He backs up a step. He looks afraid. Or maybe just totally mystified. “Well, I’ve observed you on the patio with your Kindle …”
My Kindle! Reading? He turns his hand slightly and I see, now, that he’s holding a flash drive. It’s my turn to be totally mystified. What’s reading have to do with sex? Ohmygod. I don’t think I heard him right. What did he say? What did he say?
“Um, Jeremy? Could we back up to the beginning? What did you say to me when I opened the door?”
He looks to his left for a moment as though he can see the whole thing on replay. Then he raises the flash drive higher and looks me in the eye. “Well, I started to say that I need you to do a favor for me, but then—”
“I interrupted you.”
“Yes, and then I realized favor was not the correct word, so I—”
“Changed it, yeah. So, what do you need me to do for you?”
He sighs. “It’s rather complicated. But first, I’d like you to read a book and tell me what you think of it.” His eyes narrow. “What did you think I said?”
“Never mind.”
I step back, opening the door wide and motioning for him to enter. He takes one step inside. One step in and to the side actually, like he’s not sure he wants to fully commit to being in the apartment of an obviously crazy woman. He stands there like he’s poised to make a quick escape. Then I remember another part of what he said—or did he?
“Did you say this would be beneficial to us both?” He nods, but he looks nervous about it. Like he’s afraid I’m about to freak out again. “Okay, so what exactly did you mean by that?”
He opens his mouth, shuts it, and then pockets the drive and reaches for the doorknob. “On second thought—”
“Wait!”
He snatches his hand back and snaps to attention.
I laugh. I didn’t mean to, but now I can’t stop because it’s all so ridiculous that I thought that he thought … ohmygod. I’m laughing so hard tears fill my eyes. He looks at me positively horrified and that makes me laugh harder. I’ve finally cracked. If Gabi were here we’d be peeing our pants. Oh crap. I cross my legs too far too fast, which makes me lose my balance and fall on my ass. But I don’t stop laughing. I can’t. It’s hopeless.
I don’t realize Jeremy’s making a break for it until I hear the door shut behind him. But that sound sobers me instantly. Not again. What will he think of me now? And would it make the situation better or worse if I explain the mix-up that set off my laughing freak-out? Wouldn’t telling the truth be the same as telling him I think about sex every time I think about him?
Got it! If necessary, I’ll tell him I was high.
Anyway.
Now I have an excuse to go see him. I get off the floor and go into the bathroom for a mirror check to make sure that, at least, I look sane. I look like crap. Depression is all over my face … and my clothes. It’s midafternoon and I’m still in my pj’s. And with a quick run of my tongue over my teeth, I discover I haven’t even brushed them today.
“Excellent, Chelsea. You look like you’re halfway to bag lady already.” And that reminds me that Jeremy mentioned paying me. Yes.
I wash up, fix my hair, apply enough makeup so I look like I’m alive but not enough to make him think I’m coming on to him—I’m not!—and get dressed.
Twenty minutes after he ran in terror out my door, I’m knocking on his. He opens it, doing that six-inch peek out thing again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Really.”
“Okay. So can we just forget the last half hour?”
He opens the door wide and motions me inside. “In retrospect,” he says, “I suppose my request seemed rather odd.”
“Oh, um, about that. You want me to read your poetry?”
The look he gives me makes it clear I’ve confounded him again. I swear it’s like we speak two different languages. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“No. I proposed you read something, but it isn’t poetry.”
“Well, I assumed you were asking me to read something you wrote.”
“Where did you get the idea I’m a poet?”
Hmm. “You’re not?”
He huffs a laugh. “Naturally, I’ve written the odd verse, which is how I know I’m definitely not a poet.”
“Oh. That’s cool. I’m not exactly the poetry type anyway. So what do you want me to read? And why?”
“I would like your … impressions … your thoughts on a romance novel.”
