by Elle Casey
“We have to find out who it is for sure, no second-guessing. We can’t let just anybody up here.”
I should’ve known that. Rookie move. “I’ll be right back.”
I run back to the phone, grabbing it and speaking breathlessly. “Who is it again?” I realize how rude I sound and try again immediately. “Amber wants to know who it is exactly. First and last name and all that. Sorry for being so abrupt.”
There’s a smile in his voice. “I can tell you’re Amber’s sister.” He’s a lot calmer than I am.
“How? I mean, why? What?” I’m too distracted to remember what he said now. How much wine have I had?
“Because you’re so polite, just like she is. The guy says his name is Sam Stanz. He’s Tyler’s brother. He does look like him, and his ID checks out.”
I search my memory for any mention of this name: Sam. I think my sister said that Tyler has a brother and that he’s supposed to be working with the band. “Hold on just another minute. I need to go tell her and see what she says.”
“Okay. No problem. I’ll wait.”
I rush back to the bathroom and place my hand on the door, slapping it lightly. “It’s Sam Stanz. Tyler’s brother.”
“What?” Her surprise is obvious.
“You weren’t expecting him?”
“Not for another three weeks! What’s he doing here now?”
I fiddle with the bracelets on my wrist, not sure what to do. “Do you want me to ask him?”
“No.” She sounds cranky. “Just give him the go-ahead.”
Go-ahead . . . give him the go-ahead . . . “You want me to let him upstairs?”
“Uh . . . yeah . . . that’s what ‘give him the go-ahead’ means.”
I’m going to let her get away with her rudeness because I know she’s not mad at me, and it’s not her fault the wine has somehow destroyed fifty percent of my brain cells.
I suppose this means her plan for us hanging out together is over. It’s not like she can ignore him while he’s here. As much as I didn’t want to go sightseeing around town, I am a little sad about it. I was finally wrapping my head around the idea that if I was going to have to be in New York City to spend time with my sister, I might as well step outside my comfort zone a little and try to enjoy it the way she wants me to.
I walk swiftly back to the phone and pick it up. “Amber says to let him up. I assume you’ve checked to see that he is who he says he is.” I’m so proud of myself for thinking of this. Total security expert. I’m not as small-town as Amber thinks I am.
“Yes, ma’am. Like I said, his ID checks out. We always check identification before letting anybody up.”
Oh damn. Missed that one. “Oh, yeah. Oops. I forgot you said that. Thank you. I didn’t catch your name? Or maybe I did and I forgot it already? And if I did, I’m sorry for that too.” I’m sweating now. Perfect.
He laughs. “No, I didn’t tell you before. I’m Jeremy. I should have introduced myself. I met your sister when she first came to New York City, and then I came to work here after she moved in.”
I fan my face, trying to cool it down. “Yes, I remember her mentioning you. She said that you were always really nice to her.”
“Cool. That’s great to hear. Okay, so, I’ll send Mr. Stanz up. You have a nice day.”
“You too.” I place the phone that’s not really a phone back on the hook and stare at it. It’s a simple plastic machine that somehow has both the power to transmit voices and the power to ruin my day. Stupid phone thingy.
I walk from the kitchen to the foyer and back again. I don’t know what the standard protocol is here. Am I supposed to greet him while my sister is stuck in the bathroom or leave him to his own devices? Hiding out in my room sounds really good right now. And what is Amber doing, anyway? She’s been in there for ten minutes already.
I abandon my pacing for the spot outside the bathroom door. It’s still shut. “Hey . . . what are you doing in there?” I pause and then giggle, remembering the standard question any of us sisters would ask the other when locked outside the bathroom door as kids. “Building a log cabin?”
“Stop. Now is not the time to be teasing me about pooping. I’m serious.”
“Why not?” I tap on the door more firmly. “Open this door right now.” I’ve spent enough moments in the bathroom with my sisters to know that there’s nothing she needs to hide from me.
