Not for Sale

by Eden Rayna

  Both of us pretend the events in her backyard never took place. I should have stayed inside that day. I should have stayed as far away from her as possible.

  “That was especially icy. Do I want to know what happened?” Scott asks.

  I drop a loonie into the slot on the side of the pool table and let the sound of tumbling balls command the space where my answer should come.

  “Are you going to make me guess?” he tries again.

  My grunt almost sounds like a laugh. He’ll never figure it out.

  “Is it because she knows all the same trades we do, and you’re worried her home might be spectacular?”

  I ignore that jab.

  “Is it because Mrs. Morrow loves her and keeps saying we should hire her?”

  That’s annoying, but no. I’m happy our mutual client is pleased with the progress.

  “Is it because she’s holding Asher’s hand?”

  I narrow my eyes on him, daring him to continue on that path, then curse myself for reacting to the dig. Scott chuckles at his own misguided hilarity.

  “Hi guys,” Asher says in as cheerful a tone as the first time I met him. I barely contain growling in his face. He bro slaps me on the shoulder like we’re buddies, then extends his hand to Scott. “I’m Asher, Izzy’s friend.”

  Looks like more than friends to me with the way he was twisting his fingers in hers. Scott introduces himself with a quick, one-pump handshake before Asher faces me.

  “I hear you have reflexes like a cat. Thanks for being there at the right moment to save Iz.”

  Would he be saying thank you if he knew how many times I’ve had my hands on her recently, both in real life and in my mind? How I felt her heart pounding into my core as we stood pressed against each other on the roof. How both of us shared the moment of being scared to death.

  Did she mention the shivers that racked her body when her finger trailed along the marks she left on my skin while nestled in a pile of leaves with me? A finger from the same hand that was knotted in his a second ago.

  “I think she’s still pretty shaken about the whole thing.” He looks past me towards her. Princess sits uncharacteristically deflated, considering my presence in the room.

  Asher continues on his way to the bathroom and Scott waits for my reaction. He wants me to talk to her, to see if she’s alright. Scott can tell, too, that she’s off her game tonight. Princess isn’t one to pass on the opportunity to fight, yet there she sits without a glare of acknowledgement that she’s having to share the air she breathes with Black Ladder Developments.

  “You’re a fucking dumbass.” Scott shakes his head at me.

  “Yeah?” I challenge his bravado by stepping into his personal space.

  Scott doesn’t know that there’s a part two to the story. He doesn’t know how she called to me, asking me to frolic in the leaves with her. And Scott will never learn that I went over to her house with my heart beating in such a reckless rhythm that I should have dropped dead from a heart attack before making it through her gate. He doesn’t know that I nearly killed her in my carelessness to be close to her. That I wanted to spend time with her as a beautiful, carefree woman rather than my adversary.

  Asher comes out of the bathroom and nods. I can’t help but watch as he goes back to his table. He slides up beside Princess and places a friendly hand on her back. Her head bows and he kisses the crown, lingering to speak. When he backs away, she lifts her head and gives a slight nod. Asher walks out, leaving her sitting alone. A server comes by and clears the empty glasses and nacho plate, then returns with a fresh pint for Princess.

  He’s leaving her here by herself?

  “Is Kelsey coming?”

  Scott shrugs, pretending he doesn’t know. Fucking liar.

  I turn my attention to our pool table. I can’t care if she plans on spending the night drinking alone. In the series of poor choices she’s made recently, that’s the least concerning.

  Brett and Greg arrive and our night proceeds like all other Saturday nights. Except for when I watch her from the corner of my eye. She thumbs through the papers on the table. Sometimes her finger follows a line, sometimes her hand massages her temple. Sometimes she stares, focussing on the blank spots between the ink.

  The server brings her another drink. Kelsey still isn’t here.

  “If she keeps going at that pace, I might stand a chance with her,” Brett says, leading to Scott and Greg inserting themselves between the two of us.

