19
Fluff & Fold
“Stupid piece of—” I grunt, sweat trickling down my back as I fight to lift the heavy bags from the trunk of my car. Even though it’s the beginning of September, the sun feels the hottest it’s been all summer break. I grunt and groan as I struggle with a bag of sopping wet clothes.
“Looks like you could use a hand there, Sprinkles,” I hear from behind me, and my spine stiffens. You have got to be kidding me right now. Seriously, I cannot believe my luck. Out of all the laundromats in all of Guelph, McCoy Graves had to walk up to mine? On a Saturday?
Well, not mine, per se, but the one closest to my house. My damn dryer broke this afternoon, mid-load. I had just tossed in the first batch of around twenty pieces of clothing and linen to dry, when—bam, it stopped after five minutes. And then the stupid thing wouldn’t turn back on. No matter how many times I pushed its buttons, kicked its front, and then tried to sweet talk it, it wouldn’t budge. After a losing battle, I caved, gathered some garbage bags, filled up three with my dirty clothes and one with the clean wet ones, and grabbed some soap, change, and a box of dryer sheets. And here I stand now—in ratty cut-off shorts, without a speck of make-up, hair in a messy topknot, and sweating in my favourite red-starred Rage Against the Machine tank top (which is a bit too tight and has seen better days)—while McCoy stands behind me and watches me battling with the bags in my trunk. Awesome.
Shoving my sunglasses onto my head, I turn and ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Seriously?” He gives me a shit-eating grin. Moving his muscular right arm above his head, he points to the sign that reads “The Golden Coin” in big black letters with the word “Laundromat” underneath.
“I mean, why are you here? At this place?” I shake my head, but before I can turn back and again attempt to get the heavy bag out, McCoy brushes past me and easily removes the torture device. Water drips onto his sandals. “Thank you,” I mutter.
“Anything for you, Sprinkles. I just live around the corner. The washer/dryer set I bought is still on back order, and it’s laundry day, so here I am,” he smiles, shrugging.
“Well, I hope they come soon. I can’t imagine having to do this all the time.” I blow out a long breath, still feeling a bit sweaty. “It seems like a lot of bloody work.” I look down at my pile of garbage bags, and Coy laughs.
“It’s not that bad…at least, not when your clothes aren’t wet and weigh a million pounds.” He chuckles, and I nudge his shoulder. “I was actually just on my way to grab a Slurpee from 7/11.” He motions at the variety store across the road with his chin. “I’ve got three loads in the wash, so I figured I’d kill some time and take a walk. When I saw you struggling there, thought I’d give you a hand then see if I could get you a cold drink while I was at the store. Seems you might need one?” he jokes, and I swear he’s eyeing the sweat that’s no doubt making my face look like a shiny, dripping mess. “Least I can do now that we’ll be laundry buddies. So, can I get you anything?” He picks up all but the one small bag I have in my hand, and carries everything towards the laundromat’s entrance.
“No. Thank you, though. I brought some water,” I say, but quickly change my mind. “Nevermind. Actually I’d love one,” I admit. I go to grab the glass door to hold it for him when it swings open in our direction. I jump, startled.
“Whoa, sorry!” a surprised voice says, and I cringe at the sound. “Eastlyn—hi!”
“Mr. Foley. Hi. H—how are you?” I ask Neil, my student Mitchell Foley’s father. The same man Kami and I have been brainstorming ways for me to avoid as much as possible once school starts on Tuesday. The man seriously cannot seem to accept “no” for an answer.
Despite not wanting to start any kind of conversation with him, at the same time I can’t be rude. He’s a parent, and I need to remain professional and polite, especially with McCoy, my new boss, standing right behind me. I want McCoy to take note and witness that I’m both cordial and friendly when bumping into parents in the community, even ones who make me uncomfortable and try to cross the boundaries I’ve made clear time and time again. I want him to see that, despite his comment back in June on the last day of school about me leaving if I couldn’t handle working with him, that I would actually be missed if I left, regardless whether McCoy meant it or not. I know I’m a good teacher and the kids and parents generally respect me, as I do them.