It’s a struggle, but I manage to keep from swallowing my tongue. He writes romances? No way. Maybe he means literary love stories like Pride and Prejudice or Romeo and Juliet. “Romance?”
“Yes. And since I know you’re fond of those movies—”
“And I’m a woman, your target market.”
“Exactly.”
He looks so relieved that we’re finally communicating I have to bite my lip. I’m afraid if I smile, I might start laughing again, and then we’d be back to square one.
“I would pay you, of course, as I said.” He pulls the flash drive from his pocket. “Here’s the Kindle file. I assumed that’s how you’d want to read it.” He hands me the drive. “Or would you prefer I print it?”
“This is fine. So you want me to read it and give you my opinion?”
“Yes. A woman’s viewpoint.”
“I thought writers had critique groups and editors and other people who do that.”
“Yes. Well, you see, this is … a friend’s book. I offered her my assistance.”
“Oh.” Her. And I thought I was going to get a glimpse into Jeremy’s head by reading this. It’s probably his girlfriend’s damn book. “Then why aren’t you reading it?”
His face goes blank. Apparently, my elaborately detailed question stumped him.
“Jeremy?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I have read it. But I’m a man, you see.”
“But your friend is a woman. With”—I mime quotes—“a woman’s viewpoint.”
“Ah, yes.” Another few seconds of blankness. “Yes, but after all the writing and revision and editing, it’s hard to see your work objectively. Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh. So she’s going to pay me—”
“I am.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
My mouth drops open. Play it cool, Chelsea. “Five?”
“Is that not adequate?”
Is he nuts? “Yes. That’s adequate. And this is for a read and my thoughts, not critical analysis or editing or anything like that?”
“Yes.” His sigh telegraphs relief. “When can she expect to get your feedback?”
“How soon does she want it?”
“A week? Two?”
“More like a couple of days. I’m a fast reader—but not so fast that I won’t read carefully.” I turn to leave, but he blocks my way.
“Shall I pay you in advance?”
“No.” Did he just get off the naive boat, or what? “You can pay when I’m done.”
He nods and opens the door for me.
“Thank you, Chelsea.”
“No problem. Oh, and I’m not busy, so I’ll probably start on this right away.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you’ll be an immense help.”
I practically run back to my apartment. If the “current rate” is five hundred dollars a pop, I’m going to have to check out how to get a permanent book reading gig. Wait till Gabi hears this.
She calls me two seconds after she gets my text. “You misunderstood how much he said he’d pay you.”
“No, I didn’t. I even repeated the five, and he for sure wasn’t offering to pay me five dollars. He said three words: the first was five and the third was dollars. Five hundred dollars.”
“But that’s crazy.”
“I agree, but I’m not turning it down.”
After I get off the phone, I load Jeremy’s friend’s book onto my K
indle. The file is named Chelsea.mobi, which I assume is just my name, not the title of the book, but no title page appears on the reader. Wouldn’t the author want you to know the title?
Anyway.
I read up to and through dinner, skipped TV, and now I’m reading in bed. I should reach the end in about twenty minutes. I’m making—no, I’m clearing, like seventy-five dollars an hour. It makes me sick to compare that rate to what I cleared for an hour of work at the deli. And reading isn’t even work.
Whoever the author is—that’s not given either—she writes a good story. It’s engaging and sexy and I’m in love with the male lead. And unless the ending comes out of nowhere and ruins it all, I won’t have any negative feedback to give. That’s hardly worth five dollars, let alone five hundred. Not that I won’t accept the money. Jeremy’s the one who set the price.
There’s only one thing that’s bothering me. He said, “first, I’d like you to read a book and tell me what you think of it.” So what comes second?
CHAPTER 10
I’m anxious to talk to Jeremy about the book today. From what I can hear, he’s on his usual schedule this morning, so I’m sitting on my patio waiting for him to take his lunch break. But two minutes after twelve, just as I’m about to head up to his apartment, he leaves the building and drives off. I stay put, hoping he’s just gone to get some fast food. After thirty-five minutes, I give up and go inside to eat a peanut butter sandwich, which ranks close to the bottom on my list of edibles. My need for a trip to the grocery store has become critical. But first, I want to talk to Jeremy and get paid.
