“You got it.”
And another bout of silence. (That’s the thing about first phone calls: they’re herky-jerky. Conversation may flow perfectly one minute, and then the next minute the air is filled with silent discomfort.)
“Bailey?”
“I’m here.”
“Wanna tell me about your condition?”
“Not really.”
“You brought it up,” Reece pointed out.
“I’m aware.”
“Sooo . . .”
“You’ll run away,” I said softly.
“I’m a man. I don’t run,” Reece replied.
I smiled. “It’s made all the others run away.”
“Because they weren’t men.”
I liked this guy. A lot.
“Now tell me,” Reece demanded gently.
I took a deep breath. “I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Okay.”
I shook my head. “Wait. That’s it? Did you just hear what I said? I have OCD. Like major OCD. Not fake OCD. Not, ‘Oh my God, I just can’t drive my car if it’s not vacuumed out. I’m so OCD.’ Not like that.”
He chuckled. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I know. I’ve always known.”
“What?”
“I know,” he repeated.
“How do you know?”
“Stuff you do.”
“Like what?”
“Well, you arrive at work every day at exactly 7:58 A.M.”
I gasped. “Have you been watching me?!”
“Umm, a little. Not in a stalkerish way, though. I thought you were cute. So I watched you when I could.”
I said nothing. I needed more time to process this.
“You arrange your pens in the same order all the time. By color. I noticed that first. Remember the first time I visited you at your cubicle to discuss the phablet campaign?”
“What about it?” I asked.
“I scattered your pens, and you arranged them?”
I wanted to die. The longer he talked, the worse I sounded. Like a total nut job.
“Bailey?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you think I’m a stalker?” Reece asked.
I smiled. “No. But I think I’m a freak.”
“Why? Because you arrange your pens? Because you eat lunch at exactly noon every day? Because you sanitize—”
“Okay, stop!” I cried. “That’s a little stalkerish.”
He laughed. “I like those things about you.”
I thought about that. No one I’d ever dated liked those things about me. In fact, those were precisely the things that made them run.
This was weird. How could my tics possibly be attractive? Although, I had to remember that he was describing the tame ones. He’d yet to witness the out-of-control tics. And I never wanted him to see them. They were bad enough when I was having a normal day. They were downright scary when my anxiety kicked into high gear.
“Bailey?”
“I’m here.”
“I don’t mind that you have OCD. Do you believe me?”
“Not yet,” I admitted.
“Well, that’s fair. But maybe we could hang out more—outside of the office—and then I can show you how much I don’t care.”
I flushed a deep red. Didn’t see it, but I could feel it all over my face, neck, and chest.
“Okay,” I said.
“Do you have plans today?” he asked.
“Not really,” I replied.
Sundays were usually my “project” days. I actually wrote out a to-do list last night before going to bed. But he didn’t need to know that. And right now I didn’t care about it anymore. Well, that’s a slight lie. I cared about it a little. I was in the process of knitting fall hats for Erica’s kids. I wanted to finish them today. Get them to her by next week. I also had a sewing project . . . Oh my God, Bailey! A hot guy wants to hang out with you today! Priorities. For the love of God, priorities!
“May I come over?” Reece asked.
“You wanna come over here?” I breathed, heartbeat ramping up.
“Sure. Why not?” he replied. “We could cook breakfast together.”
What? I didn’t know if the offer was sweet or weasely. I’m not a distrusting person, but this seemed a bit too forward. I mean, the only time I ever cooked breakfast with a guy was when he stayed over. It’s an intimate thing, cooking breakfast with someone. And it usually falls at the end of a certain order of events: 1. Go on a date. 2. Invite guy back for a drink. 3. Make out hard. 4. Sex. 5. Sleep over. 6. Put coffee on. (For him, not me.)
“It’s just a ploy to see where you live and to learn more about you,” Reece said. It’s like he could read my thoughts. “I don’t have any other agenda. I swear.”
I grinned. “Well, okay.” I gave him my address and an hour—just enough time to shower, blow dry, and apply light make-up.
I was too busy fantasizing about Reece in my house to notice while I was in the shower. I ignored the bathroom mirror and practically danced into my bedroom, hopped up on exhilaration. It wasn’t until I dropped my towel and took a look at myself in the full-length mirror that I screamed bloody murder.
“ERICA!!!”
I was a walking Impressionism painting. No joke. I looked like I stood naked in front of Monet while he swirled orange and yellow clouds all over my body. My instinct was to jump back into the shower and scrub the hell out of my skin, but then I’d look like a tomato when Reece arrived.
Reece! Oh God! Fucking 100 degrees outside, and I couldn’t even wear shorts and a T-shirt in front of him! Oh, I could kill Erica. Kill her. Why did I let her spray me in circles? Something told me she should have been spraying lines. Why didn’t I speak up? Why didn’t I just tell her to practice on her husband?
I had no choice but to cover up in jeans and a long-sleeve tee. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for people with psoriasis and eczema. And then I felt guilty for comparing my tanning plight to their skin conditions.
When I answered the door, my jaw dropped. Reece stood on the porch in a tight white T-shirt and plaid pajama pants holding two bags of groceries. Oh yeah. He also sported slippers.
“Where are your pajamas?” he asked. “It’s breakfast time.”
I grinned. “Did you actually go to the store like that?”
“Uh huh.”
“You went to the store in your PJs,” I clarified.