There’s a shadow a few feet past the stoop, the actual form of the man hidden in darkness. I am clueless to what I’m dealing with, but I imagine a cop would make themselves known, flashing a badge or pair of handcuffs by now.
“Um. I live here,” I stammer over my words. Technically they’re true. I will live here. Once I’m inside.
The shadow shifts, stepping a foot closer. “You got proof of that?” he asks in a quick flat sentence like he’s already decided I don’t.
He’s right.
“Erm… no.” Copies of the paperwork are in my mother’s safe in Oklahoma. I’m set to receive an official copy from Aunt Gertie’s lawyer here in the mail, but it’s not shoved in a pocket somewhere. “I have a key.” The useless key dangles from my purple fabric key ring. “But it doesn’t work,” I finish up, ever the voice of confidence.
“Doesn’t sound like you live here.”
Oh god. I’m going to end up in Pelican Bay jail on my first night in town. Is Pelican Bay big enough to have a jail in the tiny police department?
“My aunt Gertie lived here. Well she’s my… she was my great aunt. She left me her place with directions I enjoy life and live a little,” I ramble on including sections of the personal note Gertie left me with the paperwork to the house. “She didn’t have kids. And I visited her every summer–”
“You’re Gertie’s niece?” he cuts me off saving myself from more embarrassment. “I expected someone older.”
“Great niece.” I almost take a step off the porch to introduce myself and then hesitate. Who knows who this guy is?
“You weren’t at the funeral?”
Is everyone in town going to ask me this? “Yeah, I had to take care of things back home.” Let’s hope the lie gets easier the more I’m forced to tell it.
“Her lawyer, Jim, said you’d be here a week ago.”
“I drove slowly.” Scary guy in the shadows or not, his third degree pisses me off. I’m either going to push my ass through the window or he’ll call the cops. He needs to hurry up and pick because my adrenaline has worn off and it’s fucking cold.
I should remain calm with the unidentified stranger who’s traipsing around my back yard, but I don’t have any more fucks to give on this. I don’t like the cold.
“Look, I’m freezing over here. You either help me into the house or call the cops on me. Pick one and let’s get moving. I don’t want to lose a finger.”
He walks to the bottom of the first step and I tense, not ready to back up any of the words I just spouted. With each step, more and more of his features stand out although the fine details stay hidden in shadows. One thing is easy to deduce. The man’s massive. Not only does he meet me at eye level three steps lower, but his chest fills the small opening created by the large pillars on either side of the porch staircase.
The giant takes all three steps at once and stops right next to me, breathing the same air on the tiny stoop. I squeeze myself into the smallest area of the corner silently cursing that damn second doughnut I ate this morning.
“I’m Ridge.” He holds a hand out and I tentatively take it. Mine shakes not only in greeting, but intimidation and the frigid weather. Who the fuck names their kid Ridge?
“Tabitha Thompson.”
Ridge invades more of my space as he turns for the door. He leans across the area in front of me and shuts the side window with a heavy hand, closing off my one entry to the house. Right when I decide it’s all lost, he pulls out a key ring loaded with multiple keys from the pocket of his winter jacket.
Not two seconds later the back door swings open and Ridge walks into the kitchen allowing me to follow. The house is cold, but already warmer than the outside conditions. Thank god.
“The heat’s been down. Let me turn it up for you and get lights on in here.” Ridge flips a switch on the wall behind me and the room is bathed in bright light.
I blink to adjust my eyes and by the time I’ve opened them again, Ridge is gone.
The kitchen is how I remember it. Smaller with outdated design, but nice working appliances. Gertie always had top of the line cooking implements. Her tile floor appears white in this light, but in reality it’s a cream color. Years of use have rubbed off the light brown art work. The white linoleum countertop coupled with the cabinets painted with many layers of white paint makes the room clean but a little sterile. To the right side of me, a circular dining room table with mismatched chairs is placed below the window I tried to climb in earlier.
