by Rica Grayson
I was cursing him all the way back inside. I thought I heard a faint echo of a snicker. My grip tightened on the ladle.
Stupid neighbor. I was moving out soon, I told myself determinedly. I had almost enough saved up to afford a new place. I took deep breaths and calmed down. Eventually.
My curry did burn. I only realized this as I turned the stove off. It looked just fine on the surface. I was mixing the dish and scraped the bottom, which turned out to be a little rough. I didn’t have the most acute sense of smell, something Eva once said might be related to why I was a terrible cook.
I didn’t even put the heat on high. As I tasted the unburned section, I realized, gratingly, that he was right.
“Hey,” Eva greeted, almost too perkily, from the other end of the line. “You called. What’s up?”
“My fucking neighbor, that’s who.”
I heard her bell-like laugh. “I can almost picture steam coming out of your ears. Can’t you just ignore him?”
Only she would say that.
My best friend, and my partner in crime, seemed to think anything could be solved with enough resolve and guts. I told her what he did the past two days, and she only seemed to think it was funny.
“No. I can’t. You don’t understand. If you try living with him, you’ll go insane.”
“That bad?”
“Yesterday, he spent the better part of an hour chewing someone’s head off on the phone. Do you have any idea how thin these doors are?”
What followed, one time, was a heated conversation. I heard him telling the person at the other end of the line that he wasn’t coming back. It seemed like the person at the other end of the line didn’t really get it, because he had to repeat it a couple of times. I guess that meant I’d have to find ways to tune him out if I was going to be stuck with him for a while.
She coughed in an attempt to conceal her amusement. “I told you to move out. It’s not safe for you to be all alone there anyway.”
“It’s not that bad,” I replied defensively. “I also have nearly enough. Just a couple more months.”
“Listen,” her voice softened, “I can lend—”
“No.”
It was just like her to offer.
Eva was old money. Her parents were wealthy, but they never openly flaunted it. It also wasn’t immediately apparent when you met her, because she liked working for her dad’s restaurant.
But I was also capable of making my own, so that was what I did. “Thanks," I replied softly, "but I can’t accept that." I appreciated that she’d offered, but it was too much.
“It’s there anyway, if you ever need it.”
Not for the first time this week, I heard the sound of the phone coming from next door, ringing one more damn time.
Didn’t the man know how to answer it?
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s not answering his phone. Again.”
“I wonder what that’s about,” she said curiously.
And she wasn’t the only one who did.
I decided to go to Camelot’s Cupcakes and Cookies for coffee, since it was still pretty early. Home to the best coffee and peanut butter cookies in town, it was owned by Abe Diaz, so the locals referred to it simply as Abe’s.
Thinking of the things I could do today, I made a mental checklist. As I was about to head in, I glanced up. Behind the glass door and windows of the shop was…
I stopped in my tracks.
My neighbor.
He was talking to someone on the other side of the counter, expression somber. I went closer and saw who it was.
Abe went out from behind the counter, a burst of happiness spreading across his face. Then his arm went around my neighbor, over his neck. They knew each other? An old friend? A relative? A… shit.
I knew who he was.
It was becoming clear now why he only appeared out of nowhere and moved in next door.
I took a deep breath. I wasn't going to run away. I pushed the door open.
I was only having coffee. We didn't need to have a conversation… Right?
The chimes sounded when I swung it open. Luke's head turned to the door, and there was surprise on his face when he saw me, quickly replaced by something else. Something warmer.
“Sweetheart,” he acknowledged, a smile sweeping over his face.
“Don’t call me that,” I replied back almost immediately.
“But I don’t know your name.”
Abe cleared his throat. “Gonna leave you both here. Order whatever you like,” he told Luke, meeting his gaze. “It’s on the house.”
Abe’s eyes twinkled when they met mine. I didn't even want to decipher what that meant.
I ordered some coffee, and I turned to him. “You’re Luke,” I said. “Luke Diaz."
“Yeah.” I surprised him again. He looked at me like he was trying to figure me out. “I guess it's true what they said that everyone knows everyone around here."
It took me a moment to realize that him being Luke Diaz meant Clarisse was his sister.
Once upon a time, she was a close friend. When I first came to Fortuity, there was a competition where we had to design our own lanterns. We'd made ours together. When I came back from a break, I saw that she'd won, holding mine. My first taste of friendship since I left my parents, and I learned that people stepped on you to get what they wanted.
I felt something stir inside me, and I recognized it as disappointment.
I didn’t know much about Luke. All I knew was that when he was little, Abe and Bella fell out of love and eventually split. I knew Luke didn’t visit much. In the times he went over, he either stayed at home, or played with the other kids. He was now part-owner of Abe’s, and I’d once been told that he owned a few other small businesses. But of what I knew, he hadn’t been back in a long time. Why now? Why go back now when he hadn’t cared at all before?
“So what are you doing here?” he asked me. “Stalking me? That’s some pretty extreme method to get my name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kidding,” he grinned.
