by Kate Davis
In the solitude of my home, I realize the magnitude of the situation. Madeleine called and gave me an ultimatum. This is serious business I can no longer ignore or postpone. I have to deliver on my part of the deal.
“Think, Samantha, think,” I mumble to myself and grab my laptop. I’ve heard of writers penning thousands of words a day. If I sit down and really put my mind to it I can do it too.
It can’t be that hard.
Two hours later and not a single word on the screen, I realize it is hard. Very hard. Impossible.
“Starbucks,” I yell and Sammy’s already at my feet, her usual happy self making me smile.
Chapter Thirteen
The following day, the sound of ringing wakes me up again, followed by Sammy’s incessant barking that seems to penetrate my skull and cause havoc in there.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I peer at the clock and groan.
It’s half past six in the morning.
Who could possibly be visiting?
Madeleine’s name instantly pops up inside my mind, and a pang of terror flashes through me. Maybe I wasn’t as convincing as I thought the day before and she’s now here to inspect whether there really is a cast securely glued to my foot.
“Sammy, stop it,” I hiss. But my dog won’t have any of the obedience thing. In fact, her barking grows even shriller if that’s even possible.
I wrap myself in a morning coat and head for the door, ready to face my demons. I peer through the peephole but all I can see is a huge bouquet of flowers covering the person standing behind it.
For a moment I stand frozen to the spot, feeling guilty for ever thinking a bad thought about Madeleine. Obviously, she is a nice person because she had understood my impossible predicament and is now sending get-well flowers.
How lovely of her!
Of course my predicament isn’t real, which makes me feel even worse about my lie.
I open the door and the flowers move aside, revealing Shane’s grinning face.
“Good morning.”
“What?” I stare at him, confused, taking in his rested features and sparkling eyes, as I try to understand. Did Madeleine send him over with flowers? Or did he not understand that my leg wasn’t broken after all?
My eyes rest on the coffee cup in his other hand. Even if it weren’t for the logo, I could smell Starbucks from a mile.
“For you.” He holds it out to me while pressing the flowers into my arms, and then lowers himself to the ball of fluff trying to jump her way up his leg and right into his embrace.
“Why are you—” I swallow as a whiff of full bloom hits my nostrils.
“Bringing you flowers?” He shrugs, his gaze fixes on my dog as he smooches her, letting her lick his chin and what else not. “I had this dream that you weren’t doing so well.”
“A dream?” I blink again. People don’t usually pay attention to those. I know I haven’t since sixth grade, which makes me kind of wary of people who do. “What kind of dream?”
For a moment he looks uncomfortable, caught in something he doesn’t want to share. “You weren’t doing so well,” he repeats. “Anyway, I thought I’d cheer you up a little.”
“This early?” I don’t want to sound ungrateful but, really, the guy’s making a habit out of this get one out of bed at the crack of dawn thing. I’m not an early riser, never have been. But I wouldn’t say that I sleep in every day, either. He, however, seems to have owned a bakery in an earlier life. Either that, or he grew up on a farm with a rooster beneath his bedroom window and its crowing still haunts him.
Inspiration instantly strikes. I need to pen this down. Hot guy living on a farm, comes to big city and everything’s different. Everything changes. He learns that people over here don’t wake up at the crack of dawn to a mystery cock-a-doodle-doo ringing in their ears.
“Did I wake you?” Shane rises back to his feet and his grin is instantly replaced by a look of grave concern.
“No,” I lie, then realize that this lying is sort of starting to become a habit. It needs to stop, just like his ringing my doorbell at the most unwelcome of hours. “Yes. But I needed to get up anyway. Thanks for the coffee and the flowers…” I break off, strangely touched, and point at the beautiful arrangement of pink daisies and baby breath. “They are beautiful. I had no idea the florists are already open for business.”
“They aren’t, but I have my ways.” His smile looks so genuine I can’t help but wonder why he’s putting so much effort into this. “Want me to take Sammy so you can get straight to work?”
Huh?
Work? I was thinking about heading back to bed. But, sure, work sounds good, too.
“Take her where?” I ask warily.
“Out for her morning walk.”
Oh, yes. That.
I completely forgot some people get up to take their dogs out in the middle of the night. He might have owned a couple of dogs before but not every dog’s the same. He doesn’t know that my Sammy’s not an early riser, either. I hesitate. Obviously, we like our routine and schedule. We worked hard to establish it and I can’t have him change it. But I can’t be rude to him and send him off like that when he obviously means well. And particularly not after he brought me flowers—the expensive kind.
I peer at Sammy. She’s completely relaxed in his arms, enjoying the scratching between the ears. Shane cocks his brows, waiting for my answer.
“Well, I—” I hesitate, unsure what to do.
“Look, I sort of overheard your conversation and want to help. Like I said, she’s no trouble at all. And you seem to have a deadline. And—” He trails off.
“I do. I have a deadline. A very important one.” Slowly but steadily, I’m caving in. “Fine, thanks. But for future reference, she usually doesn’t need to go before nine.”
I grab the leash from behind the door and push it into his outstretched hand.
“Don’t let me disturb your creative flow when I bring her back.” He winks and heads for the elevator with my dog happily following him.
