Page 2 of Book and Ladder
“Heyyy!” I shout at double the previous volume.
The dark haired mover leaning against the passenger door is built like he could lift a sofa single-handedly. He must have AirPods in. His head doesn’t pivot. He doesn’t flinch—just stands there, casually, thick legs crossed near the ankles. That hair: dark as coal … Dark like a boy I’ve known since elementary school. Dark like his maddening heart.
I start to walk toward him, balancing the box, gripping my coffee like it’s a life ring and trying not to drop my cell from the spot where it’s pinned between my cheek and shoulder.
The man turns and our eyes lock. I feel mine visibly narrow into a squint.
Since when did Patrick run a moving company?
He’s a firefighter.
Why would he take a second job, or worse yet, start a business?
“Oh, hey, Daisy,” he says casually.
Always that air of indifference like I’m a gnat on his windshield—one flick of the wipers and I’m gone.
“You’re … uh … blocking my driveway …” I state the obvious.
I bump my hip to reposition the box again. Then I pull the cell away from my ear and plop it into my purse.
Patrick’s eyes drift to my hip, the box, and back up to meet my not so subtle glare.
Those eyes—as dark as his hair. Inky. Intense. Infuriatingly magnetic.
His focus drifts to the driveway where my vintage Hondasits waiting for me to unload my burden and make a certain getaway.
“Ourdriveway,” Patrick corrects.
“Our … what?” I stammer.
“I’m moving in. This is my new apartment.”
“What? I thought you inherited your parents’ McMansion after they moved to Nashville.”
“I was taking care of their estate. They’re back for a season, so I need to … well, I want to have my own space.”
“Here?” I basically shriek out the word.
He smirks, just one corner of his mouth tipping upward enough to trigger the dimple on his rugged cheek to pop. His face is excruciatingly nice. Deceptively attractive. He sports a perpetual shadow where his beard would grow in if he didn’t shave daily. He’s got these wide lips, the bottom one just a bit fuller than the top. His jawline is straight out of a geometry textbook. And his lashes are unfairly long, framing those inscrutable eyes.
“Yes, here.” He says the word so nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just choose to move in next to me.
It is a choice. Deliberate. A person doesn’t fall into an apartment. They tour. They see where it’s located. They explore the neighborhood—and they research the neighbors.
Why here? Of all the houses, apartments, and rooms for rent in Waterford, all the guesthouses on ranches around the outskirts of town, why here?
“Why?” I ask out loud. And then, realizing how defeated and demoralized I sound, I add, “Slumming it?”
Patrick smiles a full smile with his perfect teeth and full lips. He reminds me of that shark, Bruce, inFinding Nemowhen he sniffed blood in the water.
“Thought I’d come see how the other half lives,” Patrick says with a teasing tone.
“Well, you’ll never see how this half lives.” I tip my head toward my half of the duplex and add, “Never,” for emphasis.
“Hmmm.” He studies me.
“I’m late,” I say, remembering my life and the things that really matter.
