Moving In

by Alice Audrey

  “You lost that bet on purpose,” Diane said.

  “Maybe.” Trigvey tried to keep the triumphant grin off his face, but could still feel it in his cheeks. “Hey, I’m going to need a little help here.”

  “Help?”

  “Could you hold my burger in front of my face? I don’t want to take my hands off the steering wheel.” He pulled out of the drive-thru lane into a grocery store parking lot.

  “You want me to feed you?”

  “I’m hungry!”

  “You’re like a little boy.” She unwrapped his burger in brisk motions, but instead of cramming it in his mouth, she carefully and gently held the burger up for him.

  He took a bite, and got sauce on his lip. When she touched a napkin to him, he almost veered into a parked car, and not just because she’d startled him. “I'd better pull over.”

  Diane picked at her burger, eyes intent on the pickle. “I was having fun.”

  He pulled into a space facing the road and stopped. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to us if I hadn’t?”

  She shrugged and continued staring down at her food, paying him no particular attention.

  Trigvey took the burger from her, put it on the dashboard, and pulled her into his arms. “Imagine where the car would have gone when I did this—”

  Moving In

  by

  Alice Audrey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Moving In

  COPYRIGHT © 2009 by Alice Audrey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2010

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  A lot have people have contributed to my career up to this point. I'd like to thank my friends and family who have been waiting a long time for my first publication. In particular I'd like to thank the ladies of Romance Roundtable for their encouragement, and all the people who have supported my blog. And though she may object, I seriously want to thank Vicky, my editor.

  Praise for Alice Audrey

  With real-to-life characters, humor and an engaging community of friends this debut author will keep you coming back for more.

  Anastasia St. James.

  Chapter 1

  Diane trudged across the wooden porch and stepped into the hall with her prized gold-and-green Tiffany lamp cradled to her chest. “I hate moving day. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

  A college boy clattered down the narrow stairs leading to the apartment over hers and sent her crashing into the ancient plaster wall. Diane tried to break the impact with her shoulder, but the shade rang hollowly as it kissed the wall.

  “Watch what you’re doing!” she yelled. The four months it took to acquire the lamp flashed before her eyes. There was a scuff on the dogwood base and—a chip in the iridescent glass shade! “I hate this—”

  Miranda whisked past with a small box in her hands. “Quit complaining. Once we get everything in and you start arranging things, you’ll love it.”

  Between her fluffed up brown hair, improbably streaked with red, and platform sneakers, it was a wonder Miranda didn’t hit her head on the ceiling. She towered over Diane and Suzie.

  Diane stuck her head out the door for a quick look. Graceful Victorians and dense, old-growth maples gave the neighborhood so much charm it was easy to ignore traffic in the narrow street fronting the postage stamp yards.

  A thin, brown-haired woman disappeared into the house next door.

  “Suzie?” Diane called.

  The door slammed. Suzie was checking on her boys. No sense in worrying about her.

  As Diane swung away, she noticed the man.

  He leaned against a vintage T-Bird across the street with arms and ankles crossed. Thick, tousled hair, ripped jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt over a well-built body. No college boy ever looked so overpoweringly masculine.

  Though sunglasses hid his eyes, Diane could swear he was frowning at her. She backpedaled fast, up the hall into her apartment and nearly tripped over a chair set next to the open door.

  Miranda dropped her box with enough disregard for the contents to make Diane wince. “What’s the matter?”

  Diane regained her composure. “Be careful!”

  Miranda glanced from Diane to the door with a puzzled wrinkle in her brow. Tipping her head to the side, she narrowed her eyes and sauntered to the three-part bay window. “Did one of those college boys say something to you?”

  “Pft. Don’t get me started.” Diane stumbled through the clutter.

  Miranda looked from the window to Diane. “Oh,” she said, drawing the word out. “He’s a hottie. If it wasn’t for Vin, I’d make a play for him.”

  To Diane’s horror, Miranda leaned into the screen of the open window on the right and wolf-whistled.

  “Miranda!” Diane fell back two steps, hands over her mouth.

  Miranda’s index finger pressed the glass in the central window as she bobbed her head for a better look. “Come on, Diane. Is he hot or not?”

  “Yes, yes, already. He’s hot.” Diane caught Miranda’s hand and pushed it down. It was like fighting a defective Pez-dispenser. The man barely turned his head, but the horror of being caught seemed eminent. “Stop pointing. He might see you.”

  Miranda wouldn’t mind a bit. Her friend wore bright red shorts, and a halter that screamed, “look at me” while Diane wore a grubby light-blue shirt. What man in his right mind would be attracted to Diane with Miranda around? Not that Diane wanted him to notice her.

  The hottie glared at the windows of the apartment above hers and whipped his sunglasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose.

  She shivered to think a man like that might be passing by her door day in and day out.

  Miranda inched toward the glass and ended up pressing her big nose to the pane.

