by Jody Holford
Wyatt kept his voice even and low. “You’re the acting manager, right?” Brady nodded. “Which puts responsibility for every one of these units on you. Negligence is a bitch. Hurry up and get your tools. I don’t have all day.”
Brady frowned and brushed past him, and Wyatt sighed in frustration. People didn’t get it. They lived in their safe little made-up worlds and didn’t see the dangers that were literally right outside their doors.
Look at Jake, the last dickhead apartment manager they’d had. That guy had broken into all the tenants’ storage units, looking for something he wouldn’t share with them. Wyatt had cornered him one night a couple of weeks ago, knowing in his gut that what Jake had “misplaced” were drugs, and had not so subtly suggested he find new employment. Jake had left shortly thereafter, but that didn’t mean people should drop their guards completely.
Brady came back with a small red toolbox. Wyatt almost commented on the size but thought better of it. He was being neighborly. Or trying. And it wasn’t doing him a damn bit of good.
Brady gestured to the door with his chin. “Thanks.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Brady opened the toolbox, darting glances at Wyatt. Finally, he asked, “What do you do for work, anyway?” Brady pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers.
Wyatt didn’t have to hide anymore. His days of hiding were over, and he needed to get used to that. Still, unease over sharing information about himself settled in his stomach. “I’m a detective with the Boston PD.”
Brady’s eyes widened right before he gave a loud bark of laughter and slapped his own thigh. “Son of a bitch. You’re a cop? You’re not with the mob?”
Wyatt wasn’t a talker. He found that the less he talked, the more others did. In his line of work, information was power. But he rarely found himself speechless. At Brady’s question, no words left his mouth. That only made Brady laugh harder.
“This is why I keep to myself,” Wyatt mumbled. He let the door close behind him but could still hear Brady’s laugh as he walked the concrete path toward the underground parking lot.
The fountain splashed against the ice that had formed in the shallow bowl. Brady needs to turn that fountain off for the winter. Wyatt shook his head and pulled his collar tighter. Not his problem. There really was a reason he kept to himself—it made life easier.
Originally, Kendrick Place was a shipping warehouse. In the mid-1900s, a man had immigrated from overseas, bought the building, and turned it into one- and two-bedroom apartments. The same family, though the next generation and their children, owned it still. Wyatt liked the history, the location, and, until recently, the feeling of security.
He unlocked the side door that led to the garage and walked to his car, sliding behind the wheel and turning on his heated seats. Wonder what Shay drives. Besides a U-Haul. His phone buzzed, and he pressed the speaker on the steering wheel as he backed out.
“Daniels.”
“Hey, boss. The brother lawyered up already,” Jimmy said.
Wyatt smacked the steering wheel. That’s what entertaining neighbors does. “Shit. I’m on my way.”
He pulled out of the lot, clearing his mind of neighbors and apartment managers, and focused on the only thing he was good at—his job.
Chapter Three
Shay could organize a space in her sleep, so her neighbor’s apartment wasn’t that scary. Not that Wyatt will appreciate it. She didn’t have to know him well, or at all, to know he wouldn’t want someone digging through his stuff. Private was an understatement. Closed off, guarded, and wary were better adjectives to sum up his demeanor. She couldn’t help but wonder why. Then she reminded herself it didn’t matter because she was done going after men who held their truths like a closed fist.
She could probably get the key out of the door herself. Her own multi-tool was in her apartment, but surely Wyatt had one. She slid open a drawer thinking of where she kept her own for easy access.
“Wow,” she said, her eyes widening. This was a man who really took the term junk drawer seriously. She pushed it closed and pulled open the next one, feeling a twinge of guilt for poking around. But he must have some pliers, and it wasn’t like there was a garage for him to keep tools. Maybe a toolbox? Hard to find when she couldn’t see any surfaces. It wasn’t snooping or intruding. Straightening up was a different deal altogether.
Deciding it was a neighborly thing to do, she started with the condiments, smiling over the fact that he’d grudgingly fed her when it was so obvious he didn’t like company. She wondered what he did for work and tried to think of what would suit him. Navy SEAL? Pilot? Bad-news-giver…no, that probably wasn’t a job. While piling his reusable grocery bags inside of one another, she was careful not to move too many things. He struck her as the kind of guy who knew exactly where something was, despite the chaos.
