Floored

by Melanie Harlow

  My heart thumped a few wacky, uneven beats. “And if I were?”

  “You know that’s against the law, don’t you.”

  I smiled. “You going to write me a ticket?” Or push me up against the counter and frisk me?

  “I might.”

  “Depending on…”

  “Whether or not you’ll have coffee with me.”

  The smiled faded. What was this? “Coffee with you?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I thought we could catch up a little. It’s been a long time.”

  Up until yesterday, I’d have said not long enough, but now I found myself considering his offer.

  For about a second.

  Fantasy was one thing, but reality was another, and handsome as he was, the real Charlie Dwyer irritated me to no end. He’d probably just start in with all the single woman alone stuff again. Bullies like an easy target to knock around, and I didn’t have to be his anymore. “Sorry, I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “No, really. I can’t. I have to go find a drill and hang shades in my kitchen.”

  “Right this minute?”

  I arched a brow. “Hey, I’m a woman living alone, remember? We spinsters can’t be too careful.”

  He laughed. “Spinster, right. Well, how about this? You save me from drinking a lonely cup of gas station coffee by myself, and I’ll help you with the shades. I’m off tonight.”

  I considered it. Could I put up with him for an hour or so if it meant I could cross something off my list? Maybe so. “OK. Deal.”

  After I paid for my gas, Charlie and I agreed to meet at a Starbucks not far from my house. He beat me there, which was kind of a bummer because then he watched me pull up and park, and I didn’t have a chance to give myself a once-over in the rearview mirror. I don’t wear much makeup when I teach, and my hair was in sort of a bedraggled nest on top of my head. Unwilling to let him see me applying lipstick, I settled for taking my hair down before I got out of the car, although I scolded myself for caring what Charlie Dwyer thought.

  This wasn’t a date.

  Was it?

  #

  As if he were a gentleman, Charlie held the door open for me and stood behind me in line. “Your hair smells good.”

  I looked at him over my shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Thank you.”

  “What’s with the suspicious face?”

  “The manners. The compliment. So unlike you.”

  He laughed. “You knew Charlie Dwyer, the boy, Erin. You don’t know Charlie Dwyer, the man.”

  “Ha. Charlie Dwyer, the man, is a nice guy, then?”

  He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

  Why that made my core muscles clench, I had no idea—well, I had an idea, but it wasn’t anything I wanted to advertise, so I turned around and faced the counter again before Charlie could see me blush.

  Charlie insisted on paying for my pumpkin spice latte, for which I was grateful, since I was down to my last couple dollars. As always on a Saturday afternoon, Starbucks was crowded, and there were no available tables inside. “You want to sit outside?” he asked.

  “I guess we could. If it’s not too cold.” I didn’t have a coat on, just a navy blue Detroit Tigers hoodie.

  “You a baseball fan?” Charlie asked once we’d settled at our sidewalk table. It was cool and windy, temperatures in the low fifties, but the crisp air smelled like dead leaves, which sounds weird but is a scent I love.

  “Yeah. I guess so. My dad used to take my brother and me to games when we were kids.” I took the lid off my cup so it would cool off faster. “What about you?”

  “I like the Tigers. I’m a bigger Wings fan, though.”

  “That’s right. You played hockey as a kid, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, picking up his plain black coffee and taking a long swallow. “Yep. I still play, just for fun. And for exercise.”

  I warmed my hands on the outside of my cup. “I’m a terrible skater but I know it’s really good for your legs. Your endurance too.”

  “I haven’t had anyone complain about my endurance so far.”

  I rolled my eyes but felt that little kick of excitement in my belly again. “Of course not.”

  “You’re a terrible skater?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t been on the ice in years, but I remember being pretty bad. As a dancer, I like feeling sure of my feet on the floor, you know? Ice is too slippery!” I laughed. “But it’s OK. I’m sure a lot of good skaters wouldn’t be good dancers.”

  “Oh, I’m an awesome dancer.” Charlie took another sip of his coffee, so I couldn’t read his face, but I gaped at him. Was he really that conceited?