  Diane grabbed for Miranda’s arm and pulled her across the room.

  Miranda pulled back. She had amazing traction in her funky shoes.

  “What next?” Diane dug in and pushed Miranda out into the hall. “Break out the binoculars? Come on, you said you’d help. Considering I didn’t want to leave my old place, you owe me.”

  “Like you belonged in that dungeon of an efficiency. Hey! Suzie! Get to work,” Miranda shouted as they stepped outside.

  Suzie wasn’t just a friend, she also owned the house next door and ran it as a boarding house. She stood on the sidewalk talking to a woman in a gold blazer.

  Diane walked down the cracked asphalt to where her silver Volvo wagon rippled in the heat. The hatch was open, but the car felt like an oven.

  Miranda shuffled her sky-scraper shoes down the drive like she was on a catwalk for the terminally trendy, smiling and waving at the man across the street. “Stop working so hard.”

  Diane wrestled out a heavy box labeled, “kitchen”.

  Miranda stopped behind her, but made no move to take it. “Admit it. You hated living in that old couple’s basement, no matter how fancy they made it. It was like living with your Mom and Dad.”

  “Like I would know that f
eeling,” Diane muttered.

  “I forgot. They’re divorced.” For a moment Miranda looked almost pitying with her head tilted and her lips pursed. Then she shrugged. “Mine were too. Sorry I couldn’t talk Suzie into letting you move in with us, but we’re really short on bedrooms. I mean, we’d have to make Gene and Ben share a room again, and none of us want that to happen.” She shuddered pointedly. “Right, Suzie?”

  “Actually, I offered Diane your room,” Suzie said as she joined them. She had a fey delicacy about her, and a tendency to look and act a bit like June Cleaver, which meant Suzie and Diane had a lot in common. “You spend all your time in with Vin anyway.”

  Miranda looked horrified. “But if I gave up my room, where would I put my clothes?”

  Suzie slipped past Miranda to take the wilted box from Diane. Despite her delicately elfin appearance, Suzie lifted it like it weighed nothing. “Were you aware the owner of this place is thinking about selling it?”

  “He never said a thing.” Diane eyed the lovely, converted Victorian. Nearly the same size as Suzie’s, it had big bay windows and eaves sporting gingerbread.

  “That woman I was talking to is a real estate agent.” Suzie gave Miranda a friendly little bump as she stepped back from the Volvo.

  Diane passed Miranda a box.

  Miranda bent double. “Oof—”

  Maybe Diane had handed it off with more force than strictly necessary, but Miranda didn’t have to be so dramatic about it.

  Suzie started for the house and half-turned. “She said the sale wasn’t sure yet.”

  “I should have kept my savings instead of buying this car.” Diane pulled out another box. “Well, it’s too late to worry about it now.”

  Miranda made a face and trotted off in her too-high shoes.

  Diane eyed a dish rack. The man from across the street straightened. If he was coming over she didn’t want to be caught with a dish rack in her hands. She snatched up the nearest box and hurried after the others, but only got as far as the entrance.

  He charged the doorway at the same time and their shoulders crashed together.

  Diane rocked back, afraid the box was going to slip.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her up against the wall and stared into her face. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, no. I’m fine,” Diane said hastily.

  “Good. I’m short on time.” He released his grip on her shoulders, turned on his heel, and marched up the stairs.

  Well that was… rude!

  “Admit it.” Miranda stood framed in the doorway to Diane’s apartment, pulling on a lock of her hair. “You like him. And it looks like he’s moving in. That’s good, right?”

  Diane pushed past and set her box down just inside the entrance. “He probably thinks I’m a total dork.”

  “He thinks the guys who were supposed to have moved out this morning are total dorks.” Miranda grinned, her eyebrows arched wickedly. “He thinks you’re hot.”

  “If he’s looking at anyone, it’s you.” Diane straightened while Miranda skipped backwards.

  “You’re cute enough.”

  “I wasn’t the one pointing at him.”

  Miranda grinned like a happy cat—all narrow eyes and teeth. “But he’s hot.”

  “If you like the rude construction worker, trust-fund biker, or drug dealer stud muffin type.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Diane whirled around, hands to her face. Heat made her palms burn.

  His eyes, dark green like the underside of a leaf, looked down and away while he cleared his throat. “I’d like to ask a favor.” He barely glanced at her before he gave his full attention to Miranda. A quick check of his watch started him talking again. “The kids upstairs aren’t ready to move out and I have to be at work in an hour. Could I put my belongings in a corner?”

  Let him move in?

  Miranda pushed Diane behind her. “Sure, no problem at all.”

  “What?” blurted Diane.

  His face lightened. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

  Diane shoved past Miranda and followed the man out to the sidewalk. Why did his shoulders have to be so sexy? Everything about him was sexy, including the way he all but ran down the stairs away from her.