Gertie spent the last few weeks of her life in a rehabilitation center — she broke her hip on a patch of ice this winter — but the kitchen still smells of cinnamon and a hint of garlic. Not two flavors you’d often put together, but they bring back happy memories.
“Um… Ridge,” I yell into the house when he hasn’t returned after my appraisal of the room.
Ready to turn on more lights, I run smack dab into him in the short hallway with the two bedrooms and one bath.
“Yeah.” He stops me by grabbing on to my shoulders and doesn’t let go until I step back. “Heat should kick on in a few. The house wasn’t properly winterized, so you’re fine to run water.”
With mere inches separating us, I take in my mini savior.
He’s gorgeous.
Is it acceptable to use gorgeous to describe a man? Maybe drop dead hot is better. While he seemed huge and intimidating outside, the warmth of the kitchen light casts his face in friendly tones. A strong jaw with a hint of stubble accents his appeal. His blue eyes are bright unlike my own dull grey color, and there’s a small scar under his left eye. I have to stop my hand from reaching out to run a finger across it. His light brown sandy colored hair is thick, but cut a little shorter to his head allowing a tiny amount of fluff. Enough a girl could slide her fingers through and give it a good tug.
And his smell… to die for. It’s more than a man’s cologne. Nature. Like he’s been outside all day in the cold, the sea water in the air adds to the overall effect. A funny short grin sits on his face and it takes me too long to realize he’s watched me check him out.
“Right… the water.” I divert attention away from my blatant perusal of his hard thick chest.
He flips on a switch in the hallway and the living room across from the kitchen lights up. The brown carpeting has been replaced with a lighter color since my last visit, and the overstuffed floral microfiber couch is in front of the wood burning fire place with a small, ancient TV to one side. Gertie never used the television much, and neither did I. There were beaches to walk and ice cream cones to eat. Plus boys. I never talked to any of them, but I could covertly stare with the best. The mantel above the fireplace still hosts a collection of seagull figurines from one end to the next, but it appears Gertie’s obsession grew in the last few years. The porcelain animals take up space on both of her end tables and the small rolltop desk at the back of the room. She spent many Sunday afternoons at that desk writing cards to people from the church prayer list. My Aunt Gertie took her Ladies’ Auxiliary membership seriously. She wrote while I stuffed and stamped. We had a quick and easy system.
“When is the moving truck scheduled?” Ridge asks from behind me. I’d forgotten he was here, too lost in memories. Which says something because few women would forget he’s in the room.
I leave the mental images of Gertie hunched over her card duty behind me. “No truck. Everything I need is in the car. A few boxes.” I left the expensive dresses and other outfits Mario picked out for me in Oklahoma bringing only jeans, assorted t-shirts, and a few cute blouses. I’d rather not be reminded of the past.
“Is the car unlocked?” Ridge’s long legs eat up the space in the living room in less than six steps. “I’ll unpack it for you.”
There isn’t time for me to answer before he’s out the front door. I’d chase him, but I’m almost warm again. The living room has a slight musty odor to it, probably from being locked up for the last month. I must find somewhere in town to purchase candles, pref
erably the kind made in Maine with an intoxicating beach scent. Not the ones they tell you smell like the beach but either smell like sun tan lotion or soap.
I’ll box up most of the contents in the house, but for now I plan to keep it as is. Mario would never allow me to keep any form of knickknacks in his place. I’ll enjoy every single one of the little white birds on display now. Sure, I’m almost two thousand miles away, but you’re never too far to give an ex a giant fuck you. Even in seagull form.
The dark brown front door swings open and Ridge enters carrying three boxes stacked on top of one another. Somehow he places them in a nice neat pile behind the couch before he heads out again. The trunk slams and he enters, his head peeking out to the side of the last of my haphazardly packed boxes stacked in front of him. This pile put next to the first and Ridge strides right back to the kitchen. I expect the back door to creak, him leaving the same way he came, but the refrigerator clacks instead.
