Page 2 of Married As Puck
The scraping comes again. I move toward the door, every muscle tensing. After today, I’m not taking chances with anyone.
I yank the door open.
A girl stands in my hallway, suitcase at her feet, key halfway to the lock. Auburn hair falls in waves past her shoulders, held back by a simple bobby pin. Gray eyes blink up at me in surprise, and for a moment, she smiles like she’s genuinely happy to see me.
Then her expression falters. She glances at my face, then at the apartment number on the wall, then back to my face like she’s solving a puzzle.
"Oh," she says softly. "Hi."
I stare at her, trying to process this. She’s small, maybe five-foot-four, wearing jeans and a sweater that’s seen better days. Her suitcase has travel stickers from places I’ve never been. She looks nothing like the reporters who’ve been hounding me, nothing like the puck bunnies who usually show up at my door.
"You’re in the wrong place," I say finally.
She shakes her head, digging through a worn tote bag. "No, I’m not. Apartment 18B, right?" She holds up a crumpled paper like proof. "That’s this apartment."
I lean forward to check, expecting to find an error. But there it is, clear as day is my address, written in someone else’s handwriting.
"Who sent you?" The question comes out rude. "If you’re a reporter—"
"I’m not a reporter." She squares her shoulders, and I catch a glimpse of steel beneath the soft exterior. "Are you the old tenant? Oh, no. This is awkward if you are. According to this lease agreement, I live here now."
My jaw clenches. Someone’s playing games, and after the day I’ve had, I’m in no mood. "Listen, I don’t know what kind of scam this is, but you need to leave. Now."
She tilts her head, studying me with those gray eyes. "I’m not going anywhere because you didn’t get out in time!" The defiance in her voice reminds me of myself at ten, standing up to someone three times my size despite knowing it would only make things worse. It throws me off balance.
I step away from the door, pull out my phone and dial my landlord. It goes straight to voicemail.Shit.Nelly Kane, the cheapest property manager in Seattle, probably double-booked the place for extra cash.
While I’m listening to the robotic greeting, the girl steps inside and wheels her suitcase inside.
"Hey!" I spin around, phone still pressed to my ear. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?"
She doesn’t answer, just continues down my hallway like she owns the place. The casual confidence of it stops me cold. This isn’t some elaborate prank or media stunt. She genuinely believes I’m a tenant that didn’t move out in time, which means someone seriously fucked up.
I follow her, closing the door. "Look, there’s obviously been a mistake—"
"Yeah," she calls back, already in my kitchen. "You didn’t move out."
I count to ten the way Dr. Hendrix taught me, then backwards from ten for good measure. The breathing exercises feel ridiculous, but they work.
"Okay," I say when I reach the kitchen. I took a moment before freaking the fuck out, and now I’m ready to solve the issue. Auburn hair is examining my coffee machine like she’s planning to use it. "Let’s figure this out like adults. You have a lease, I have a lease. Someone made an error."
She turns to face me, and in the better light, I can see she’s younger than I first thought. Mid-twenties, maybe. There’s something unsettled in her eyes, like she’s been running from something too.
"I paid first month, last month, and security deposit," she says quietly. "I’m officially out of my old place." Her voice wavers slightly. "So no, I’m not leaving just because you didn’t move out in time! I don’t have the money to spend on a hotel for the night.”
“And so…you think I should go to a hotel?”
“You reek like an athlete, and I’m assuming bythat,” she points past me in the living room at the hockey stick and puck hanging on my wall, “you play hockey, so yeah, you can stay at a hotel while we work this out."
The way she says "hockey" stings more than it should. Like it’s a dirty word.
"Do you know who I am?"
She looks at me, unimpressed and shrugs. "Someone having a worse week than me, apparently."
I stare at her for a long moment. She stares back, unflinching. There’s something familiar about her stubbornness, though I can’t place what.
My phone buzzes. Text from my agent.
