Chapter Thirty

Nash

The next morning, Nash woke up in his own bed in his own apartment in his own neighborhood after a shitty night’s sleep mostly spent glaring at his ceiling and wondering why in the hell the silence here was so much louder than at Chelle’s place, where there was always a dog barking or snoring or panting after having the zoomies. He made a pot of coffee and realized after he’d already hit start that he only needed a single cup. It was the same story with the too many eggs he’d scrambled and the extra bacon he’d cooked and the fact that after breakfast he went to his cookie jar, looking for the dog food that had never, ever been there.

But that had been where Chelle had kept the kibble at her place.

He just stood there staring at the neatly organized shelves arranged according to meal, not something ridiculous like color, like Chelle’s bookshelves, for God knew how long until someone started pounding on his door. Since he lived in the penthouse with a private elevator someone needed a key to operate, he knew who was at the door before he even opened it and found his sister on the other side.

“I got your text,” Bristol said as she walked in, worry forming a V on her forehead as she looked him up and down. “What happened?”

He’d texted last night to let her know that he had moved back into his own place. It wasn’t because he wanted sympathy or—God forbid—to talk about what happened with his little sister, but because he needed to make sure she knew where to find him if something came up. The last thing he wanted was for her not to be able to reach him if she needed his help.

He started back toward the kitchen. “It’s not worth talking about.”

“Translation,” she said, following him. “It very much is.”

“Do you want some eggs?” When his sister shook her head, he turned on the kitchen faucet and started washing the skillet, scrubbing it until it practically gleamed. “Chelle’s writing a fantasy series about these woodland nymph assassins and the satyrs that are their mortal enemies and lovers.” There was no way that they should be forgotten about in some folder on her laptop. Even the idea of it was wrong on so many levels. The books didn’t just have potential like the Door Dash guy’s customized sneakers. They were exactly the kind of stories that stuck with people like peanut butter on a spoon. “They’re really fucking good, so I shared the first one with Macon and he told an editor about it and they want to make a big-ass offer on it.”

“That’s amazing,” Bristol said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Finally! Someone got it.

“That’s exactly what I told her.” He dried off the skillet and flipped the dishtowel over one shoulder.

“Why does it feel like there’s a but coming?” she asked.

Unease creeped up his spine, the itchy kind that usually made an appearance about five minutes after he did something like explain how multi-leashes worked to a dog walker or offered advice to a couple arguing on the A Train. That oh-shit feeling, though, couldn’t be right. Not this time. He’d only been looking out for Chelle and her future, not butting in where he wasn’t wanted.

“The but is that now she’s pissed I shared the book with Macon,” he said. “She doesn’t want to publish them.”

“How could you have known—” Bristol stopped mid-sentence, closed her eyes, and let out a long sigh. “She told you that, but you ignored her because you thought you knew better.”

“I told Macon to read Chelle’s book because it’s that good.” He started pacing from one end of the massive granite island in the middle of the kitchen to the other, needing some way—any way—to shake off the uncomfortable feeling that he’d screwed himself out of any chance he had to make his fake marriage a real one. “She just can’t see it. I was helping her.”

Just like he helped his family. He was always the one with the answers. Always the one who knew what to do next. Always the one who took care of everything. If he wasn’t that, then who in the hell was he?

Bristol shot him an are-you-completely-oblivious-to-your-own-bad-ideas glare. “You know there is a big, thick line dotted with red flags between being helpful and taking over, between showing someone another perspective and insisting your way is the one way, between giving insight and mansplaining someone’s life to them.”

“You’re wrong.” She had to be. There was no way that he would have ruined everything by being right.

“I guess congratulations are in order, then,” she said, sounding anything but congratulatory. “With this development, looks like you just might win that stupid Last Man Standing bet of yours, then.” She paused, taking a sip of coffee as she watched him over the rim of her mug. “It’s too bad, though. I really thought you two had something.”

Nash didn’t even have to try to picture his life as it had been a day ago on that last date. They’d debated the benefits of one sad-looking Christmas tree over another with the fervor of an old married couple picking what show to watch on TV. Then he’d tossed it over his shoulder and carried it home while Chelle walked beside him with the dogs, who stopped every three steps to sniff a mailbox or the corner of a stoop. It had just started to snow when they got to the corner of her block, and she’d stuck her tongue out to catch the flakes, managing to look both adorable and hot in the process. When she’d opened up the package with matching Christmas pajamas, he hadn’t hesitated, because he’d known it would make her smile and there was nothing better than that.

Yesterday had been perfect, right up until it hadn’t.

“Our marriage was just an arrangement,” he said, each word feeling like a lie. “As Chelle said to me yesterday, we both got what we needed out of it.”

Bristol sat her coffee mug down on the island, sympathy shining in her eyes as she gave him a grim smile. “Whatever you say, Nash.”

What he’d said was the cold, hard truth—no mansplaining needed.