“Who, Aunt Maureen? Nah, she knows Boyd’s gay,” Tommy replies and then laughs at his own joke.

 “Yeah, no, he’s not gay,” Chloe replies with an earnest smile and a pat to my thigh. Tommy loses interest after that so I manage to pass the rest of the flight without wanting to kill him.

 That lasts until we land and he asks for a ride into the city with us. And then he points out that he only lives a block from me so I can’t even finagle dropping him off first. Asshole. Fake girlfriend cock-blocking asshole. So we drop Chloe off and I remind Tommy that I’m the one who bailed his dumb ass out when he got arrested for public intoxication on the Jersey Shore in college. Twice. And I’m the one who bought him condoms in high school. And also the one who covered for him when he broke Aunt Hilda’s window with a baseball when we were kids. Let’s just say I have a very long list.

 In any case, Chloe’s at home and I’m not with her. Which sucks. But this day likely wasn’t going to end any differently, Tommy or no Tommy. She needs her space, time to think. Time to decide she wants to see me again without me pressuring her.

 I can wait.

 For now.

Eighteen

 Chloe

 It’s Saturday. And I need a favor.

 I make one last attempt to maneuver the bookcase into my car and then admit defeat and lean against the side of my Corolla while I think. He said he owed me a favor, right? That’s what he said. So what would it hurt to ask? I could just text him and see if he responds. If he doesn’t, no biggie. I know Sophie and Luke own an SUV. But Christine is three weeks old, I don’t want to bother them.

 I tap my foot on the lawn and try to summon up the courage to send a text. I am so stupid. It’s a text. To a guy I slept with. It’s not like he’s a complete stranger. And it’s not that big of a favor. But I hate asking for help. And what if he says no? I’ll feel stupid and I hate feeling stupid.

 Chloe: Are you busy?

 Boyd: No.

 Chloe: I need help moving something.

 Chloe: If you’re not busy.

 Chloe: If you don’t mind.

 Boyd: I’ll be right there.

 Chloe: I’m not at home. It won’t fit in my car. It’s not a big deal. I can figure it out.

 Boyd:: Just give me the address, Chloe.

 Chloe: One second.

 I run back up the driveway and ask the lady what her house address is and then text it to Boyd. He texts back that he’s on his way. So that was painless, I think. It’s going to take him fifteen or twenty minutes to get here, so I leave the bookcase leaning against my car and walk to the house next door. I find a super-cool old frame and a mixing bowl that I’m pretty sure is older than me, but the vintage pattern on it makes me happy and I need one. Plus, it’s only two dollars. I’m dropping them in my car when Boyd pulls up. I wave at him and he pulls in front of my car and parks, then gets out and walks back to me. He’s in jeans and one of the raglan tees he picked up when we were in New York a couple of weekends ago. It fits him perfectly and reminds me that I know exactly what his chest looks like without the shirt. I feel myself flush and quickly try to think about something else.

 “Thanks for coming,” I offer while not looking at his chest.

 “Chloe, this is a garage sale,” he states unnecessarily while glancing up and down the street and then back to me.

 “Did you want to look around before we load up the bookshelf?” I ask him, pointing at the bookshelf that was just a couple inches too big to squeeze into my car.

 “No.” He laughs. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He looks me over and then reaches and wipes something off my cheek. “Eyelash,” he tells me.

 I feel anxious, wondering if he’s laughing at my garage-sale shopping. “It’s fun,” I ramble off and cross my arms.

 He looks momentarily confused then nods. “Sure. So are you done? Should I load this?” He pats the bookcase with his hand.

 “Yeah, I’m ready. Thanks for the favor.”

 He gives me another quick glance before picking up the bookcase and walking it over to his SUV. Then we both get in our cars and I follow him back to my apartment.

 Once inside he places it in the spot I indicate. “It’s nice,” he comments as he steps back and surveys it in my place. “Now what?”

 Now what what?

 “That was it. Thank you,” I offer, a little confused.

 “Lunch,” he responds.

 “Lunch? Um, well, I have laundry and stuff to do.”

 He pins me with an predatory glance and walks closer. I take a step back. Then another until I’m backed up against the wall. He leans down and I think he’s going to kiss me but then he’s tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and whispering.

 “I’ll do your laundry.”

 It takes me a minute because the tone he said it in was sexual rather than domestic. My mind has to catch up with the words and the fact that he just offered to do my laundry, not bend me over the kitchen table. And then I laugh. I give his chest a shove and laugh so hard I snort a little.

 “What was that? A pickup line you use on beleaguered housewives? ‘I’ll do your laundry.’” Another giggle-snort escapes and I slap a hand over my mouth before adding, “I can’t even.”

 Boyd just winks at me and then walks over to my bathroom, coming out with an armload of towels before crossing over to the closet where he finds my hamper and adds the towels before picking up the entire thing and heading for my front door.

 “Hey!” I object.

 “Do you have a washer and dryer in this place?” He pauses by my front door and glances around. “I didn’t think so. Let’s go.” And he opens the door and walks out.

 What. The. Hell?

 “Boyd!” I chase him into the hallway. He’s already two doors down by the time I catch up. “You can’t just steal my laundry. It’s weird. And kinda creepy.”

 “I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you.’ I’m doing you a favor. You can use the washer and dryer at my place.”

 “Um…” I stall.