  “Shut up. Are you serious?”

  He lowered the cup to the table and I saw the teasing smile. “No. I’m not a dancer. But I’ve got good rhythm.”

  My neck warmed, and I hoped the flush wasn’t showing above my hoodie. “I’m sure you do.”

  He leaned forward. “Are you? Maybe you should test it.”

  I crossed my legs. “No.”

  Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. “Suit yourself.”

  God, that slow smile. It was starting to get to me. “But you could come to my adult class sometime.”

  “You teach adults too?”

  “Yes. You live around here?”

  “About half an hour away.”

  “Well, my studio is in St. Clair Shores. And I have a Wednesday night social dance class every week in November and December.”

  “Social dance? Like with a partner?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to have a partner. There are usually extra women there.” And wouldn’t they love to see Charlie walking in the door!

  “Do I get to dance with you?”

  Sure, how about a hot, sweaty, naked horizontal mambo? I lifted my shoulders. “Maybe.” Bringing my cup to my lips, I took a sip, scalding my tongue. In fact, I was feeling hot all over. Better move to a safer topic. Guys liked to talk about themselves, right? And Charlie Dwyer struck me as the kind of guy whose favorite topic of discussion was Charlie Dwyer. I’ll try that. “So how long have you been a cop?”

  “About seven years. You have whipped cream on your nose.”

  I wiped my nose with my napkin. “Gone?”

  He grinned. “I’m not telling. It’s sort of cute.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Do you like police work?”

  “Mostly. It’s not exactly what I thought I’d do, but I needed a steady job and I’d studied criminal justice for a few years at Purdue.”

  “Really? Did you graduate from there?”

  “No, I never finished my degree. I had some…personal issues and had to drop out.” He fiddled with the plastic lid of his cup. “Anyway, I needed work and didn’t want a desk job. Police work suits me in that way.” He didn’t elaborate on the personal issues, and I didn’t feel like I should press him, although I was crazy curious. “But I’d always thought about moving back up here. Then last year, my grandfather had some health problems, so the timing seemed right. Your family still in the area?”

  “Yes. But my parents are divorced now.”

  “Really?” Charlie seemed genuinely surprised. “I guess you never know what’s going on in anyone’s house, but your family always seemed really happy.”

  “We were, in a way. Most of the time.” I hesitated before opening up a little more. “My dad has always been very charming and outgoing, but he’s sort of a functioning alcoholic. He was a great dad, but he was awful to my mother in private.”

  Charlie’s chin jutted. “He abused her?”

  “No. Well, yes. I mean, he didn’t physically abuse her, but he said…horrible things to her.” In my mind I could still hear them fighting late at night. He’d berate her for any little thing—dust on the furniture, undercooked pot roast, a bill paid late. He’d accuse her of flirting if they’d been out and make scathing remarks about her clothing, her hair, her makeup. I shuddered, pulling my hands inside my sleeve
s to warm them. “I overheard a lot of terrible stuff.”

  “That must have been really hard on you,” Charlie said quietly.

  “Yeah. He never did it in front of my brother or me, but we heard it from our bedrooms late at night. I used to bury my head under my pillow, but I heard every word.” I didn’t talk about this much, but I felt surprisingly comfortable telling Charlie about it. Maybe it’s because we knew each other as kids. “It was so confusing for me, because he was such a happy, loving dad by the next morning. He drove me to ballet classes, came to every performance, coached my brother’s soccer teams, kissed my mother goodbye every morning before work. It was almost like there were two different men living in the house, and I was always nervous the other one would make an appearance if I wasn’t perfect.”

  “Ah. Makes sense now.” Charlie nodded slowly, as if truth were dawning on him.

  “What does?”

  “Why you were so obsessed with being perfect.”

  “I wasn’t obsessed with being perfect!” I snapped straight up in my chair.

  Confession: I was pretty much obsessed with being perfect. I kept my room spotless. I never talked back. I made straight A’s. I didn’t drink, smoke, or have sex until I was twenty-one. And I never once acknowledged that I heard the terrible things my father said to my mother.