“Give me five more minutes. I’m just . . . dealing with something.”
Uh-oh. Irritable bowel syndrome strikes again. “I hope you’ve got some spray in there, because your boyfriend’s brother is coming up.” I walk away smiling way too hard. Sad to say, there’s nothing like a little poop joke to cheer me up. I’m twenty-five on the calendar but sometimes still ten years old in my head when it comes to my sisters. Amber and Rose are my own personal fountain of youth.
I hear the sound of a bell, and the heavy doors of the elevator opening. Abandoning the idea of hiding out in my bedroom—my sister would kill me if I let her first meeting with her boyfriend’s brother happen outside the door of a smelly bathroom—I walk quickly back to the foyer and stop just outside the entrance. I have a moment before I’m discovered to drink in the details of the man before me.
Sam Stanz is not very tall . . . more like brawny. His shoulders and arms are thick with muscle. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that fits him exactly right, perfectly outlining his chest muscles and slim waist. His jeans ride low on his hips and bunch up a little at the bottom of his black boots. He’s got a big dark-green backpack that’s seen better days, full of stuff, and a guitar case in each hand. Tattoos run the length of his right arm but the other is bare. His hair is dark brown and looks as if it hasn’t been brushed in a couple days; it’s neither overly long nor very short. His face is boxy, with a bold jaw and nose, deep-set eyes, and strong brow ridges. His aura is dark and broody.
All of this together adds up to one hell of a sexy look, but it stops at the beard. Oh, man . . . that beard. Do I like it? I’m not sure. It suits him in a strange way . . . kind of bringing the whole caveman look into the twenty-first century. It’s long and thick, reaching almost to his chest . . . a shocking addition to the other parts of this package that were pretty much straight-up musician. He looks like a mix of rock ’n’ roll and hippie love child. I don’t know what to make of the mingling styles. I think I like it . . .
He looks up and sees me standing there evaluating him. His expression doesn’t change except maybe for a tiny tightening of his brows. He doesn’t look particularly happy to see me, but why would he be? He doesn’t even know who I am, and he just arrived from who knows where.
“Welcome to Ty and Amber’s place.” I open my hands in what I hope is a graceful gesture of goodwill.
He puts his guitar cases down and slides the pack off his back. It falls to the marble floor with a thud. His voice is deep and a little gruff. “Do you always talk about yourself in the third person?”
I have to think about that for a couple seconds, but even that moment of reflection doesn’t help. I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Excuse me?” I wring my hands, wondering if I’ve said something rude without realizing it. I probably should have followed my first instinct and hidden in my room.
He walks toward me. “Amber, I presume.”
Amber . . . third person . . . Now I get it. “No, actually . . .” I hold out my hand to shake his, surprised by how rough his palm is when we make contact. “I’m not Amber. I’m her sister Em. It’s nice to meet you.”
He works hard and not just at playing the guitar; I can tell by his calluses. It’s a little thrilling, to be honest. I’ve always liked watching a man hard at work. His hand slides away from mine, leaving me feeling weirdly alone. Normally, I relish the moment when I can stop touching a stranger’s hand out of social obligation, but not this time. Strange.
“M? As in the letter m?” He backs up and sticks his hands halfway into his front pockets.
“No. Like e-m . . . short for Emerald.”
He nods, his beard going up and down as his eyes roam the space. “Nice place.”
I wince as I look around the foyer with him. “Sure.” If you like that kind of thing.
“Kind of tacky, actually,” he says.
I have to smile at our shared opinion and his boldness. “No comment.”
He blatantly looks me up and down from head to toe, making my smile disappear in a flash. I feel my ears going red at his evaluation. I have to look away, not bold enough to meet him stare for stare.
“You live here too?” he asks.
He’s done ogling me, so I look at him again. I focus on the beard. “No. I’m just visiting. Amber didn’t . . . know that you were going to be here yet, so she invited me. She said she was lonely.” I immediately feel bad about revealing my sister’s emotional state. This guy is going to think we’re both a couple of weirdos—one who decorates with feathers and one who has a brain made of them.
