Charmed at First Sight

by Sharla Lovelace

“I’m sorry,” Gabi said. “This is my sister, Drew, the rude one.”

  “Sorry,” Drew said, cutting eyes at her sister as she held out a hand. “I manage Graham’s Florist with Gabi and sometimes my parents when they aren’t being hippies. So, you aren’t serial killers, are you?”

  I had to smirk at her no-nonsense directness. “Micah,” I said, shaking her hand. “And no, not usually.”

  I wasn’t usually a runaway from my life, either, so I figured the disclaimer was justified. But my question hadn’t been answered. By anyone.

  “Well, then, I guess we can do the paperwork,” Drew said, looking at Gabi. “Is there paperwork?”

  “I have no idea,” she said under her breath. “You know how they are.”

  “So,” I began again. “We—Leo and I—we’re both staying here?”

  “Evidently,” Leo said.

  “When did you even—”

  “I’m guessing while you were getting naked,” he said.

  I refused to react to that. Gabi’s gaze darted between us knowingly, a small smirk tugging at her mouth.

  “Is that a problem?” she asked. “For either of you?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I’ll only be here to sleep, anyway. And not for long.”

  Why I felt the need to nail that down, I had no idea.

  “I’m looking for a more permanent place,” Leo said. “But this is fine till then.”

  “Well, then, let’s go write it down at least,” Gabi said. “Micah, we’ll do a day-to-day thing or something. Mom and Dad are upstairs fiddling with everything and I know damn good and well they didn’t make a form or a contract up so I’ll type it up tonight more officially.”

  “Sounds good,” Leo said, stepping around all of us toward the door, his tone inferring he no longer cared about any of it. “Let’s do it.”

  Let’s do it.

  Why did I feel like those words would be my downfall?

  * * * *

  “Hey!” squealed an older woman with cheater glasses perched on top of faded blonde hair. She and an older man were arranging a rug that was already under a couch and two chairs in what was going to be my apartment. Both on the floor, tugging. She got from her knees to her feet in surprisingly good time, while her long, lanky husband took a little longer. “Welcome! Welcome! We’re so glad you’re going to stay with us!”

  “This is Micah and Leo, Mom,” Drew said. “Do you—”

  “Oh, how lovely,” she said, beaming, grasping both of our hands. “I’m Wanda. Martin, get over here! Are you just starting out, or—”

  “No, no, no,” I said quickly. “We aren’t a couple.”

  “We’re not together,” Leo added at the same time, gesturing over his shoulder. “I’m across the hall.”

  “Oh, you’re our other tenant!” Wanda exclaimed, grabbing Leo’s arm, turning him around like she was leading a child. “Martin, come bring him over there.”

  Leo glanced back at me as the tired older man led him out the door, and for one second I felt a funny kinship with him. It was humorous and comforting and sexy—I dug my nails into my palm as I turned back to face the beaming Wanda.

  “You okay, honey?” she asked.

  “I’m great,” I said, feeling like a mannequin. As I looked into her pale blue eyes, however, I suddenly felt like I’d grown up shelling peas on her porch and could tell her anything. “I’m just a little overwhelmed today.”

  “Big day?” she asked, pushing up her glasses as she pulled a tiny notebook from her back pocket.

  “Well, I was supposed to get married today,” I said. “But I ran away on some guy’s motorcycle, and now I’m thirty-two years old with no house, very little of anything else, about to rent a room over a flower shop, wearing your daughter’s clothes.”

  Wanda started to chuckle, but winked and squeezed my hand like I’d just said I had a hang nail.

  “Remind me to tell you about my fortieth birthday,” she said, to a chorus of low groans from Gabi and Drew. “The year my teenaged daughters blew up my house while their dad was out of town.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” I said, glancing beyond her to Gabi, who was shaking her head with her eyes closed.

  “Really, Mom?” Drew said.

  “Let’s just say that we had to start over a bit, too,” she said. “So I know what you mean.”

  “Yes, my school project was exactly like Micah’s situation,” Gabi said, deadpan.