  “Not going to happen tonight, buddy. Her boyfriend just left,” Scott says, directing the second half of the statement to me rather than Brett.

  Brett is a minor threat to Princess tonight, but who knows about the other assholes in the bar. She makes a game of poking hazards in eye, and I’m sure if I tried to say anything about it, I’d get blasted.

  I won’t say anything to her, but like hell I’ll stay silent.

  I head to the bartender and tell him to close off her tab.

  “You know her?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Does she need a ride?”

  Fuck, I didn’t think of that.

  Chapter 21

  Izzy

  The numbers keep jumping out at me. Ten thousand nine hundred forty-eight dollars and ninety-five cents. Five hundred eighty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. Fourteen thousand, eight hundred six dollars and fifty-four cents. It doesn’t matter how many times I flip through the pages or in what order I look at them; the numbers are still there. Still the same. Still too large.

  Asher went over each quote with me, line-by-line, and said they’re all reasonable. I wouldn’t expect any of my connections to take me for a ride, and I’m sure some of them tossed in a friend—or pity—discount. It’s still too expensive. Now it’s bigger than abandoning a design centre. It’s either choose lesser quality products and finishes; do the kitchen, one bedroom and one bathroom until I can save enough to finish the rest; or sell the house.

  I grab the fresh pint of beer that was dropped off at my table to wash away the lump in my throat. Three slow gulps and it’s still there.

  Fisst, fisst, fisst. I flip the corners of the stack of paper mindlessly. Repeatedly. Until they become a drinking game. How many sips can I swallow before I’ve flipped through the pile?

  My eyes burn with unshed tears at the thought of having to sell.

  The worst is in my scramble to make heads or tails of the quotes, I forgot that Owen and his buddies come to this pub every Saturday night. Now I get to live out my nightmare in front of the one person I want least in this world to see me in this state.

  Asher, being Asher, started a conversation with them, ignorant of the fact that Owen has recently become more than my angry neighbour. He’s my caring neighbour who saved my neck not once, but twice. He’s my wounded neighbour who harbours dark secrets and fears.

  I’m not upset with Asher for being friendly and approaching the Black Ladder crew, inadvertently drawing further attention to my grieving state. Truthfully, that’s one thing I like most about him. He has no enemies. He always sees the good in people and can justify why sometimes individuals do rude or bad things. He’s, in short, the opposite of Owen. Now, along with the mind fuck of these quotes under my nose, I have the direct comparison of Asher and Owen side-by-side.

  How come I hate Owen so much, yet I can’t I love Asher?

  I’m slapped with a memory of Owen wiping away my tears the other day, leaning over me in the pile of leaves. He wasn’t simply reacting to a situation—he was reacting to me.

  I don’t get that from Asher. When Asher holds my hand, I experience nothing beyond what a friend would feel. When his thumb strokes across my skin, I don’t get the belly tingles. When he hugs me and kisses the top of my head, I feel gratitude, but no zing.

  Nothing close to what it’s like being near Owen.

  Asher doesn’t know that while his hands held mine and his eyes said more than his lips, I was thinking of the unexpectedly soft touch o
f Owen cradling my face. Of the concern in Owen’s expression and how protected and safe I feel in his arms. How I think that if Owen helps with the renos, all my problems will disappear.

  They’re both strong and have the same calloused hands, but Owen’s arms around my back feel like they’re securing me to something sturdy, while Asher’s feel like they’re keeping me from pulling away.

  It’s more than Asher in relation to Owen that has been on my mind. I keep thinking of what would have happened if the rake hadn’t hit me. How would our afternoon have ended? Would I have done something else to piss him off or would we have ended up buried in the pile of leaves, rolling around until the weight of his body forced me deeper into the mass of foliage. Would he be silent or demanding as his lips claimed mine, as his fingers wandered across my skin, as they disappeared inside me?

  Would he have let me inside his mind, or would it have only been a way to liberate ourselves from the strain between us?

