visitor, I’m on my feet in 2.2 seconds. “Lane? What are you doing here?” I don’t know if the words are audible because my tongue has become a dried up slab in my mouth and my pulse is thundering in my ears.

  “Well, lookie what we have here,” Tatum goads.

  “Is that him?” Ashley rushes to her side, whispering.

  “Leni, who’s this?” Mom’s oblivious. Thank God. I’d like to keep her that way, too.

  It’s my turn to be the deer in headlights. I’m momentarily speechless until I notice the bouquet of daisies in Lane’s hands. “Um, everyone. This is my friend, Lane. Lane why don’t you come in. They were just heading out. Let me say my goodbyes and I’ll be right with you.”

  The poor man simply nods and makes his way past every curious bystander to this very awkward greeting.

  One by one, I usher my now unwanted company out into the hallway. Questions fly and giggles ensue, but this has been one long ass day and I have a—I have a Lane waiting for me. Inside my apartment. “You all need to leave. Now. Thank you for taking care of me today, but if you don’t scram—like right now—I’m disowning every last one of you.”

  I don’t give them time to object or intercede. Instead, I squeeze past a baffled Dad, Mom, Reynold, Ashley, and Tatum and slam the door behind me. Once back inside, I lean against the door and let out the longest sigh known to womankind. Lane’s spellbinding smile–dimples and all—is what infuses the air back into my lungs.

  COLLECT YOUR THOUGHTS AND CALM your tits. Be cool, Leni.

  “How did you know where I live?” It’s the first thing I blurt out. Totally not cool, but really. How’d he find me?

  Lane approaches me and clears his throat. “Hi, to you, too,” he jokes, extending the beautiful arrangement of daisies. “These are for you, by the way.”

  I accept his kind gesture and bring the flowers to my nose, inhaling their mild but pretty scent. “Lovely. That’s very sweet of you and thank you so much, but—”

  Before I can ask him the same mundane question again, he interrupts by taking something out of his pocket. “You left this at the hospital.”

  My phone. Stupid me. I hadn’t even realized it was missing. With all the fuss while I was being discharged and then the train wreck that is my family, I never even noticed. I take it from his hand with a smile. “Wow, what a dumbass I am. Thank you; you saved me a lot of trouble. I really appreciate it.” Suddenly, I don’t care that he came here to return my phone, or how he got my address. I’m just overjoyed that he’s here. Here. In my apartment. With flowers for me.

  “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll put these in a vase. Want a beer, coffee, some left over chicken soup?” I’m rambling in true Leni fashion because even though I’m supposed to be sitting still, I can’t. My brain is on overdrive and my pits are sweating something fierce. Lady Mitchum, don’t fail me now.

  “No, I’m okay. I can’t stay long, and you should be resting.” Lane squirms uncomfortably on the couch as I fill my favorite antique crystal vase with the daisies. It dawns on me that I’ve always been the one to purchase the flowers to fill this vase. This is a first. A very lovely, unexpected first that I want to savor forever and ever and ever.

  Giddiness overwhelms me as I return to the living room and place the flowers on the coffee table. I take a seat next to Lane and exhale. “I’ve been resting since I got home and then my family made it absolutely impossible to think straight, so while I’m sure my concussed head needs a break, I’m happy you came by. It’s a nice surprise.” Everyone’s always told me honesty is the best policy. I just hope my honesty—the kind a fool wears on their sleeve—doesn’t bite me on the ass. I’ve got plenty to chomp down on, so this could be a problem.

  “I hope I didn’t kick anyone out?” Lane offers.

  “Oh, no, that was all me. They have a tendency to overstay their welcome.” I lean back and tuck my feet underneath my bottom, directing my focus on the fine man beside me. Mr. Fancy Pants is in my house and I might get a case of the nervous Nellies because I simply don’t know what to do with myself. Instead of fidgeting or ogling him like a buffoon, I return to my original question. “So, how’d you get my address, super sleuth? Am I that easily accessible or are you seriously a spy?”

