The Grump I Despise (When In Waverly 3)

The metal bedframe squeaks as I climb out from under the blankets. I walk around the room, opening up the closet and peeking in drawers, looking for my clothes. They’re nowhere to be found. I’m about to venture out into the hallway and search the rest of the house for my MIA clothes when I hear rustling behind me.

Colby’s awake and looking less than pleased about it. The dark circles under his eyes tell the story of a rough night. He runs a hand down his face and cracks his neck, making me shudder.

We make eye contact across the room, and his gentle smile makes me weak in the knees for a second there. A good meal will take care of these weak knees. I’m just feeling a bit puny after being sick. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the man watching me from across the room.

And I need to go look in a mirror. For all I know, he could be internally laughing at my horrible appearance. I am well aware of what my hair looks like when I wake up in the morning—and that’s on a good morning. I can guarantee that this is not a good morning. My curls have probably taken on a life of their own after a full night of sweating and tossing and turning. And I didn’t have my silk pillowcase. RIP, curls.

“Are you feeling better?” Colby asks in a deep, gravelly voice. Is this what he sounds like every morning? If so, I want to wake up with him every single day! Wait, what? No. That didn’t come out right. I simply mean that I could get used to that voice.

“Much better. Have you seen my clothes?” I ask, gesturing to his borrowed clothes I’m wearing. His eyes rove up and down my body, and there’s that smile again. He’s usually scowling when he looks at me, so what does this smile mean? Does that make number nine or ten? I’m starting to lose count.

“They’re in the dryer,” he says as he brushes past me into the hall. I follow behind him to the laundry room. He opens the door, and I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s the nicest laundry room I’ve ever seen. There’s a huge wash sink, tons of cabinets, and a long counter for folding clothes. There’s a rack to hang clothes on to air dry. And it’s so clean. It’s the laundry room of my dreams.

Honestly, everything in Colby’s house is a dream. I saw his pantry last time I was here, and I was practically drooling over it. Immaculate is the only word I could use to describe it. If I had a place of my own, I would try to recreate it, but let’s be honest, even if I did, it wouldn’t stay like that because I can’t be bothered to meticulously organize my food all the time.

He opens his dryer and pulls out my jeans and my hot-pink sweater. Oh, no. He put my sweater in the dryer. He passes my clothes over to me, and I hold up the sweater. My suspicions are confirmed. It’s now the perfect size for a flat-chested twelve-year-old. Spoiler: I am not a flat-chested twelve-year-old. There’s no way it’s going to fit my thirty-one-year-old, well-endowed chest. This is (was) my favorite sweater.

I can feel him watching beside me. I try my best to paste on a smile as I turn to face him. He’s chewing on his bottom lip. “It wasn’t that small when I put it in there,” he says.

“Um, no. No, it wasn’t.”

“I’ll buy you another one. Where’d you get it?” he asks. My heart skips five whole beats. It’s a really sweet thought, but I’ve actually had this thing for years. It even has a little snag on the bottom of the hem. I liked it because it looks so happy, and it’s dreamy soft. It’ll make some young girl really happy when she finds it at the thrift store I’m going to donate it to.

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrug my shoulders, trying to look like I don’t care too much. There’s nothing we can do about it now, so why fret? I don’t know why I’m bothering to try to protect his feelings, but that look on his face… He looks like a lost puppy, and I want to hug him and tell him everything is fine.

“Well, at least let me loan you something warm to wear home,” he says. He walks back down the hall to his bedroom. I watch as he digs through his drawer and pulls out a clean t-shirt and a sweatshirt—both way too big for me, mostly in the length department. They’ll have to do unless I want to squeeze into this shrunken sweater or wear this sweat-infused t-shirt home. I lift the collar to my nose and take a quick whiff of it. I drop it and scrunch up my nose. No, this thing is coming off ASAP. It should probably be burned.

I go back to the guest room and get changed. I strip off the bedding and carry them out to the laundry room. “You didn’t have to do that,” Colby says when he sees my arms overflowing with the disgusting sheets.

“I didn’t want you to put your hands all over them and get sick. Where’s your laundry detergent?”

“Far right cabinet,” he says. “I had my hands all over you last night, so I don’t think it matters now.” He pauses, and then his eyes go slightly wide. “That came out all wrong. My hands were only on your face…and your back twice when I helped you sit up. That’s it, I promise!”

“It’s okay, Colbster. I know.”

I turn away from him to grab the detergent, smiling at the thought of his hands on me. A week ago, the thought would have had me running for the hills, but today…today it almost sounds appealing. Almost being the key word here.