I eat the sandwich at my still clean dining table—as freaky as that is—where I can sit facing the patio door, hoping to see him when he comes back. I finish eating, make a lightning trip to the bathroom, and still he’s not back, so I take my Kindle back to the patio and scan through his friend’s book. I reread the steamy scenes, picturing Jeremy as the male character, Ethan More. But it’s harder to imagine myself as Ethan’s lover, Fionna, who’s a tall, blue-eyed redhead. Is that what the author looks like? And is she more than just Jeremy’s friend?
I glimpse movement through my lashes and look up. A huge, hairy stranger, with some kind of cables in his hand, stands on the other side of the low privacy wall that surrounds my patio.
“You’re apartment 1A, right?” he says.
I’m not sure I should answer his question. With my phone in hand, thumb posed to dial 911 if necessary, I stand. But now he’s practically right in my face, so I back closer to the patio door. Who is this man? As if he read my mind, he points to the logo patch above his shirt pocket and then over his shoulder to the Custom Carpet Care truck parked at the curb.
Oops, today’s that day. Hoping to disguise my paranoia, I flash him a smile. He doesn’t smile back.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s me.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll bring the hookup through your patio door. You’ve got an outlet right there.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before he drapes the handful of cables over the railing—two of which are hoses, I see now. “Are you ready for me?”
“Ready?”
“Do you have all your personal items off the floor?”
“Personal items?”
He works his jaw for a second before responding. “Clothes, shoes, pizza boxes, stuff like that. I’ll move any small tables, chairs, floor lamps, if needed. Heavy furniture stays put … unless you want it moved out, which will cost you extra, and I’ll have to reschedule for a day when I have a helper.”
“No need for that.”
He looks to his left and points. “That the bedroom?”
“Why do you want to know?” That’s a perfectly reasonable question to ask, but he gives me a look that says I’m wasting his time. Or being difficult. Or both. I saw that subtle shake of your head, Mr. Carpetman.
“To keep from tracking over carpet I’ve already cleaned, I’d like to start in the bedroom and work back to the front door.”
“Oh. But you’re supposed to clean only the living room carpet.”
He gives me that look again—doubled. “That’s not what the work order says.”
“Well, that’s a mistake. Jeremy paid for just the living room.”
He sighs. Then he turns and stomps back to his truck. He returns with a clipboard. “Says here, ‘3 rooms 1 hall’. And it was prepaid in full by a Jeremy … Pearce.”
Crap. Just my luck this happens when Jeremy’s not home. Should I let them do the job he paid for? I certainly can’t afford to pay him back if this turns out to be a misunderstanding.
“If I only let you clean the living room, would Mr. Pearce be reimbursed?”
Mr. Carpetman closes his eyes, like he thinks I can’t see him roll them under his lids. The man is rude, if you ask me.
“Lady,” he says, “I just do what’s on the work order. Do you want me to clean your carpet or not?”
I straighten to my full height and lift my chin for good measure. “Of course I do. I just need a minute to check the bedroom.”
I unlock the front door for him and then hurry to make my bed and pick up whatever I’ve dropped on the floor. It’s a good thing I’m still keeping the clutter in check. Mostly. I gather scattered shoes and clothes, a book, two magazines, and a box of crackers. Then I dump them all on the closet floor and slam the door.
When I turn around, Mr. Carpetman is standing in my bedroom doorway with a spray bottle in hand.
“How long does this usually take?” I ask him.
“If everything goes right,”—he pauses to give me a warning look—“I’ll be out of here in an hour.”
“Good.”
“Any stains in here?”
“Sta—oh, on the carpet. No, not that I know. But there’s pizza sauce—”
“In the living room, yeah. Already pretreated.”