  “So, Mom,” Drew said, “did y’all do a boilerplate contract or anything?”

  Wanda turned to her daughter with a befuddled expression. “A what?”

  Drew nodded at Gabi. “Type something.”

  “Yeah.”

  Wanda waved a hand at her girls as if they were babbling gibberish, turning to me.

  “Here’s the living room, there’s the kitchenette—it’s small but very functional—”

  Now, when Wanda said kitchenette, I paid attention. It never occurred to me that the apartment wasn’t actually an apartment. Gabi had said rooms, and I heard rooms, but—my brain filled in the details like any other rental would have. A full kitchen you can cook in. What was before me was a stovetop over a cabinet, a small section of more cabinets, and a very small fridge. Like what a college dorm room mini fridge might look like one day if the kids didn’t wear it out and it had a chance to grow up. No freezer.

  Well, that was okay. All of this would help me not stay too long and work on getting my shit figured out really fast. There. That was a positive outlook.

  “Over here is the bedroom,” she was saying as we entered through another door. She slid a closet door aside. “Closet isn’t big, but for a short time it should be enough, right?” She held her arms out wide. “What do you think?”

  She was asking for my blessing. Pride emanated from her as she peered around at what they’d made, and she wanted to know if it was good enough. I wanted to hug her and tell her it was fine, and they’d done well, but there was still something missing.

  “It’s—it’s great,” I said. I could overlook the kitchen. It wasn’t like I was going to cook gourmet meals or anything. “What about the bathroom?” I asked, turning in a circle, looking for another door I’d missed.

  “That’s right down the hall,” Wanda said, the big smile back on her lips.

  I couldn’t have heard right.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Yes, ma’am, just a few extra steps down,” she said, gesturing that way. “You walk right into it. A full bath with a toilet, vanity, walk-in shower, newly tiled and everything.”

  My tongue forgot how to work. Her overflowing glee was almost too much to bear in the wake of finding out I didn’t just have a college dorm mini fridge. I had the actual dorm.

  “Umm,” I said, licking my lips. I looked at Gabi for help. Surely, she could have told me that part up front. That I’d be sharing a bathroom with my neighbor. With—“Oh, God.”

  “Sorry?” Wanda asked, adjusting her glasses.

  “I wasn’t aware of the bathroom situation,” I said, feeling flushed at the thought of sharing a shower with Leo. Not sharing a shower, really. Not like that. Shit, the flush turned to a boil at the image of like that.

  “Honey,” Wanda said, laying a warm freckled hand on my arm, “I know it’s not ideal. But for just a—”

  “Few days,” I finished with her, nodding. “I know. I just—”

  “And let me tell you,” she continued, leaning in like we were about to share a secret, “if you have to bump a little personal space with somebody, that guy is no hardship.” She nudged me. “Know what I mean?”

  “I—yeah,” I said, nodding. Gabi was chewing her lip to keep from laughing. I sighed. “Okay, I’m—I’ll deal with it.”

  When we walked back out into the hall, Leo was coming out of said bathroom, rakin
g a hand through his hair. He locked eyes with me and not in a Come get me way. It was more like a Did they tell you about this bullshit? semiglare.

  Why was he glaring at me? I didn’t build the damn place, or rent it, or talk anyone into it. I didn’t even know he would be there.

  “Isn’t the bathroom nice?” Wanda asked. “Martin tiled it himself. Didn’t you, Martin?”

  Martin nodded on cue, winking at his wife. I still hadn’t heard him speak, but I assumed Leo got more than a mimed tour of his room.

  “Yeah, great job, man,” Leo said, gently slapping the older man’s thin shoulder. “This will work short term.”

  “Wonderful!” Wanda gasped, clapping her hands together. “Wow, I never expected to rent them both out in one day. Isn’t that exciting, Martin?” Martin nodded again, throwing a smile in the mix. “I suppose you both can start moving in your things any time.”

  I held up Gabi’s wristlet and the plastic grocery bag of clothes.

  “Done.”