He shrugs, looking around the room again. “Some things went down. It was better for me to come now rather than later.”
“Okay.” Some things went down? What does that mean? I look at his unkempt appearance and his tough-guy stance and wonder if it was some kind of criminal activity that went down. Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental, though. He’s got two guitars, and I seem to recall hearing that he’s quite talented. Perhaps he just suffers from an artist’s temperament like I do. We both have the same opinion about interior decorating, at least.
“Where’s your sister?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“She’s temporarily indisposed. But she’ll be out in a minute.” I sure hope she has some bathroom spray. That door isn’t very far from where we’re standing, and I’m pretty sure we have to pass by it to give him a tour of the place . . . something it seems manners would dictate we do since he is Ty’s brother, after all. This thought makes me wonder if he’s planning on staying here. He is family, and he does look like he’s ready to settle in by the size of that backpack. He has way more clothing with him than I do.
“Are you going to be staying here?” I ask.
“If it’s okay.” He shrugs, his gaze focused on a mirror across the hall. “I don’t really have the funds for a hotel. Figured I could get more stuff done just working from Ty’s place.” He looks around the room again, his expression unreadable. “I’m not planning on staying very long.”
Not very long? One part of me is relieved to hear that, but the other is a little bummed. I’d just gotten back to thinking that not stepping out of my comfort zone and hanging out here in the apartment for ten days was a better idea. He was going to be my excuse for not going out and doing all those touristy things Amber was thinking of making me do, but if he’s only going to be here for a couple days, that’s not going to work.
But . . . if he can stay for a week or two, she’ll have somebody who can do that stuff with her, and I can stay home and paint all day and then have wine and yummy food made by her personal chef in the evening with her. It could turn out to be perfect. I wonder what the chances are of me successfully convincing Sam to stay long enough to be my tourist surrogate. I also wonder if I could work up the lady-balls to even open my mouth and suggest it.
“If it’s cool with Amber. And you,” he says, as if he’s expecting me to respond.
Oops . . . daydreaming again. “I’m sure it will be fine. There’s plenty of room here.”
We stand in awkward silence for way too long. Sweat pops out between my shoulder blades. What should I say? Should I ask him what went down that made him come here sooner than planned? No, that would be rude. Should I ask him about his family? No. Amber said something about things being strained between him and his brother. Should I ask him where he came from?
“You mind if I get myself something to drink?” he asks, interrupting my inner dialogue.
I instantly feel bad about my lack of manners. “Of course. I’m sure it’s fine if you help yourself. Come with me. The kitchen is just in here.”
Sam leaves his things in the foyer and follows me out of the room. Thankfully, I manage to find my way without taking any wrong turns. I open the fridge and point. “Help yourself.”
He stands in front of the offerings, and I back away to give him space. Maybe he doesn’t need it, but I sure do. Every time I look at him, I start to sweat again.
“Wow. There’s a lot of food in here.”
“I know. I’m looking forward to trying some of it.” Because it means I won’t have to go out. Yay!
He takes a beer from the fridge and twists the top off as he shuts the door. “Wouldn’t your sister rather eat out? I hear they’ve got some good restaurants around here.”
“I guess not.” I wander over and retrieve my wineglass from the sitting room, pouring myself a couple sips’ worth from the bottle that’s nearly empty when I return to the kitchen. Did I really drink all this wine?
Sam takes a swig of his beer and we stand in the kitchen, saying nothing. The hum of the refrigerator seems to gain volume in the awkward silence. I finish my wine way too quickly and stare longingly at the bottle, wondering if I can afford to put any more alcohol into my system. I haven’t started slurring my words yet, so I’m probably good for another glass . . .
“So, what do you do?” Sam asks.
“Do?” This question makes no sense to me. Does he mean right now? For fun? On a day-to-day basis?
