by Kate Davis
“Of course she can. Well, I’m great. I hope you and Dad are, too.” I actually know they are. She called a mere three hours ago to tell me that Dad’s heartburn issues were solved. “I need to go back to work now.”
“Ah, work.” She makes a whiny sound, and I know she’s making her sad face to Dad again, who’s probably listening glued to her hip, even though I’m sure she has me on speakerphone. That’s how close they are. Even her private conversations about Dad involve Dad. Now, imagine what it was like for me when Mom decided it was time for the talk about the birds and the bees, and Dad had to be sitting a few feet away, mirroring Mom’s every expression and then chiming in like her male echo. Even worse, old Pastor Rick was sitting on the far end of the table, quoting from the Book of Solomon. Ten years later and I still can’t read that part of the Holy Bible without blushing.
“How’s that coming along, dear?” Mom asks.
“Fine,” I lie. You can’t tell my parents the sad reality. You simply can’t. It would be like setting off an avalanche, and before you know it you’ve moved back home, let Dad take you out for ice cream while Mom’s prepared a welcome home party, inviting all the neighbors and the people you thought you’d never see again.
It’s happened to me before…twice.
“Is something holding you back, dear?” Mom asks carefully. “Like your new flat?”
“The new apartment is great, Mom. You can’t believe everything you read.” I huff inwardly. “Sometimes, it’s just the figment of a writer’s imagination.”
“Hm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. In fact, I’m sure it’ll only take a minute before she tries a new approach that will be just as obvious as the previous one.
“Well, love. The way Dad and I see it, your move to—”
“Mom!” I almost screech before she can continue. “I’m sorry to have to cut you off but I have this important thing today. And I can’t be late.”
“What important thing?” Dad shouts down the line.
“That thing, you know?” I swat at the air, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”
I hate lying to them, I really do, but sometimes it’s a matter of survival—the survival of my mental health. The way I see it, I’m actually doing it to protect them from an imminent heart attack if they knew the state of my job prospects, finances, the crime rate around here.
Not to mention, there’s nothing Christian about the area where I live.
Besides, it’s not really a lie. I do have something important to do, which is head to the coffee shop down the street and get some caffeine to help me finish that first draft I’ve been working on. Actually, finish is kind of far-fetched. It should rather be “help me start that first draft”.
So far it’s been millions of random ideas but nothing concrete. Nothing satisfying. Nothing remotely resembling the “it” that would make the backbone of a good story.
“Don’t forget about dinner next weekend. And wear something fancy,” Mom says.
“Wouldn’t miss it in a million years. Love you, guys.” And with that, I press the end call button and heave a sigh of relief.
It takes me all of three seconds until it dawns on me that I’ve just given Mom my standard answer without even thinking.
Wait! What dinner? What was she just talking about?
She never invited me over and I’m darn sure I never accepted, not least because
It’s a two-hour drive and I don’t own a car, meaning I’ll have to fork out money I don’t have on a cab
Mom likes to pack as much sherry as she can into her recipes, meaning she’ll expect me to stay over because see 1
There’s never the “bed and breakfast” option with my parents. What sounds like a harmless invitation to dinner will most certainly turn into a whole weekend with…well, Mom and Dad
And finally, you can bet your meager wages that it’s never just my parents and me. Before you know it, everyone you know and don’t want to know has popped over to inquire about “it’s none of their business”.
I’m about to speed dial my parents’ number and cancel their dinner plans when I realize I haven’t catered to Sammy’s needs and she’s literally taken it out on the rug.
“Sammy.” I shake my head in grim annoyance, signaling that I’m not pleased having to spend the next three days getting the smell of dog pee out of the rug. But as usual, the only sign of understanding I get from my pooch is a loud bark, her signal that we’re nearing feeding time.
“Should mommy clean up or get a coffee?” I pet her head. Yes, I know she’s intelligent and is probably wrapping me around her little paw, but I can’t help myself.
Sammy barks and jumps up and down, then spins in a circle. She may only know her commands when I carry a slice of cheese in my hand, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only dog mommy in the world with a pooch that will run down to the local Starbucks store to get help should I ever find myself stuck to the toilet seat or whatever other household malice befalls people. All I have to do is say the magic word. Well, the second magic word right after “cheese”.
“Sammy.” My little buddy cocks her head. “Let’s head down to Starbucks.”
That’s all the invitation she needs to speed down the tiny hallway to the door, her little legs trampling like a herd of elephants.
I grab the dirty rug and throw it out onto the tiny balcony to clean it later, then grab my laptop, cell phone, purse and Sammy’s leash. The rug can wait for now, but my writing can’t. Maybe today’s the day when inspiration will finally decide to pop her head around the corner.
I would certainly welcome her with open arms.
Chapter Three
It feels as though it’s in the middle of the night when a loud banging noise wakes me up. Actually, I’m not sure whether it’s the banging or Sammy’s incessant barking, but whatever it is, it’s like a jackhammer is pounding against my head.
Groaning, I reach for the night lamp but only manage to knock over a glass of water in the process, which only succeeds in setting Sammy off even more. My head feels as though a wailing fire alarm has just joined the jackhammer.