“Best coffee in town right here,” I told him. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Starting to see that,” he murmured.
“And how are you liking Fortuity?” I found myself asking out of courtesy, and if I was being honest, a little curiosity.
“It’s good. The people have been great. Apparently I’ve been missing a lot. Maybe I’ll see that for myself.”
“Liking it enough to stay?” I asked.
His eyes were on me as he answered, “Maybe.”
I tore my gaze away.
This man was dangerous. To my heart, and to the rest of my senses. I didn’t have to know him well to understand that. I gripped my warm coffee cup tighter.
"Okay, I've got things to do." I forced a smile. "Bye."
"Wait—“
But as I turned to leave, my wallet slipped from my fingers and toppled… right next to Luke’s shoe. I bent down, but he was faster and fished it easily with a hand. He held it up high, his other arm trying to block my attempts to snatch it back.
Just when I thought we were having a proper decent conversation for the first time, he just had to ruin it.
“Give it back!”
He flipped it open in one hand expertly.
“Sierra Mitchell,” he read off my ID. “Ah, now I have a name. Only fair since you have mine, right?”
“Fuck you.” I wrenched the wallet away from his hands.
A self-satisfied smirk crept onto his face. “That the best you got, sweetheart?”
“Rat bastard. And don’t. Call me. That,” I said through gritted teeth.
“My bad,” he amended, his smile only growing bigger. “I meant Sierra.”
My mind exploded. “Erase my name from your brain. It doesn’t belong there. I’m not even sure it fits there.”
He put a hand over his heart, as if wou
nded. But the arrogance swam in his eyes. “Always got room for you.”
“I’m sure they all drop down to kiss your feet after you tell them that.”
“Nah, your curls are something special.”
Slick. Real slick. “I’m sure they all believe that too. Can I get my wallet back?"
But he didn't hand it back to me. "So now we're on a first name basis."
"No. Just no."
"Dinner later?" he persisted. "Maybe we can cook something else together."
I held my hand up, expecting him to give it back. Argh.
I dropped the hand, and tried to explain to him why it won't work. "I won't cook for you if you were the last man on earth."
That surprised him for all of a second before he recovered, and his eyes were laughing at me again. “Ah, but you can’t cook. What man would be interested?”
It hit too close to home. I think I stopped breathing.
Can’t cook, don’t get grades as high as Perry.
I tried to stop the memory from coming, but his words made me remember, and it sounded as clear in my head as it did in the past. It wasn't any less crushing.
Suddenly, this wasn’t so fun anymore.
He seemed to clue in to the sudden shift in my mood, because gone was the teasing edge to his voice when he said, “Sweetheart—”
I snatched my wallet back, catching him unaware. “I, ah, I gotta go.”
It was humiliating.
The memory was humiliating.
I didn’t feel so clean anymore. I was back in our old house, my face bruised, and my soul broken.
“Your order—”
I opened my wallet, taking a couple of bills out, my hands shaking, not caring whether I added a few more. I just needed to get out of there.
I slapped the bills down the table, and abruptly stood up.
“They can keep the change,” I heard myself say. I don’t know how I even managed it.
I couldn’t look at him. I was out the door in a rush.
Chapter Three
Mortal Enemy
I threw myself into work. By Monday, I was doing a book cover for a client, when I heard banging against my door.
I frowned.
I hadn’t heard any more calls on my neighbor’s end. I hadn’t had any clashes with him either, fortunately.
I was considering my next plan of attack, but he hadn’t really done anything to warrant it, so I mostly kept to myself.
After what he said last time, I figured the less encounters we had, the better it was for our sanity. Something told me if I’d only revealed a small part of myself to him, he would rip it wide open ruthlessly, leaving nothing left.
I pushed myself up from the carpet. Maybe Pat needed something.
I opened my door a little.
Luke’s hand was lifted up in the middle of a knock when he realized I’d pulled it open.
Oh my God. It was him.
His arm dropped down to his side.
“Hey. Still alive?” A faint smile touched his face.
“Are you trying to break my door?”
“I’m sorry.” He really did look sorry. “Got a little worried here.”
“I’m fine.” Was that really concern on his face? It baffled me. He hardly even knew me. “Did you need something?” I asked.
He paused, thinking. “I wanted to know if you have some…” His forehead creased. “Cream. I was wondering if you have some cream.”
“Cream?” Ice cream? Burn cream? Cream brûlée? “What kind of cream?”
“Whipped cream,” he clarified, almost immediately. “I hardly know anyone else on the floor below, so if you don’t mind…”
“Whipped cream?” Desserts were my soft spot. “Are you making something?”
“I wanted to make…” He paused briefly. “Waffles,” he said, his eyes widening a little as if the idea just occurred to him. “Can’t eat waffles without it.”
“Waffles? You have the whole waffle maker and all?”
He nodded. Now he was just trying to torture me.
I did have whipped cream. I had it because I wanted to make a strawberry and coconut treat, but I was scared I’d mess it up again and it would just end up soupy.