  My eyelids grow heavy, staring at the black lines on white paper. My trick of trying to change the figures with my mind doesn’t work, but I force my eyes to stay open because I need to try harder.

  Tall, dark, and clad-in-black Owen saunters over to the bar and has a conversation with the bartender. Owen’s hands rest on the bartop and his triceps twitch in his inability to relax. Like he’s gripping the wood to stop from clenching his fists. Always annoyed about something. At least I’m innocent this time.

  My nemesis traipses back to his crew, and I’m left with nothing to stare at but the heap of papers in front of me again. I wave my server over and ask for another pint. After another beer, it won’t make a difference how many digits come before the decimal point.

  She smiles cautiously at me. “Sorry, I can’t serve you anything else.”

  I look at my watch and see that it’s nowhere near closing time, then count in my head how many drinks I’ve had. Does she assume I can’t handle another one? If I were a guy, four wouldn’t be that many. I probably won’t finish the one I’m about to order, anyway. It’s more for comfort than anything.

  The server, who appears to be about eighteen and has never had to tell a customer no before, is already looking to the bartender for backup. I lock eyes with him, then slowly, so he can follow their path, settle my gaze on Owen. When I look back at the bartender, he shrugs apologetically. Of course, it’s not the staff who think I’ve had too much.

  I don’t have any fight in me tonight. “Fine, I’ll settle my tab.” I can go somewhere else to lick my wounds. Somewhere without the audience.

  “It’s been taken care of.” She stammers, getting an idea of how unlucky she is to have found herself in the middle of this feud.

  I curse under my breath. On second thought, I can muster the zeal to face Owen.

  I hop off my stool, inadvertently bumping the server out of the way. I grab my jacket and, after a momentary struggle with my purse strap, I snatch it off the back of my chair. Ripping my quotes from the table, I march over to the boys.

  “I get it. This is your pub on your boys’ night,” I say, swirling a finger upwards in a whoop-dee-do way. “You don’t want me here, fine, I’m leaving. But I can pay for my own damn drinks.” I fumble through my purse for my wallet. I pull out sixty bucks and consider the stack of papers tucked against my chest like state secrets. I ponder what else I won’t be doing in the house because I’m spending money on drinks and nachos.

  “It’s fine,” Owen says, refusing my cash. His attempt to force me to leave is infuriating.

  “Scott.” I shove the money his way. He lifts his hands in surrender and moves out of reach. I get the same reaction from all the guys.

  “Suit yourselves,” I say, and shove the cash in my purse. “Bunch of assholes.”

  “How are you getting home?” Owen asks. His reaction to my words is underwhelming and angers me more.

  “With my feet. Are you going to do the walking for me too?”

  The three musketeers snicker and Owen’s body stiffens. He doesn’t like the insubordination. Or me. He definitely doesn’t like me. Without knowing me, he hated me. I, at least, gave him the benefit of the doubt. When he came to Gran’s funeral acting like a nice guy, I invited him into my home. Into my grief.

  Without another word, Owen places his pool cue on the wall and pulls his jacket off the stool then gives Scott a single, understood glance.

  “Come on.” Owen drops a hand on the small of my back and I undergo the same rush from the rooftop, this time without the fear. I shimmy, trying to pull away from his physical touch and the feeling that’s already invaded my body.

  “You know I was joking, right? I can get myself home.”

  No response, just a slight push in the door's direction.

  “Seriously?” I say as if I’m going to protest more even as I leave with him. I’m offering a lot of concessions to someone who steadfastly refuses to do the same.

  The cool fall air hits me as soon as we exit the building, and I almost regret shrugging out of Owen’s warm touch. I tuck the quotes between my legs and zip my jacket, hugging my arms around myself again.

  “Cold?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I move at a pace I would consider brisk, but with Owen’s long legs it’s normal for him. I want to put distance between us so that I don’t follow the urge to use his warmth.