  He flashes me those adorable dimples and runs a hand through his hair. “When I came to your room to say goodbye, you had already left. The nurse who was on shift while I was visiting you yesterday spotted your phone and assumed we were friends.”

  “She assumed wisely,” I affirm. “Any guy who barely knows me and then stays by my side to make sure I’m okay after my clumsiness leaves me with a concussion is a friend in my book.”

  Lane’s nervousness seeps through his masculine façade whenever I’m assertive. It’s cute. I take note of how his cheeks brighten underneath the coating of scruff as he stares at the gigantic smile he’s brought to my lips. “I was happy to help. I couldn’t leave Karaoke Girl lying there in a pile of leaves on the ground.”

  The silly term makes me scrunch my nose. “Yeah, about that. I think we need to nix the nicknames.”

  “Nicknames? Plural?”

  I hide my eyes with my hands at what I’m about to confess. “I may be Karaoke Girl but you’re Mr. Fancy Pants.”

  Lane chuckles and then looks down at his scrubs, then back up at me with raised brows. “Fancy Pants? Me?”

  Regret for opening my big fat flapper scorches me from the inside out, but since I’ve already spilled the beans, I might as well follow through. “Remember how you said you, um . . . noticed me . . . on the track?”

  “Yes.” He tilts his head.

  How do I say this without coming off as a crush-crazed stalker? I can’t exactly tell him I’ve been wishing, hoping, and praying that he’d give me the time of day. Flippancy is a wonderful thing, but it’s not my forte. “Let’s just say, the first time I saw you, you had on these fancy trainers that the real deal runners usually sport. I was impressed and—” I will not dare admit that they were so gorgeously tight he left nothing to the imagination and I loved every second of it.

  “And?” he prods when I take a second too long reminiscing the glorious sight.

  “You just always look so . . . athletic and . . . fancy.”

  Lane’s lips curl up at the ends as he leans back against the cushions. “Fancy?”

  Realization sets in. I hope he doesn’t think I’m insinuating—“I meant it in a good, manly way. Promise. The pants are a good thing. All of them. I like all of your pants.�
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  My rambling scores me another throaty snicker. “Mr. Fancy Pants and Karaoke Girl. Would you look at that?”

  Look at that, I do. In fact, in my mind’s eye I stare at that blend of perfection a little too intensely. I want nothing more than to explore this adorable, almost-comfortable flirtation we have going on here, but I hold back at the risk of coming on too strong, too soon. Before yesterday, Lane was just a stranger. Today, we’re friends. I’ll take whatever small victory I can and run with it for a while before I give away the whole cow to someone who might not even want the milk.

  I fidget under Lane’s watchful gaze, and then put myself in check. “Well, you’re here and that’s great, but I still don’t know how you were able to find me.”

  “Oh, yeah, that. Um . . . well, I had your phone and no way to contact you since it has a security passcode. So I pulled a few hospital staff strings and got hold of your chart. Does that make me a creep?” The innocence in his eyes is heartwarming. The more time I spend with Lane, the more I believe he has no freakin’ clue how good looking he is.

  “Creep? Absolutely not. I say it shows dedication. Dedication well appreciated, too. I’d be lost without my phone for too long and you saved me a trip back to the ER which, no offense, I know you’re there, but I really don’t want to visit again any time soon.”

  “None taken. That place is a zoo most of the time. I don’t blame you.”

  We share a mutual laugh and a few sidesplitting jokes about the wackos occupying the emergency room triage.

  For the next thirty minutes or so Lane and I chat about my recovery. Not only is he the total package looks-wise, but the guy’s a total brainiac. He could’ve been a surgeon, but he decided to go his own route when his grandfather had a stroke and they bonded while he literally nursed him back to health. I cry tears for a man I never knew when Lane describes how he held on for dear life to the old man’s hand as he took his final breath.