“Do you have food? I didn’t see any food in the car,” he calls from the kitchen around the refrigerator door.
I hate when people shout between rooms. It’s my mother’s favorite way of communicating. Rather than yell my answer, I walk the few steps into the kitchen and lean against the opening between both rooms. “I’ll order delivery.”
He cocks his head at me in question. “From where?”
“I don’t know. I’ll Google it.” What does anyone do when they need to find a restaurant close by? It’s then I remember my lack of phone signal. Do they still make phone books? “I’ll find a drive-thru.”
“Sweetheart, the closest drive-thru is in East Pelican Bay or Whitecap. It’s a twenty-five-minute drive.”
I internally moan at the thought of getting back in the car.
Ridge laughs. Damn, I guess the moan wasn’t as quiet as I thought. “You like chicken?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Noodles?”
“Yeah.” Who doesn’t like noodles?
He slides a cell phone on the island separating the kitchen from the dining area and leans against the cupboard behind him. We’re an entire room apart, but Ridge’s presence fills the open space. Most of his form is hidden under his thick black winter coat, but I use my imagination. As if he read my mind, begging him to take off the thick coat, he tosses it next to his phone on the counter.
A white long sleeve shirt covers his torso, the material stretched at his biceps when he crosses his arms in front of his chest. I catch myself ogling him before it becomes noticeable… I hope.
“What will you do for breakfast?”
“Breakfast?” I haven’t decided on dinner yet. “I don’t really need breakfast. Just coffee.” My large metal canister of cheap coffee took up an entire corner of one box, valuable packing real estate, but worth it. Mario insisted we drink premium blends. Six months ago I tried to revolt and bought the economy sized version of my childhood favorite. After one cup he stored it away in a cupboard never to see the light of day again.
Not liking the same coffee should have been clue number one Mario and I weren’t a good match. Plus, everyone knows you store coffee in the refrigerator to preserve the freshness — a trick I learned from Gertie herself.
“There aren’t any pansy coffee places around here.”
“I don’t drink pansy coffee. I’m a full roast girl.” Because I need to prove I hold my own in the coffee arena, I pop open the box with my big blue canister and show him.
He smiles, the skin around his eyes wrinkling, but it only makes him appear stronger. Apparently he approves of my coffee choice. “You got a coffee pot in there too, babe?”
Babe? The way the word oozes off his lips sounds sexist and patronizing. My face puckers, but secretively my insides love it. I’ve never been a babe to a hot guy before.
“I didn’t bring a coffeemaker with me.” We had one of those instant cup makers in Oklahoma, but there’s no way I could have left Mario without a way to make his Colombian roast.
“Don’t look like someone kidnapped your kitten. I’m sure there’s one stashed in a cupboard somewhere.”
Ridge opens and closes cabinets. When he bends down to inspect the lower ones, I lean over and check out his ass. Discreetly, of course. His jeans hug the tight curves before forming into long legs. Nice.
I’m back in my normal stance, my attention out the kitchen window by the time he stands again. “No coffee pot.”
“What?” Gertie was always drinking tea by the gallon. How can she not have a way to heat water in this kitchen?
“She probably took her teapot to the rehab. Stop by the diner. They serve a nice cup, but not until six.”
“Six?” There’s sheer horror in my words. “In the morning?”
“Not a morning person?” Ridge asks holding back a laugh.
“Not a six a.m. one.”
There’s a knock on the door, but I’m still confused over not having a way to make coffee. This could be a real problem. Ridge slips past me and I tuck the large can of coffee grounds on the counter. Tomorrow’s plan: drive somewhere with 4G signal and figure out where to buy a coffee pot in this county.
The front door opens and closes, a few murmured words on Ridge’s end. I hope it’s a welcoming committee with a fruit basket. One I’ll be able to eat for dinner and breakfast. A sweet smell follows Ridge into the kitchen as a white plastic bag with a red dragon printed on the front swings from his hand.
Food.