The disadvantage of moving into a new apartment is that it takes a while to learn where every switch is. In the meantime, one might just have to spend a little fortune on new glassware.
I scramble out of bed and squeeze my feet into my water-soaked slippers, my feet making squishy sounds as I stumble blindly for the hall, and almost trip over Sammy.
Thank goodness I finally find the light switch. The hall’s instantly bathed in glaring brightness. I reach the front door in three steps and yank it open as wide as the security chain will let me, then peer through the palm-wide crack.
“Well, hello, neighbor.”
I stare at the six-foot-three British guy, taking in his lopsided grin and the cleaning gloves and garbage bags in his hands. He’s wearing a white, snug T-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips—nothing remarkable, really, but for some reason, he looks like he’s stepped straight out of a fragrance advertisement—you know, the expensive kind.
And for some reason, the realization annoys the heck out of me. No one looks so good in the middle of the night. I know I certainly don’t.
“What do you want?” I squeeze through gritted teeth. My good manners have apparently deserted me.
“Ah, now that’s neighborly friendliness if I ever saw some.” His lips stretch into a stunning smile with perfect, white teeth and two little dimples.
I suck in my breath as another wave of annoyance hits me.
Dimples.
Does he have to have a perfect pair of those?
Some women are suckers for blue eyes, a killer smile, six-pack abs. Well, I could resist any of those on any given day. But not those tiny little indentations that don’t even make much sense physiologically. It’s as though the good Lord made them with the pure intention of making good-looking guys like whatever-his-name-is, look even more scrumptious than he alre
ady does. I mean, why toss him a good thing or two from the genes pool when he can win the whole darn lottery?
I bet his personality sucks.
Apparently, Sammy doesn’t think so because she’s instantly stopped her barking and is now making those tiny wailing sounds that signal elation and are usually reserved for her best friends.
Aka me.
“Like I said, what do you want?” I really want to slam the door in the guy’s face but that goes against everything I stand for. So, I take a deep breath and begin my inner chant.
Patience. Forbearance. I treat my neighbor as I want to be treated.
“Anyone ever told you not to open the door to strangers when they come knocking in the middle of the night?” The guy’s grin widens.
“I’m not afraid of anything because I have Jesus on my side. In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me.”
The guy laughs. I narrow my eyes at him, and his smile suddenly vanishes. “Oh, you’re not kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
I stare at him through the crack in the door. The glaring hall light’s shining behind him, meaning it must still be dark and early outside. I want to tell him to come back at a more appreciated hour, like, never, but I keep my mouth shut for two reasons.
One, he plants his hand in the crack of the open door and I’m not going to slam it shut and hurt him unless I need to. See previous comment about me not condoning violence and all. Besides, I wouldn’t have the money to pay for a lawyer if he decided to sue. (That’s the downside of living in NYC, you always need to consider the legal consequences of all your actions, just in case.)
And then there’s also the fact that he looks so hot I doubt I could go back to the warmth of my bed without thinking of those strong hands and the day-old stubble caressing every inch of my body.
Attraction is one thing. The lust of the eye is another. I’m absolutely not going to indulge in thoughts about how much his looks, or anything about him for that matter, appeal to me and risk the salvation of my soul.
“May I come in?” my neighbor asks. “I’d like to help you.”
I narrow my eyes and heat shoots up my neck. “With what?” I know he can’t read my thoughts but the harmless question doesn’t sound quite so harmless following the trail my thoughts were just taking in my head.
“To remove the dead animals you’ve been hoarding on your balcony.”
I stare at him for a good two seconds. Dead animals? What, for crying out loud, is he talking about? My anxious gaze shifts quickly to Sammy who’s very much alive and busy scratching at the door in the hope of digging her way out into the hall. She is so incessant, I absolutely envy her focus.
“What dead animals? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” I grumble.
“The ones you keep hidden in your rolled-up rug on the balcony.” The guy’s lips twitch at the corners. He’s laughing at me. He must be because I don’t keep any animals hidden in—
Oh, no!
I peer at my hard-working pooch, but this time there’s no anxiety in my gaze. I’m mad, both at her because she’s still not potty trained, and at myself for not making sure she is potty trained and for forgetting about the soiled rug.
“Oh, the rug. That was Sammy. I couldn’t get her out in time and she’s done her number one and two on it. And I—” Forgot, I should add. Instead, I end up rambling, “—It was late and this neighborhood isn’t—”
“Don’t you have a dog walker?”
Of course I do. I also have a successful writing career, and a gorgeous and faithful boyfriend who is involved in our local church, a potty-trained dog, the list goes on.
“She quit on me last week and I haven’t had time to find a replacement,” I say sarcastically.
“I could do that for you…until you find a replacement. You could get your job done, whatever it is that you do.” He pauses for a moment and his brows shoot up, as though he’s expecting an answer. I press my lips into a tight line. There’s no way I’m divulging any information about myself to someone like him. “And you wouldn’t have strangers asking about the rugs on your balcony.”
“Until I find a replacement?” I laugh.