The flow. I feel like laughing. The word’s been so elusive lately, I don’t even know what it means anymore.
But it won’t hurt to give it a try.
Still clad in my shorts and top, with the morning coat now carelessly thrown across the sofa, I sit down at my desk and begin to write. I don’t conceal anything, not the building, not the protagonists’ identity. I simply write it all out, raw, honest. I can come up with different names, places and people later. All I need now is the backbone of a story, and for some reason I can see it in Shane. I write about him, about his English politeness, and infuse some mystery into the whole situation because that’s the vibe he’s giving me.
An hour later, my back’s hurting from the tense position, but I’ve filled a couple of pages and more’s to come. I look at the rows of text, skim over the mystery hinted in them. I can see this is finally going somewhere.
The doorbell rings and Shane returns my pup. “I thought you might have forgotten about breakfast so I brought you something.” He presses another takeaway coffee and a paper bag into my hand. “I’ll take her out again tonight if you want.”
I nod a thanks, eager to get back to my work. Once he’s gone, I return to my desk, munching on a croissant and sipping on a cappuccino as my fingers begin to fly over the keyboard with Shane’s image before my eyes.
Who would have thought all I’d ever need is a muse and some real-life situation as the backbone?
I spend the day working, the hours passing in a blur, only pausing to feed Sammy, cuddle her for a few minutes, and then I’m back at my desk again.
I barely pay any attention to Shane as he takes her out again, getting her off my hands for an hour. Just like he said, he seems to enjoy her company and without any distractions I’m finally making progress. We continue this routine for a week. Every time the phone rings I’m a nervous wreck, waiting in fearful anticipation of hearing Madeleine’s voice. Obviously, I couldn’t de
liver on my promise of sending her anything yet, but soon. I’m sure I’ll have something great in a few days.
That’s when I’m hitting my first stumbling block. I’m halfway through the rough draft of a story, and then the well of inspiration dries up.
I don’t know him. I know nothing about him, I realize, and my brain just won’t make up its own stories. I need him to tell me about his life, who he is, what he does. Otherwise, I see this going nowhere. The problem is, I tried to get him talking before, but so far every attempt remained fruitless.
The last few days, Shane and I have established our own little routine. He gets Sammy every morning at seven sharp (still a little early for me, but it is a decent hour for most people), takes her for a long walk in the nearby park, then returns her together with coffee and breakfast for me (which is the kind of English politeness I’ve come to know while visiting Mom’s relatives). He never demands payment, and while I offered several times, albeit with trepidation at the thought that he might actually accept and leave me completely broke, he’s always been adamant that he should pay me for letting him spend time with my dog.
Ha!
That’s his English humor speaking, I’m sure, but his easy-going way does make him seem a little too charming. Together with his looks it is a dangerous combination that’s made me realize I do like him. Maybe a little too much.
I want to get to know him better, obviously, but priorities first.
The sun’s spilling bright rays through the window, bathing the living room in a bright glow. Shane picked Sammy up ten minutes ago, but instead of settling at my desk to get to work, the way I usually do, I’ve already changed into jeans and a shirt, applied a bit more makeup than usual, tried to get my hair into a basic French braid, and am now heading out to the park. I have an amazing excuse as to why I’m joining him: my creative brain is stale and needs some fresh air. Given that he seems to be quite an outdoorsy guy (yes, what exactly does he do in his spare time other than take my dog for walks?) I’m sure he’ll understand my need for fresh oxygen.
I pass our concierge, a salt-and-pepper-haired guy in his fifties called Harry who’s as talkative as a rock. He barely looks up from the sports section of a newspaper to address me with a nod of his head. I nod back and consider giving him a grunt as well, just so we’ll have gone through our usual communication and be done with it for the day.
Outside, the air’s crisp and filled with the usual pollution. But even with the stench of exhaust fumes, I can still smell the promise of a change in weather. Minding the traffic, I cross the street and dash for the park, which isn’t as busy as I would have expected. Just a few moms pushing prams or watching their kids screaming their heads off at each other.
I take the path toward the bridge and quicken my step until I’ve almost fallen into a light jog. My lungs are almost immediately on fire from the lack of exercise, but who cares? I’m a woman on a mission, and the mission is to put my womanly charm to good use and pick Shane’s brain.
I spy him just ahead, his back turned to me, but his broad shoulders and the confident stance are a dead giveaway that it’s Shane who’s talking to some tall blonde. She is in her early- to mid-twenties, clad in tight runner’s gear that sheath her slender physique. Shane’s clutching my dog to his chest and the woman’s inched forward, laughing at something he’s saying.
My gaze narrows and my previously perfect mood is quickly replaced with something like anger. In fact, I can almost see the proverbial dark clouds gathering above my head.
“You can’t be serious,” I mumble to myself, frozen to the spot.
My blood’s boiling in my veins as countless thoughts fight for center spot inside my mind. Now I know why he’s so eager to take my dog out every day. Sammy’s so fluffy and pretty, and she can be so well-mannered if she wants to be. She’s a magnet. And he’s using her to get women’s attention. I bet he’s pretending she’s his dog or that she belongs to his little sister or something similarly sickening. I can see why women would show the blonde’s reaction. Not only is he sexy, but any guy who’d rather own a Pomeranian than a bulldog is bound to be in touch with his emotional side, right?