  “Wait!” she called.

  “I have to hurry!” he shouted back. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  Diane stopped short. “A couple of days?” Could he be any more arrogant?

  Suzie came out of the house. “He’s leaving his belongings in your apartment?”

  “Yes!” Diane turned toward her, glad of the support.

  Suzie smiled. “You know, this could only happen in Madison on August fifteenth. It’s no big deal.” She joined Diane and tugged her toward the Volvo.

  Miranda joined them. “I don’t know. I think it could happen in any college town where all the apartments are on year long leases. Isn’t she lucky?”

  “Leave her be, Miranda. Remember what happened the last time she gave her heart away?”

  “But that was with that uptight, over-achieving jerk. It’s the Good Boy type she has trouble with. And this guy isn’t anyone's choir boy.”

  Diane glared all around. “I’ve told you both over and over, I don’t need a man in my life. My job at American Family Insurance is enough.”

  “Come on,” said Suzie. “Let’s move the rest of the boxes.”

  On Diane’s way into the house with the dish rack, the strange man moving into her apartment clipped her in the hip with a suitcase.

  He patted her shoulder absently, apparently oblivious to any harm he might have done. “Thanks again.”

  Suitcases of all shapes and sizes squeezed her boxes against the wall.

  Miranda waited until he left before she swayed through the mess, fingertips brushing the top of a suitcase. “Drug dealer? If so, he isn’t touching the merchandise. He’s in great shape. I wonder what he really does.”

  Diane shoved a lurid green hard-shell out of the way and glared at her new neighbor and sometimes-friend before stomping off to the kitchen.

  Miranda raised her voice. “He said he’ll be gone for two days. He’s too old to be a student.”

  “With a body like that? Something physical,” said Suzie as she walked into the kitchen with a box marked “dishes”.

  Miranda followed as far as the broad arch between the kitchen and the living room, close to the apartment’s door.

  Suzie put the box down and straightened. “My guess is construction.”

  The man came in with armload of clothes and looked for a place to put them.

  “Hey, Stud Muffin—what’s your name?” Miranda asked as if it didn’t matter that they were gossiping about him.

  “Trigvey. Trigvey Taylor.” He threw the clothes over a suitcase.

  “I’m Miranda. This is Suzie. And that…” Miranda arched a long-nailed finger, “is Diane.”

  Diane cringed as everything from her toes to her ears went blush-hot.

  “Nice to meet you…Diane?” He glanced at Diane, turned away and glanced at her again as if worried about what he saw in her expression. “Got to run.”

  He left eight suitcases in varying shapes and colors behind him.

  Diane sat down on one that looked like a small steamer trunk and shook her head. “Two days? You owe me, Miranda.”

  Chapter Two

  Diane placed her flower arrangement on an end table by the front door. At night, it didn’t look like much, but she thought it worth staying up to do.

  From the front door, she could see through a double-wide, arching entrance into the kitchen. Her table and chairs matched the rustic themed decorations on top of the cupboards and fit perfectly with the old kitchen light. The living room wasn’t nearly as rustic, but was still in harmony—except for the suitcases.

  It took her the better part of an hour to pile them up in one corner, then move them to another. She couldn’t decorate around them, couldn’t use the space they occupied, could
n’t hide them, and couldn’t ignore them. They sat there wedged between the back of the couch and the door into the apartment like a never ending threat.

  It’d been a week.

  She was wondering if she couldn’t move them into the hall when a weak, slow knock came from the other side of the door.

  Her hands tightened on the vase. “Who is it?”

  “Trigvey.”

  Diane fumbled the door open and found him propped against the wall.

  He was wearing scrubs. Surgical scrubs?

  “Are you a doctor?” she asked.

  He watched her out of wary, bloodshot eyes. “Would you mind if I grab a couple of things?”

  She gestured toward his suitcases. “Come on in.”

  Instead of grabbing a suitcase, he leaned heavily against the couch next to the neat pile she’d made of his belongings. She moved forward to help brace him up, but he pivoted around the heavily-cushioned armrest, and collapsed on the seat.

  “Long night?” she asked, drawing the words out sardonically.

  He groaned, and rubbed his face. There was blood on his wrist.

  The sight gave Diane a moment of panic. He looked more like a biker than a doctor, which was good. Diane didn’t fall for bikers. His face was covered in stubble and his hair was lank, but the surgical scrubs made him look like someone she wanted to help.

  Miranda had a weakness for bad boys, but Diane loved respectable types. She pretended to fall for the scruffy ones, even dated a few, but it was the kind of man her mother warned her about, the kind with trophy wives, that made Diane’s pulse race.

  She had to get him out.

  He’d managed to stay upright, slouched head back against the seat-rest, arms spread wide, eyes half-closed. The turn of his lips gave his masculine features, especially the muscular column of his neck, a sexy grace.

  He looked like a good provider.