There’s never going to be a replacement, unless someone does the job for free. And there’s only one rug. One! I had to throw all the others out after realizing Sammy sees them as some sort of puppy training mat. Only, she isn’t a puppy anymore, and she’s always had this penchant for rugs. Whenever she sees one, it’s like it triggers a peeing mechanism in her tiny bladder. She’ll pee on it, no matter what, even if it means squeezing out only a few drops.
“You can take your time,” my neighbor prompts. “I love dogs. I could take her with me for my daily jog. I wouldn’t charge you anything, and the exercise will do her good.”
His gaze travels to Sammy’s chubby belly. I let the last comment slide because, even though it’s none of his business, let’s face it, she could do with a bit of exercise.
“Uhm.” I might be able to get some work done without Sammy’s constant rubbing around my feet or her little eyes begging me for attention. And then there’s also the fact that if my writing doesn’t come along according to plan, I’ll soon have to find a part-time job, and I haven’t figured out what to do with Sammy.
I don’t know what to say to his offer, mostly because panic shoots through me at the thought of leaving my little pooch with a complete stranger. I would need to see references first, get a background check to make sure he’s not a criminal.
“Uhm.” I narrow my eyes on him, trying to read his nonchalant expression.
“Or you could give me an answer later when you’re not looking at me like I’m trying to steal your dog.” His beautiful lips stretch into a smile. “The offer stands.” His eyes twinkle with something as he holds my gaze. It must be my imagination because, really, he can’t possibly see much through the crack in the door, but a little jolt of energy bursts through me.
It’s been long, too long, since a guy’s looked at me like that. As though he can see right into my heart, and likes what he sees in there. There was only ever one person who made me feel that way.
Markus—the guy I thought I’d marry. The guy whose cheating ways made me lose my trust in men.
“Shall I?” My neighbor’s voice jolts me back from my not-so-pleasant walk down memory lane.
“What?”
“The rug? I don’t want to sound rude but I like to keep my bedroom window open and the scent’s wafting over.”
“Oh.” I peer behind me, as though I could make it magically disappear from my balcony and save myself the embarrassment of having this hot guy clean up Sammy’s mess. “I’ll clean it up later,” I mumble, inwardly chanting, go away, go away.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll do it now. It won’t take a minute.”
The Brit just won’t give up.
“Fine.” Defeated and utterly humiliated, I pick up the reason for my humiliation, aka my dog, and unlatch the door.
Sammy gives a little yelp of protest as she wiggles in my arms.
My neighbor walks past me and of course, he stops to greet Sammy by lowering his head to hers to let her lick his chin.
“You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” I can’t help but wonder whether he’s talking to Sammy or my chest, which is inches from his face. He is standing a bit too close for comfort and it does look strange.
“Great. Let’s do this.” I kick the door shut with my foot and march past him to show him the way to the balcony. My apartment’s so small, it’s not like he needs a tour guide when you can already spy it from the open living room door. But I need to put some distance between this guy’s face and my heaving breasts.
“It’s out there.” I needlessly point at the glass door overlooking the gray concrete building opposite ours.
My neighbor expertly maneuvers his way between my still unpacked boxes. As soon as he’s opened the door, I absolutely get what he’
s talking about. The smell isn’t overpowering and it doesn’t reek like something died, but it’s not pleasant either.
“Okay if I chuck this?” He lifts up the rug.
I nod, shame creeping up my face. “It’s not mine, really. It was here when I moved in.”
“Makes sense. Better get rid of it. Who knows what happened to it to make it smell the way it does,” he says.
“Absolutely.”
If only he knew the truth about my Pomeranian and her love for marking rugs. In my experience, no amount of cleaning and scrubbing ever helps. You either throw the thing in the trash or you get it professionally cleaned. Since I don’t have the money for anything that involves the word “professional”, particularly when Sammy would pee on it all over again, I would have thrown out the soiled rug sooner or later. I just didn’t get around to doing it straight away, and then, truth be told, I forgot.
He squeezes the rug into one of the bin bags he must have brought with him and then scans the mess of boxes filled with the previous tenant’s stuff.
I shift to put a few more inches between the guy and me, not used to having a stranger in my private space. At least not the good-looking kind. “I moved in three weeks ago. Whoever lived here before me left it behind and I haven’t thrown it out yet in case they come back for it.” I don’t know why I’m explaining my motives to this guy, but I know I’m still mortified about the rug, and I don’t want him to think badly of me.
“I doubt they’ll come back for it. It was a sweet, old lady and she died.”
“What?” I feel my eyes bulging out of my head. I’m so sorry the old lady died, I really am, but I wish he hadn’t told me. Knowing this, I can’t live here anymore. While I don’t believe in ghosts, it’s just creepy. It’s just—
I shudder and look around me, as if the woman’s corpse might just manifest out of nowhere. Where did she die? I need to know now. I hope it wasn’t in the bedroom because otherwise I’ll never be able to shut my eyes again. I mean, imagine you’ve just drifted off to blissful sleep while some decaying skeleton’s staring at you with crazy, demon eyes and you don’t even know it.