  That would have meant a Scene, and I hated Scenes worse than messes.

  “All right, maybe a little obsessed,” I admitted. “But as a kid, it was my way of coping with things.” I took a breath. “I loved my dad, I still do. I don’t think he’s a bad person. But when my mother finally got the wherewithal to throw him out five years ago, I sobbed tears of joy and told her she’d made the right decision.”

  Charlie tipped back his coffee. “How’s your mom now?”

  “My mom? Oh, she’s fine. She found God.”

  “Yeah? And where was He before?”

  I grinned ruefully, bringing my heels to my chair and resting my chin on my knees. “Not sure. She goes on all these religious pilgrimages hoping to—I don’t know, find herself. She’s on one right now in Spain called The Footsteps of St. Teresa. But it’s nice for her, really. My dad was never into traveling and she was.”

  “Do you like traveling?”

  “Yes, but not on those pilgrimage things. Thank God she hooked up with a ladies group at her church. Before that she wanted me to take all the crazy religious trips with her.”

  “What, don’t you want to find God?” he teased.

  “If I find him by accident, fine. I just don’t want to spend my vacations looking for him. Last year I spent my spring break with my mother on a faith journey in Ireland called Slow Down and Smell the Heather.”

  He grinned. “Oh yeah? How was that?”

  “Put it this way: I asked the bus driver many times if we could please Slow Down and Smell the Whiskey. Ireland was beautiful and all, but…” I shook my head.

  “You’d prefer more Jameson, less Jesus?”

  I pointed at him. “Exactly.”

  “I like Irish whiskey too.” He set his empty cup down, but didn’t look as if he wanted to leave yet. “Always been a dance teacher?”

  “No. I actually went to school for elementary education and taught fourth grade for a few years. But I really missed dance, and owning my own studio was always a dream of mine as a kid. When the opportunity came up, I decided to quit teaching and go for the dream.”

  “And?”

  “And…” I tilted my head this way and that. “I have good days and bad. Today was a good day. Yesterday, not so much. Hey, any luck with the gas station camera?”

  Charlie grimaced. “Not really. Blurry footage of a short, slim white male wearing a black hoodie. He bought gas with your card and paid for a Red Bull and Cheetos with change he probably pilfered from someone’s unlocked car.”

  “Red Bull and Cheetos?” I wrinkled my nose. “Gross.”

  “Don’t even tell me you don’t like Cheetos.”

  “I don’t like Cheetos. That shade of orange scares me.” Picking up my coffee, which was finally cooling off, I took a long sip.

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. “Isn’t that coffee cold by now?”

  “Not at all.” I slurped noisily. “It’s lukewarm, the perfect temperature.”

  “What? Lukewarm is not the perfect temperature for coffee. Not that what you’re drinking is coffee. It has frosting on it, for fuck’s sake. Coffee is hot and black.”

  “Whatever.” I slurped again, even louder this time. “So no leads on my burglar?”

  “We have a few houses we’re watching. Places where we think they take the stolen stuff. Your cell phone pinged near one of them last night.”

  “Really?” My voice rose an octave. “Can you go in and get it back?” I had a brief fantasy of Charlie riding up to the house on a white horse, charging inside with pistol drawn.

  Stop it. No thinking about his pistol.

  “Not at this point. Walker’s waiting on a warrant.”

  “God, it seems like you shouldn’t need one for that, if you know stolen stuff is moving in and out of there.”

  Mmm. Moving in and out.

  “Yeah. It’s a little more complicated than that. Anyway, we’re getting closer.”

  “OK.” Yes, get closer. But first get naked. As if God heard my prurient thoughts and wanted to cool me down, a few raindrops splattered from the clouds above onto our table. “Uh oh. Are you ready? Maybe we should go.” I sniffed. “Smells like a storm, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.” He picked up his empty cup. “I need to make a stop. I’ll meet you at your house.”