My stomach picks this moment to protest, the loud growl filling the quiet room. “I thought you said nothing was open this late?” I ask with a heavy dose of accusation. Who is this guy who walked in my house and started bossing me around like he lives here? I’d be super annoyed if I wasn’t so hungry and he had food.
“Get plates from the cupboard behind you.” He laughs at my narrowed eyes and places the bag on the counter. Somehow my body finds the strength not to jump on the bag and rip it open. “I said Pelican Bay had nothing open. There isn’t unless you’re friends with the right people.”
“Yeah? Who do you know?” I ask handing over two plates to his waiting hands and going back for silverware.
“One of my guys lives close to Chen’s. He dropped it off.”
One of his guys? “What do you do?”
Ridge dishes out the various containers, but he’s so slow. If he doesn’t move faster, he’ll end up doing whatever he does with one less hand. A pile of noodles with chunks of meat covered in brown sauce grows on my plate before he switches to the other container and dumps various veggies on top. I reach out ready to eat this food as fast as possible, but Ridge pulls out a small white bag, the top folded over. I’m intrigued. There’s only one addition which could make this meal more perfect.
“You like crab rangoons?” he asks pulling one from the bag’s opening but not putting it on my plate. He likes to live dangerously.
“Oh my god. You’re like my dream man.” I wave my hand frantically toward my plate so he’ll fill it up with crabby goodness.
“That’s a yes on the rangoons, then?”
“What? Yes, load me up. There’s duck sauce, right? You must have duck sauce.” Rather than wait for him, I dig through the bag finding a small little see-through container of my favorite red colored sauce. Definitely not enough. It’s gonna cover like one rangoon. One of my crab rangoons.
Ridge hands me the plate and I sit at the table, the duck sauce placed between us, but a little more on my side. I struggle to share, but the man provided me with dinner, so he’s allowed a dip.
One dip.
I’ve already cracked open the container and dunked my first rangoon by the time he’s taken a seat across from me.
He lifts one of his rangoons and moves like he’s going to dip it in my sauce and I try not to tense. Or snatch it away from him and hide it on my side.
“You like the red sauce, huh?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I push the little container across the space.
He laughs and pushes it b
ack with the edge of his rangoon. “Don’t worry about it. Next time I’ll order two.”
“Hmm. Three. It’s a small container,” I answer before I realize what I’ve said. He’s implied there’ll be a next time… and we’ll order more sauce. Does he plan to boss me around again soon? I like the thought way too much.
We both fall into a comfortable pattern of chewing. Well, I chew and check him out when he isn’t looking.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, wary of his answer.
Ridge chews his food slowly, taking his time. “I have no idea.”
“Oh.”
He laughs. “You remind me of a cousin, I guess. You looked so sad and scared. How could I not help?”
Wonderful. The cute guy next door is nice because he thinks I’m pitiful.
I have a few more bites of noodles and other various MSG loaded food in my stomach before I’m ready to engage in conversation again. “You never said what you do that you have guys to bring you Chinese on Sunday night.”
“Security.” When I widen my eyes implying I’ll need more than that he continues. “A lot of alarm systems, standard security measures.”
“There’s a big need for alarm systems in Pelican Bay?” I’m not even sure we locked the doors when I used to visit.
He laughs, unperturbed by my question. “You’d be surprised what goes on around here.”
“Yeah I’m sure Pearl and Roland are a real threat. International jewel thieves hiding out from the law,” I answer sarcastically.
“There are quite a few expensive homes up and down the coast. They make for good clients.”
“But why Pelican Bay? I’m sure you’d have more clients if you based somewhere in Bangor or even Bay Harbor.” I mention two larger towns in the area.
Ridge sighs. “Mom died a few years ago. My older brother and I took it hard, but the youngest Jefferson, acted out. Bar fights, dropped out of college. I left the SEALs at the end of my tour and came back here to help Dad.”
Well the military background certainly explains some things. “I’m sorry. Did your brother turn it around?”
Security Risk Page 2
