The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(40)

There’s no reasonable explanation for how obsessed I am with Ingrid, but then, logic and I don’t really go together.

It’s not in my nature.

I’m playing back a song I’ve been working on when my phone buzzes with an incoming message. And when I see who’s texting, my entire body lights up with a smile.



Ingrid: I have no idea what your body clock is like right now, but mine’s on “how the hell did a squirrel get into my pillowcase?” time. morning selfie with a baby squirrel

Levi: Aww, he got so big.



Ingrid: Fess up. You’ve practiced that line, haven’t you?



Levi: Ha! A time or two, yeah. Especially after my new friend the rubber chicken joined my posse. But he does look bigger. What’s the average size of an adult squirrel? Hold old is he? Too many big peanuts?



Ingrid: Are you seriously up already? Or is this your normal away message auto-reply sequence?



Levi: Night owl + time zone changes = me at your service to deliver breakfast.



Ingrid: I have exactly twenty-six minutes free and alone starting at 8:32 this morning.



Levi: I should still be awake then.



Ingrid: I’d very much like to tell you I’ll be wearing something sexy, but odds are strong I’ll have peanut butter smeared in my armpit.



Levi: That could be sexy.



Ingrid: Do you have fetishes, or has it honestly been this long since you had female attention?



Levi: I can’t answer that in writing.



She stops typing, and my phone rings.

My body jolts in anticipation of hearing her voice. Brain? Fully engaged. Legs? Tense and ready to leap to get to her place. Fingers? Twitching at the thought of touching her. Chest? Taking a mad beating from my blood-pumper.

I mis-swipe the first time and have to try again to answer. “Hey, Superwoman.”

Her laugh is soft and tinged with early morning. “Hey, peanut-butter-fetish-on-a-rubber-chicken man.”

She could’ve called me music man, or pop god—that’s what most women I’ve known would’ve gone for.

But not Ingrid.

I seriously like this woman. “You really are always up this early, aren’t you?”

“I’d like to say no, that it’s just when woodland creatures sneak into my bedroom, but if it wasn’t Skippy, it would’ve been Hudson with a potty emergency or Piper with a nightmare or Zoe freaking because she realized she got a problem wrong on her math test or the alarms on the bookstore going off because the garbage truck’s lights looked at it wrong.”

And there it is again. The reminder that she has a big, full, busy life with her family and her business as her top priority.

This is a good thing.

It means we can be casual. Not deep.

She doesn’t have time to get deep with me.

“So this week’s completely different from last week.”

She laughs quietly, throaty with sleep. “Life is never boring here. Also, if you squawk your rubber chicken, I will hang up on you.”

“He stayed in Melbourne. A guy on the crew for the shoot had an English Mastiff that decided Mr. Chicky was his new best friend, so I let him keep it.”

“That was kind of you.”

“Self-preservation, really. Tripp would’ve kicked me out of the family if I’d given it to either of his kids. Or to Lila, come to think of it. I think she’d use it as an alarm clock to get everyone out of bed in the morning just for fun.”

“I’m picturing her at Duggan Field squeezing a rubber chicken instead of blowing a whistle and making the mascots all drop and give her twenty.”

I laugh. “You have been following the Fireballs.”

“Piper loves the Thrusters. Love-loves the Thrusters. But she got bored when there weren’t hockey games to follow over the summer, so she adopted the Fireballs as her second favorite team. And the mascot contest was fun for all of us. That was so smart.”

“I will not be telling my future sister-in-law that you said that. She doesn’t gloat, but she has a killer told you so look. She’s been wearing it since the final mascot reveal.”

“With good reason. Did she know the whole time?”

“Probably.” I stretch back and close my eyes, simply enjoying the sound of Ingrid’s voice. I’ve never wanted to get serious with a woman. Never—not even as a kid—wanted to think about getting married. But I could go for a cup of coffee or tea and an early morning chat like this more often. “What’s your favorite breakfast?”

“Anything I don’t have to cook or wear.”

“Allergies?”

“No, but—never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, Ingrid. But what?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“You’re not begging. What’s but?”

“I don’t like runny eggs and I think bacon’s burnt three shades of brown before anyone else does, but I don’t like it chewy either, so basically, I only ever make myself bacon because every other bacon disappoints me. So I guess my favorite breakfast is oatmeal?”

I try—and fail—to stifle a laugh.