  That night was surreal. Once it finally got there, that is. The longest day in the history of days finally gave in to the moon, and I didn’t even have the energy to trudge down the hall to shower it off of me. I climbed in the mostly comfortable but foreign bed in my/Gabi’s clothes, and stared at the ceiling for the second night in a row, the everythingness of it all landing on me with a vengeance.

  Tears pricked at my eyes. I let them come, tracking hot trails back into my hair. How had my life come to this? I woke that morning to brunch and mimosas before getting ready to marry the man I’d spent nearly a decade of my life with. Now I was going to bed alone and still single, away from home and family and everything familiar.

  And I was okay with it. That was the mind-blower. I wasn’t crying because I felt sorry for myself, or over Jeremy. I was crying from the sheer overwhelming redistribution of crap as the weight lifted off me all at once. Like those people who have cars pulled off them, and they die from everything rushing in at one time—that’s what I felt like. Relieved, free, and, oh, my God, the euphoria of having my life back as my life—followed on long loop by the crushing rush of Holy fuck, what did I do and what do I do now and who do I have to face and is Jeremy hurt and oh shit oh shit oh shit…

  Rinse…repeat.

  I held up my left hand, shining my phone on Jeremy’s ring. I didn’t get married, so was I still technically engaged?

  Did I want to be?

  The question made me start as if someone had yelled it in my ear. I instantly knew the answer without a second’s hesitation.

  No.

  I did not.

  Not anymore.

  Screw a car. It was as if a dinosaur had been lifted off my chest, and I sucked in a huge breath like my lungs hadn’t expanded fully in years. The epiphany felt amazing. Sad. Liberating. And a little scary. I slid the ring off my finger, setting it in a china dish on the nightstand, lifting my hand to shine my phone on my naked finger. It was done. In my head, at least, it was done.

  It had been day one of a reboot I never saw coming, and my head spun with the dizziness of it. I shut my eyes tight against it and let the last of the tears go. On to day two.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning was a blind fog. I’d totally expected to toss and turn and be unable to shut my brain down, but the opposite had happened. I’d fallen into a stress-induced coma and died. Like, I didn’t even move. I was still in the exact same position, fisting the same handful of comforter close against my chest.

  Instead of feeling refreshed, however, I had nap hangover. My head pounded, the room felt wobbly, my skin clammy. I needed about five showers, and I didn’t care if I had to walk to China for it. It was time to start new.

  I looked in the two closets for towels, but there weren’t any, so either I was supposed to have my own—like normal people did—or they were already in the bathroom. Since normal people probably didn’t rent apartments without bathrooms, I had to go on the hope and probability that the towels were in there. I dug in my plastic bag from Gabi and snatched the black stretchy workout capris and a flowy red tank top that wouldn’t require a bra right away. At least until I could buy one later today. I couldn’t stand another second of the strapless I’d worn all day yesterday, and the lacy white thong was about to join the burn pile. I could pull off commando in this getup; no one would know. So, off I stumbled down the hall, my hair still stiff from the hairspray and listing to one side, my contraband clothing under one arm.

  This was going to be a better day. I would buy some new clothes, find a cell store and use my upgrade to get a new phone, meet up with Thatcher—

  I turned the knob and pulled, but my foggy brain didn’t have enough working cells to process the too-easy motion or the mountain of man-chest aimed at my face. My sleepy blink was a few seconds too long, and his momentum coming out of the bathroom was unnatural for seven thirty in the morning.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, just before the “oompf” and the soft-hardness of his sternum meeting my nose. “Shit.”

  Strong hands closed over my upper arms, as the scent of soap and man filled my senses, my heart hurtling over itself in a rush of panicked thumps. My hands went up on autopilot to stop myself from certain doom, landing against hard abs and chest hair. I had a tiny bit of experience with those abs on the ride here, but that was nothing on the full-frontal access.

  Leo…communal bathroom…the logic was trickling back in as my heart—well, it sort of slowed down. The view just inches from my face did nothing to aid in that.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, unable to step back or drop my hands because—I don’t know. I guess nearly naked man before coffee rendered me stupid. Coffee. Where might I find that? “What—um.”