As though sensing my thoughts, the blonde’s gaze shifts toward me and a questioning look flashes across her face. Given that we’re in NYC and someone could take out his gun and shoot you any second, her caution doesn’t come as a surprise.
I avert my gaze and head for the nearby trees, looking at the ground as though I’m looking for something I’ve lost, which is my marbles for trusting this guy.
I should have followed my gut instinct all along instead of letting my guard down. He’s used me and my dog, and there I was thinking he was the good Samaritan he pretended to be.
I hide behind a tree, out of the blonde’s sight, to consider my next step. Should I call him up on it? I’m angry, yes, but making a public scene isn’t my thing. Besides, thinking about it, we’re not dating or anything. He owes me no explanation, nothing. I’d rather go back home, never mention the incident, but push him completely out of my life.
With a last glance back (the blonde throws her hair back and laughs some more), I head back home, and pass the concierge who’s not getting any sort of acknowledgment from me for a change.
The half-hour wait for my dog feels like an eternity, but it passes eventually no matter how aggravatingly slow. I’m already at the door before he’s even rung the bell, and have snatched my dog from him before he’s even had time to ask about my progress (which he always does, the weasel! Thinking he’s oh-so clever).
“Are you—”
I don’t let him ask if I’m okay because, obviously, I’m not. “Thanks for your time, however, our agreement has come to an end. From now on, I’m going to take Sammy for her daily walks.”
“Why? What’s wrong? Did anything happen?” His gaze is sincere and completely clueless. Either he’s really that good of an actor or he thinks there’s nothing wrong with using my dog to collect women’s phone numbers.
“We have no need for you anymore.” I infuse as much ice into my tone as I can.
His expression darkens and for a moment he looks hurt even. I swallow hard. Maybe my words were a little too harsh, given that he did help me a lot and for the first time in months I was actually making progress. But then the blonde woman’s glowing face flashes before my eyes, her laughter at whatever he’s saying to her, her fingers touching his arm.
Nope, I wasn’t too harsh. Not by a long shot.
“Goodbye, Shane.” I slam the door in his face and drop to the floor, leaning my back against the wall.
My own words hurt me, probably because I really was starting to like him a little too much. I should have known better. There’s a reason why Sammy’s everything to me. I don’t let people get too close, and particularly not men. The past taught me well.
But for some reason, I had thought Shane was different. As it turned out, he isn’t just a frog like the rest of them, he’s a big, fat toad.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s three days later when the noise coming from the apartment next door starts again. I’m sitting on the sofa, cradling a huge mug of coffee in one hand and my cell phone in the other. Amanda and I are Facetiming and she’s telling me everything about a new pair of shoes she’s seen somewhere and needs to have. Or maybe she’s moved on to the dress that would go well with the shoes. I can’t remember because when she talks fashion everything becomes a blur. I’m already having a hard time focusing on what she’s saying. Add the thudding sound next door to the mixture and my head’s spinning.
“You know what? Can I call you back?” I don’t wait for her answer before signing off. I’ve jumped to my feet and am at the door in a second, ready to give the guy a piece of my mind.
Wow, he’s moved on fast. Not that we were ever dating or anything, but I thought we kind of clicked. I thought maybe, just maybe, he would have enough decency to keep quiet about his bedroom activities rather than advertise them to
the entire building.
I leave Sammy back in my apartment and pause in the hall, in front of his door. Prior to moving in, I was told this is a quiet building with very considerate residents. The thudding isn’t as loud here, but it’s still pretty much everything you hear, not counting the traffic outside. He can’t be so self-focused not to know that. Maybe he likes other people tuning in to him. Maybe he enjoys the audience, in which case I’m probably encouraging him, giving him a kick, so to speak.
I hesitate.
Should I knock?
Should I ring the bell?
Should I call him on his cell?
I can’t face him just yet and particularly not after he’s done who knows what with who knows whom.
I walk back to my apartment. Then again, I can’t listen to this either. It drives me nuts. I have to say something, put a stop to it.
That’s when the door to his apartment is thrown open and out comes the blonde, clad in her running outfit, clutching what looks like a folder under her arm.
“See you next week?” she purrs. I don’t hear his reply but I can tell she’s pleased with it because a smile lights up her face and she’s glowing.
As the door closes in her face, she turns and our eyes connect. For a brief moment, I think I see recognition in her gaze, or maybe I just look familiar to her. Either way, I can’t have her think she saw me before and I might be spying on him or anything.
“I’m the neighbor,” I say and jiggle my apartment keys at her. “Just got home from—”
She frowns and says, “Great,” in that tone that tells me she really doesn’t care who I am or whether I’ve just crawled from under a rock when she’s the one bedding the hottie in town. As though to show me just how insignificant I am, she raises her cell phone and begins sliding and typing, her face still turned toward me, but her expression tells me I’ve probably just become invisible or something.
“Well, I’ll—” I point needlessly at the door and let myself in, feeling like a complete idiot.