“Yeah. For a living. Do you do anything?”
“Oh, yeah. I do.” Now I feel silly. Of course I do something for a living. I mean, it’s not like I make a million dollars and live in a high-rise apartment, but I do work. My face is burning with embarrassment. I can’t even have a normal conversation with this guy. I think it’s that beard. It makes him look a little scary. Very intimidating. Not like a regular guy. Not like the ones I meet at the bar back home or have ever been with.
“Do I get to know what it is, or is it a secret?” The slightest hint of a smile turns up one corner of his mouth.
Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m acting like such a dingbat around this guy. It’s just a beard! I’ve seen hundreds of beards on the farm! My goats have beards! Even one of my chickens has one!
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m spacing out. I think I’ve had too much wine.” I brush the hair away from my face and lean on the counter. “I work as part of a farming collective, in an intentional-living community.”
I pause for his reaction. All I see is a blank stare that tells me I’ve already lost him. This is normal for anyone who’s not actually at the farm asking me this kind of question.
I sigh, sad that I can’t dress up my life and make it sound more interesting. “I’m a hippie. I grow and raise stuff to sell at the farmers’ market.”
He nods. “Okay, I get it now. That’s cool.”
What do I say to that? Yes, it’s cool? No, it’s not very cool, but I do it anyway? I think he’s just being polite, so I say nothing.
“What kind of stuff do you grow?”
“This and that.”
He stands there expectantly, waiting for more detail.
I continue under duress, knowing that the more I explain, the more of a backwoods hick I’ll become to him. “Vegetables, some fruits.”
“That it?”
I sigh. “No. We have eggs from the chickens and ducks. Goat’s-milk cheese. We have some beehives, so there’s honey, too.” Aaaand that’s my exciting life as a hippie chick extraordinaire. In other words, I always have dirt under my fingernails and I rarely wear shoes.
“Bees scare me,” he says.
I have to smile at this tattooed tough guy with his big old beard being afraid of a little bee because I totally get it. “Bees scare me too. A lot.”
His hand freezes partway to delivering the beer bottle to his mouth again. “Why do you have hives if they scare you so much?”
“They’re not my hives, actually. They were Amber’s before she moved to New
York.”
He nods, staring at me. I get the impression he’s trying to see inside my head, and since I already have enough people in there reading my thoughts, I don’t want to add him to the mix. I turn around and give myself another healthy serving of wine. The bottle is now officially empty. Screw staying sober. I might as well go whole hog at this point because it’s not like things could be any more awkward than they are now. Let the word-slurring begin!
“Bees and I don’t get along,” I say, taking a big sip of my drink with my back still to him. He’ll probably think I’m a lush, but oh well, what the hell. It’s not like I care what he thinks.
“You’re not taking over the bee stuff for your sister while she’s here?” he asks.
I shake my head as I turn around to face him, liquid courage firmly in hand. “Nope.”
“She’s going back? To the farm?”
I shake my head again. “Nope. I don’t think she’s coming back.” Now my brain space is being taken up by the idea of my sister leaving home never to return, and my mood shifts into a new, all-time-low gear. I take a big slug of my wine at the same time that Sam downs a healthy swig of his beer. I wonder if he’s using the alcohol to help fuel the conversation too.
“So, your sister . . .” He looks around the kitchen and tries to see into the nearby sitting area. “She’s still indisposed?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking about how much I already miss her. “She’s busy building a log cabin right now.” The words are out before I can think to stop them.
Oh, shoot! I cannot believe I just said that out loud! Oh my god! What is wrong with me? I put the wineglass down and push it far away from me. I’ve obviously had way too much.
“What did you just say?” Sam is smiling for real now. It makes my heart burn for some reason. Indigestion. I have instantaneous indigestion. Or a heart attack. I might be dying.
I can’t speak, but he’s standing there expectantly, waiting for me to stop acting like a freak. My face is on fire. I force the words to come. “I know you heard me.”