Unfortunately for me, simply talking to Neil Foley is probably going to read like some type of foreplay in his world. I know if I engage too long, it’s likely he’ll think he’s making headway and will ask me out again.
“Much better now that I’ve seen you, to be honest,” Neil says, shifting his eyes down to the star on my chest, and following that move with a slimy smirk. “You’re looking very well, if I might say so, Miss Hatfield. I’m very pleased Mitch is going to be in your class this year.” I want to throat punch him for stressing the “Miss”—as if I don’t already know I’m single—and then kick him in the shin for setting off my creepdar once again. Hearing McCoy clearing his throat behind me, I start to relax.
“Excuse me,” McCoy says, placing his hands on top of my bare shoulders, pulling me back a step so I’m now flush to him, my back against his solid chest. It’s a possessive move, one that has my inner Coyfreak doing a happy dance. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Coy says, amusement lacing his tone. I assume it’s because he, too, has noticed Neil’s eyes going wide, having caught McCoy’s moves when pulling me in close to him…a move I’ll need to thank him for later.
“I’m McCoy, a good friend of Eastlyn’s,” Coy says, shifting the laundry bags and extending a hand, failing to mention that he’s also the new principal at Westwood Elementary.
“Nice to meet you, man. I’m Neil.”
“Good to meet you, too. You look like you were on your way out. We’d better let you go. We—” he stressed the word, skimming his thumb over my bare shoulder intimately while Neil pays rapt attention, “—have a ton of this one’s laundry to get done today,” Coy says, moving us forward through the door Neil is still holding open.
“Yeah, sure. I gotta go pick up Mitch from his mom’s anyway,” Neil says, his eyes back on mine and looking a bit mournful.
“See you later, Neil. Say hello to Mitch for me,” I say, smiling, and moving past him.
“Have a great day, Eastlyn. Talk to you again real soon,” he winks, and I shudder.
“Who the fuck is that guy, and why the hell did it look like he was salivating over the idea of watching you sort and wash your panties?” Coy practically growls, as he spins me around to face him. His nostrils are flaring, and his hands are now clenched tightly down at his sides.
I can’t deny that I feel a certain rush of excitement at seeing him react this way. Ever since trivia last week, I’ve been admittedly more confused than ever about how attentive and flirty and fun he’d been. “Fishy behaviour,” is what Kami and I had called it the next day when we’d talked about the way both Keaton and McCoy had been acting towards us that night. Seeing him now—and how he reacted to Neil—is both thrilling and confusing in a whole new way. He’s never been one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, to ever let his guard down where I’d been concerned, except for that one time in my parents’ basement. The time I rarely allow myself to think about…
“He’s a parent, one I’m sure you’ll see and hear from a lot,” I say, meeting his intense gaze.
“You fucked him?” he asks, and, instantly, McCoy is the one I now want to throat punch.
“Are you kidding me? I said he was a parent,” I grit, and reach out my hands, attempting to snag my laundry bags out of McCoy’s grip.
I need space. I’m flabbergasted that he’d ask me such a question. I’m even more offended that the thought even entered his mind, as well as the fact that he’d actually voiced it. As if I’d ever cross that line. As if he shouldn’t already know the answer. Doesn’t he know me better than that?
“I’m sorry,” he says, dropping the bags. He places both his hands on my hips and pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine, and sighs. “I can’t explain why I asked. Seeing him eye-fuck you in front of me pissed me right the hell off. I’m sorry I even asked that. I know you’d never. I’m so sorry, baby. Forgive me?” he pleads as he squeezes my hips, and I swear my knees go weak at hearing him call me “baby”. Nodding, I step in closer. I take a chance and wrap my arms around his waist. “I’ll forgive you, this time. Never be like that again though, or I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to my mother’s electric cake mixer, one at a time,” I say, then pinch his cheek. “Got me?”
“Noted,” he chuckles, “I promise. Now, is there any chance I might get to watch you sort your unmentionables?”
“Nope,” I shake my head, “you’ll be at the store getting me that Slurpee you offered while I do that alone,” I say in a singsong voice, stepping out of his tingling embrace and heading towards the counter to start emptying my bags, thankful—after all that—when I notice that we’re the only two people in the whole place.