The last time I attempted to make a sponge cake, my beater didn’t make the white egg into stiff peaks. I wanted to throw the thing out of the window. Useless. A little search said it was probably because one drop of butter got onto a spoon.
Psh. The batter had no right being picky.
I don’t know what made me say it, I suppose it was because I didn’t see what was so wrong giving a little of something I didn’t currently need. “I have some. I’ll go get it. Give me a sec,” I said. I quickly grabbed it from the kitchen. It was still unopened. It was a little pricey, but it was cream.
His eyes lit up when he saw it, and briefly, I thought he looked a little like a kid. Yeah, he was a lot taller and bigger than me, but the joy in something so simple had my lips lifting up into a smile.
His smile faded a little. His hand lifted up, a bit unsure, and then his knuckle grazed gently over my jaw, and a thumb stroked once, twice over my cheek, before it dropped back down.
My breath caught. He looked like he wanted to devour me, and I didn’t know if I should stay in the same spot, or run away. The feeling was heady.
“I’m really sorry about earlier,” he said, expression grim. “But you know, cooking can be taught. Come right over some time and maybe I can teach you."
Before I could think of a response at the implication, he went back in. And in what felt like the first time in a while, I was rendered speechless.
A while later, a knock came on my door. I was about to go back in thinking it was another prank, when I caught something in the corner of my eye. My eyes went down to the ground. There was a large paper plate that sat over a paper bag, covered with another plate on top, next to my whipped cream. It was a stark contrast to the deep maroon of the carpet. I bent down and lifted the cover up.
Oh my God. Two golden brown waffles. It was topped with whipped cream, drizzled with chocolate syrup.
He left it for me.
As a thank you gift? It was nice. No back and forth. No games.
Back inside, I cut a piece off with a fork and tasted it. Crispy. Just the right sweetness.
Food told stories. From the way they looked to the way they tasted. This told me it was made with care and thought.
And it was at such odds with the man I met that the complexity intrigued me. As far as thank you gifts went, it was way up there.
I didn't think we'd clash again so soon, but I was proven wrong.
I'd picked up a painting I saw from a charity shop of an arrangement of pink flowers with a pastel-colored theme. I wasn’t the type who constantly wanted to decorate my house, but on the occasion I found something I liked, I shelled out enough just to get it. Plus, it was a bonus that I was going to be helping charity too.
I found the perfect place to hang it in my living room.
I rummaged my drawers for nails.
The problem was, I couldn’t find my hammer. I didn’t have those sticky hooks, and I didn’t want to buy anymore unless I had to.
I knocked on Pat’s door first. The other door on Pat’s level was of a couple, and I didn’t know them too well.
Pat told me regretfully that she couldn’t find hers, since it was usually her son who came over and fixed things so he knew where everything was.
Somehow, I ended up in front of his door.
It was the first time I stood in front of his door with the intention of asking something from him. Would he turn me away?
Hmm.
To hell with it. We only lived once. I did give him whipped cream. Maybe he would be generous too. Men had tools at their disposal, right?
I rapped my fist on the door a couple of times. Then I repeated it again for good measure.
The door opened and Luke was there, a towel was on his waist.
�
��I… uh.” My eyes lowered from his chest to the trail leading down to… My mind blanked. “Never mind. I’ll come back later.”
I turned on my heel, but I felt a hand grab my wrist, stopping me. “Something wrong?”
“Uh—”
“Sierra,” he said my name, his voice husky. I liked the way he said my name. Like he was claiming it. When did that happen? “Did you need something?”
My mind cleared a little. I averted my gaze from him as I spoke. Then a finger swept over the soft skin inside my wrist. “No. Yes. I—I was wondering if you had a hammer.”
I felt my cheeks heat.
“A hammer.” He sounded amused.
“I have this painting I want to hang somewhere,” I tried to explain. “I misplaced my hammer.”
“You misplaced your hammer.” His lips were pressed together. Then—were his shoulders shaking? Why was he looking at me like that?
“Yes! Do you have one?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Hang on, I’ll go get it.”
“Just—just take your time,” I muttered.
My face must’ve been really red. This was mortifying.
He came back not long after with a shirt on—and was that a pinch of disappointment I felt?—then I accepted it.
“T-thanks,” I stammered.
God. Freaking Luke Diaz.
I ran back inside and closed my door. Then I leaned on it, and put a hand over my chest, feeling my heartbeat quicken. Why did he affect me like that?
I finally hammered the nail to the wall, sitting the painting at the center. The thought of returning it was already making me giddy.
Oh God. No. I wasn’t going to be that kind of girl.
Maybe I could try leaving it on the doorstep like he did?
Sparked by an idea, I found my own paper bag, placed the hammer inside, labeling it. Then I sneaked outside and placed it a safe distance away. I knocked on his door with a couple of firm raps before I went back inside.
I watched him through the peephole as he looked a bit confused at first, until he saw what was on the ground. He picked it up, and peeked inside.
I thought I heard him chuckle as he shut the door. As he did so, I couldn’t help but crack a smile.