  Coco was right—Charlie was handy with a drill. And chivalrous too. He’d stopped at a hardware store and bought one for me, and he wouldn’t accept the check I wrote to pay him back. He got right to work and had the first set of shades up in about twenty minutes. Rain pounded against the glass and the occasional rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, adding to the tension inside me. Sometimes he’d ask me to hold something in place, or bring him this or that, but mostly I just watched, admiring the easy way he handled the task.

  Confession: I also admired his butt in his jeans.

  His upper body was nice too—wide shoulders, thick biceps, muscular chest. He’d taken off his sweater to reveal a fitted t-shirt, and I liked how clean and white it was. No yellowed armpits. Standing behind him, I had this urge to lift up the shirt and run my hands over his skin. Was it warm? What if I pressed up close behind him? Moved my palms around to his stomach? I bet his abs were rock solid. Then I could slide my hands down the front of his jeans, make him hard. He’d drop that drill and—

  “Erin!”

  “What?” Swiftly I raised my gaze from his butt, chagrined to find him staring at me over one shoulder. The power flickered.

  “I said your name like five times.”

  Heat flushed my chest beneath my sweatshirt. “Sorry. I was—“ Fantasizing about you again. “Thinking about something.”

  He grinned. “I can see that. But if you can tear your eyes away from my ass, I need that other bracket. This drill doesn’t have a battery pack, so I need to get this done in case you lose power. Although I’d be happy to take a break from this activity if you’ve got another one in mind.”

  “No. Just finish, please.” Flustered, I rummaged around in the mess on the floor, hunting for the piece he needed. God, had I really been so obvious? I had to shut that down. After handing him the bracket, I backed away, busying myself with collecting the trash. Think about something else. Don’t look at him. When the floor was picked up, I got out the broom and swept up the dust from the drill as the power continued to brown occasionally. I hoped it wouldn’t go out altogether.

  “I still have one more shade to put up after this one,” he said. “Why don’t you wait until the entire job is done before you sweep?”

  “I don’t mind.” I moved briskly, avoiding his eyes. “I like cleaning up. I like things clean.”
r />   He laughed. “Of course you do.”

  I stopped sweeping and looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, don’t get worked up. You’re the one who said it. I just meant that I could tell you’re a girl who likes things clean.”

  When he said things, I had the feeling he wasn’t talking about floors and toilets. He thinks I’m totally vanilla. “I meant, I like my house to be clean.”

  “And it is,” he said with finality.

  Frowning at his back, I ignored him while he finished hanging the second shade and moved on to the third, unloading the dishwasher, hand washing the wine glasses from last night, and putting on a load of laundry. Part of me wanted to demand to know what he’d really meant, but the rest of me counseled restraint. He might have meant nothing. “Do you need my help anymore? If not, I’m going upstairs for a few minutes.”

  “Go ahead.” He didn’t even turn around. “I should be done in about twenty.”

  Upstairs, I took a quick shower, making sure to lock and double check the door, although if Charlie Dwyer had appeared at the curtain in Achilles armor, I probably wouldn’t have turned him down. Actually, I probably wouldn’t have turned him down even in his jeans and t-shirt, which pissed me off.

  “Fucking Charlie Dwyer,” I muttered, giving in to my urge to swear. “Fuck you for being hot.”

  I had this irksome feeling that he thought of me as some virginal goody-two-shoes who liked her floors swept, her spice rack alphabetized, and her handcuffs pink.

  Confession: My spice rack is alphabetized. But I like knowing exactly where everything is. Who wouldn’t? That’s helpful, right?

  Still.

  He probably went home and laughed at me last night. He cracked open a beer, had a pizza and a threesome, and went to bed thoroughly amused at my pitifully pristine little existence.

  I wanted him to know I wasn’t what he thought, but how the hell do you announce to someone that you might have a clean kitchen but you’ve got a dirty mind?

  If I was a bombshell like Coco, I’d have said it right out loud. Probably while pinning him to my immaculate floor with my high heel on his chest. If I was Mia, I would have found some coy, adorable way to make it known. Like maybe I’d leave a shopping list on the counter that said floor polish, laundry detergent, nipple clamps.