  Fall is in full swing, which makes me think that I have to get the roof fixed before it snows. That morphs into: Why bother? And that makes the tears well up once more.

  I cover it with a quick swipe so Owen doesn’t see the evidence trickle down my cheek.

  “What?” he asks.

  Like I’d tell him. There are at least eight billion other people I would rather vent to than Owen. Eight billion safer people to tell that I can’t make my dream a reality. That I’ve failed myself and Gran.

  We come to an intersection and the light is red. I check both ways and see no traffic this late at night, then step out into the street. Two firm hands grab my shoulders and wrench me back with a snap. I twist out of his hold with a jerk.

  “What the fuck?” I scream.

  A question that can be asked about so many things between us.

  “Red light.” Owen states it as if we’re out for a leisurely stroll. As if he’s a friend and not a self-appointed parole officer.

  “There’s no one coming.” I drag my arm out towards the empty intersection.

  A sloth could make it to the other side before a car comes through here. It’s nighttime in a residential zone. The walk signal in the other direction still shines white, which means if Owen gets his way, we’ll stand here for another two minutes in the silent, frigid wind.

  Not going to happen. I exaggerate a look left and right, then step off the curb with Owen glued to my side. Like his body could protect me if a car suddenly appeared at 50km/hr.

  We’re successful in crossing the road unharmed. I reward our venture with an eye roll, hoping he’s watching me.

  “I’m trying, Princess.”

  I hate how he calls me that. I couldn’t be any further from a princess.

  “Trying what, exactly?”

  He scrubs a hand down his face. Fingers scratch the well-kept beard that adds another layer to his protective coatings. One more aspect to prevent anyone from seeing the real Owen.

  “To be nice. To not be upset by everything you do.”

  I stab my stack of papers into his chest, bending the corners against his firm body. “You are upset with me?” I laugh at the dark sky. “That’s bold, given how you treated my grandmother.”

  “What do you mean?” His tone is even, as if this doesn’t touch a nerve. Surprising, since everything about my house is sensitive—for both of us.

  “I’m talking about the seventeen times you asked my grandmother to sell her home.”

  “Huh?” His eyebrows crumple.

  “Don’t tell me you know nothing about the fifteen business cards Iain MacLeod left in her mailbox
.”

  Owen has a tight grip on everything to do with his company. There’s no way one of his employees went rogue without him knowing.

  His body stiffens, his breathing stalls, his throat works. Owen stares at me hard, as if stating that name defiles the sanctity of the person it belongs to.

  “That was business.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and pulls his eyes away from me, lips twitching, cracking the hardened façade.

  Owen never has a hard time looking at me when putting me in my place. What about Iain makes this exchange different?

  I wave a finger between the two of us. “Yeah? If that was business, then what’s this?”

  Chapter 22

  Owen

  What did Pops do? Fifteen visits to Iris? No wonder she tried to run me off the street. No wonder Princess hates me. The things Iris must have told her granddaughter about our company. About the way we conduct business. That’s not what Black Ladder stands for. It’s not what Pops stands for.

  I clench my fists, warning myself to not show how that wrecks me. How devastating it is to have spent a lifetime building a name in the community only to have it wiped out in a matter of months because of a fucking brain disease.

  “You won’t answer me, will you?” Izzy says, pulling my blurred vision into focus.

  I stare at her blankly for a moment, remembering what her question was.

  What is this between us?

  I don’t fucking know what this is. Pops got in my head.

  The lassie comes with the house.

  It was nothing more than the ramblings of a demented old man, but I can’t get the words to stop looping in my mind.

  She loses patience waiting for my answer and power walks away in silence with me trailing behind her. When we get to her house, she stops on the sidewalk, staring at the shell of her home. The corners of the bright orange tarp covering the roof hole flap in the wind. Her eyes swell with tears again. She tries her best to hide it, but the sharp pain shows in more than the shimmer in her eyes. She bites the inside of her lip to stop it from trembling. Arms that were already wrapped around her body cinch a little tighter.