  “My fault,” Leo said, bringing my eyes on the slow trip up to his face. “I didn’t lock the door. Wasn’t thinking.”

  Holy shit, the man was hot from head to toe, and as he rested his eyes on me I was suddenly awake enough to catch on that he hadn’t let go of me or backed off in repulsion from my touch. Flashes of his thumb under my bottom lip yesterday joined the party, right about the time I became hyperaware of my own state and the very real possibility that I might have dried drool on my cheek. Not to mention breath that could stand on its own.

  “Door,” I blurted, licking my lips and backing out of his grip, letting my hands fall from his torso. I instantly missed the heat of him. “Yeah. We should—”

  “Hang a tie?” he said.

  I looked up at him again. He was joking. Amusement did an amazingly sexy thing with his eyes, causing a flutter in my belly, but I was too foggy to do witty banter.

  “A something,” I said, stooping to pick up the clothes and towel I’d evidently bailed on when groping Leo had presented a better option. The view on the way down was almost as good. Rough jeans carved around him, giving me further thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Like what I might have seen had I made it down this hall ten minutes earlier and opened the unlocked door. “Or just lock it. That would work, too.”

  I heard a chuckle as he padded around me on bare feet.

  “Enjoy your shower, Roman-off,” he said. “The hot gets scorching pretty quick, so be careful.”

  I saluted his back as I then watched his back retreating. It was a really good back. All the way down.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, shaking my head. I was a piece of work.

  I entered the bathroom, really and truly expecting it to be left like a man was just there. I mean, come on. I’d lived with one long enough to know the score. Stubble in the sink, piss on the toilet—or the floor—puddles of water on the countertop, globs of toothpaste left wherever they fell. It was a fruitless argument that I’d long since given up winning.

  None of that was there. There was a little steam left on the bottom of the mirror from the heat of the shower, but everything else had been wiped clean. The sink, the coun
tertop, the floor—even the toilet rim was clean. And the seat was down.

  If I hadn’t seen a big rough-and-rowdy guy just walk out of there, I’d swear there’d been a woman in there before me.

  I met my eyes in the mirror then, and I wished it had been.

  “Oh, my God, Micah.”

  My hair—let’s just skip that one. We already conceded that it wasn’t redeemable. But that didn’t excuse the black around my eyes that morphed from somewhere in my sleep since I thought I’d washed all that off. The white of one eye had gone red in the process, I did have dried drool or snot or something very unappealing on my cheekbone, a rogue hair on my chin, and my lips were cracked and dry.

  I not only needed a shower; I needed an exorcist.

  First things first.

  That’s when it dawned on me. Soap, shampoo, lotion, toothpaste—

  A knock at the door made me jump, and knowing who it had to be made me cringe. How many times did this man have to see me at my worst? I cracked the door and peered through.

  “Yes?”

  “You didn’t lock it,” he said.

  “I will,” I said. “I was getting to it.”

  “Lock it, please,” he said. “Don’t leave yourself vulnerable like that.”

  “Like you did?”

  He smirked. “Do as I say, not as I do.” He held up something in front of him. “And here. If you need it.”

  I cracked the door more. It was a Ziploc’d bag of motel shampoos and still-wrapped mini soaps, along with a travel-sized tube of toothpaste. He’d read my mind. It was possibly the sexiest thing anyone had ever offered me.

  I opened the door and took the bag, apologizing in my head for subjecting him to the view of me again.

  “Thank you,” I said, nearly hugging the bag to my chest.

  “Just set it outside my door when you’re done,” he said, turning to walk away again, this time with a gray-collared pullover covering the good back. “And lock that door.”

  I rolled my eyes and shut the door with my ass, leaning against it and waiting a full count of ten before turning the lock. Just because. Harley-guy did a lot of road trips to have such a collection of cheap motel toiletries. I opened it and the aroma wafted out. It smelled like him.