“Well. Okay.” When I near the door, he steps out of my way. What am I supposed to do now? I probably missed seeing Jeremy return, but I guess I’m stuck here for the next hour anyway. I grab a bottle of water and take it out to the patio. Relieved to see that Jeremy’s parking spot is still empty, I pick up my Kindle. I’m deep in another hot daydream when the object of my desire speaks aloud.
“I see the carpet cleaner has arrived.”
For the second time today, I look up into the eyes of a man outside my patio. Except these eyes are blue-green and sexy, and God, I want him. I mentally slap myself. You’re neighbors, neighbors, neighbors.
“Yes,” I say. “But there was a mix-up. You paid for more than just the living room. And the living room wasn’t really necessary, though I do appreciate it.”
“No mix-up. It was a bargain.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Switching off my Kindle distracts me for no more than five seconds, but when I look up, Jeremy’s entering the breezeway of our building. I jump out of my chair, intending to run to my front door and head him off at the stairs, but I’m stopped by a glare from the carpet guy, who’s worked more than halfway across the living room carpet. I sit back down. Fifteen minutes later, the carpet guy leaves. Too late. Jeremy’s keyboard is already clicking. I can’t interrupt him now.
Sometimes I’m grateful for the lack of sound insulation in these apartments. When I concentrate, I can hear enough from the apartment above to track nearly all of Jeremy’s movements. It’s almost a quarter past three, and he’s no longer typing, but he hasn’t moved from his desk. After a couple of minutes, I hear his muted voice, signaling he’s on the phone. When am I going to get a chance to talk to him about this book?
I go back to reading until, from above, I hear him cross the room and head down his hall. I’m slow getting off my bed because I’m engrossed in what Fionna and Ethan are up to, and only the thump of Jeremy’s front door shutting jerks me fully into the present. Crap. He’s getting away again.
I drop the Kindle on my bed, run to my desk, grab the flash drive he g
ave me, and fling open my door. Three things happen in an instant: I scream, my fist slams against flesh, and someone yells, “Bloody hell!”
When my eyes focus, I see Jeremy standing in front of me with a hand over his right eye. His left eye stares at me with a mixture of shock, anger, and … amusement? Revealing objects, eyes are.
“Ohmygod, Jeremy. I didn’t see you. I swear. That was pure reflex.”
“Should I congratulate you?”
“I thought you were leaving and I wanted to catch you before you did.”
“Pity I was about to knock on your door instead.”
“I’m really, really sorry.” I pull him inside. “Let me see.” There’s a red welt on the bone below his eye. I’d say it’s the size and shape of the two knuckles throbbing on my right hand. I shove him toward the sofa. “Sit down.”
I have a year-old bag of peas in my freezer, thanks to my eat-more-vegetables mom. I grab it. The cold feels great on my hand, but I relinquish the peas when I return to the living room. Already the swelling has spread to his upper lid and the color has darkened. For the next week or so, he’s going to think about me—unfortunately, not in a good way—every time he looks in the mirror.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. The bag covers most of his face.
This is awkward. What’s normal procedure in the aftermath of decking an innocent dude at your front door? I can’t just stand here, but providing an ice pack is about the extent of my nursing skills, and it doesn’t seem right to sit down and make small talk. Should I offer him a drink? Ibuprofen? My throbbing hand reminds me that I could use a pain killer myself.
After a few minutes, he adjusts the position of the bag so he can see me. “Stop hovering.”
“I’ve never punched anyone before.”
“How fortunate I am to be your first,” he says in true Mr. High Tea fashion.
Crap. One frigging little pop to the eye and I’ve reset this relationship. I’ll bet he hasn’t even noticed how clean my apartment is. I’m debating whether I should point that out when I notice my door is still standing open. As I’m closing it, I realize I’ve lost track of the flash drive, which I’d held in the hand I punched him with. It’s not lying anywhere I can see, inside or outside my door.
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