Wiping the counter was easy, but rinsing the cloth was nearly impossible with the dishes in the sink. Surely he wouldn’t consider it overstepping to just throw his dishes in the dishwasher? And add the soap. And take care of the dishes that she didn’t think went in the machine? It seemed like the thing to do. He’d asked her to put things away, and he had been very generous with his time and food. She’d obviously woken him. And God was he sexy with his half awake eyes and hint of growth on his chin. Even his scowl is alluring. Nope, nope, nope. Stop it.
“Scowls are not alluring. Friendliness is attractive. Happiness. No mystery. Like Brady,” she said. But it wasn’t the thought of Brady making her skin hum.
Shay couldn’t properly wipe the counter with all of the papers and files on it. That was the only reason she straightened them. Plus, it made her twitchy to even be in a space that was this…cluttered. Not unclean. Not dirty. Just a mess. She checked her cell phone, saw her mom had texted three times and Taylor, her oldest brother, had left a voicemail. She’d get back to them later. When she was once again in her own apartment. Shay groaned, remembering the reason she was here and what she’d been looking for. Toolbox. Tool. Maybe under the sink.
Before she could find out, there was a knock on the door. Opening it, she was relieved to see Brady standing there. He looked tired, like he’d worked all day and didn’t have the energy for the antics of the new neighbor who couldn’t even operate a door.
She frowned. “How did you know where I was?”
He arched one eyebrow. “Ran into Wyatt. Why’d you call him?”
Pressure settled in her chest. She didn’t want to justify her decisions. And she didn’t have to. Unless…was Brady jealous? Jeez, if she spent as much time organizing her business as she did thinking about the two men she’d only just met, she’d probably have actual clients by now. “There weren’t a lot of options. Besides, he’s nice.”
At this, Brady laughed, and even this was laced with fatigue. Guilt gnawed at her stomach. He was a sweet guy and here she was making this more difficult. She opened the door wider. “I’ll grab my jacket. I’m so sorry about the lock. I’ll pay for it. I was just going to look up some locksmiths.” Not that she could afford it.
Brady was looking around the kitchen when she turned back to him, taking in the space she’d just cleaned. More than she should have. So sue me. Brady wouldn’t know the difference. Maybe Wyatt wouldn’t notice? Ha. Shay had a feeling he noticed everything.
“I got the broken piece out of the lock, but I think I’ll change them anyway. Not until the weekend, though. Our keys still work; it’s just a bit stiff. I’ll need to put a note up on the information board saying to be careful until I get it done,” Brady said. He held the door for her to go first and then turned the knob, checking that it was locked.
Despite her intentions to stand on her own two feet, she was already letting someone bail her out. Though he’d been nothing but kind about it, Shay felt like a chastised child. “I’ve created more work for you. I could pay to have someone come and change it,” she offered again.
She could dip into her savings for a few more dollars if she
had to.
“No worries. I’ll do it. Mistakes happen,” he said. He pressed the elevator button and smiled wearily.
She stepped in, biting her tongue. She didn’t want to tell him how often mistakes happened in her presence. She was the self-proclaimed queen of two things: organization and making the wrong choices.
“Still. I’m sorry.” Sorry with a side of mad at herself. She looked down at the dull carpeting.
He nudged her with his shoulder. “Shay. Stop. It’s not a big deal. If you feel really bad, I can try to think of something you could do to make it up to me,” he said. His eyebrows danced up and down comically and she laughed, the discomfort in her chest loosening. He was easy to relax around.
Swatting him in the rock-hard stomach, she shook her head. “How about dinner? I can make you something?”
The elevator opened, and she stepped out alone. He held the door with one hand. His biceps strained slightly, and Shay took a moment to admire the sight. He pulled her attention back when he sighed deeply. “I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve turned down a gorgeous woman for dinner, but I’m bagged. Rain check?”
She held his gaze, trying to read him and figure out if he meant it or if he was just being kind. He was exactly the kind of man her brothers and her parents would love to see her with: safe and sweet. He’d called her gorgeous and had great arms. A win-win if she was concerned about pleasing herself and her parents. “Sure. Whenever you have time,” she said. “Let me know about any costs.”
“You got it, New Girl,” he said, winking at her just before the doors shut.
She groaned again, using the spare key he’d given her to let herself in. Well, that’s one way to make an impression. But not the only way.
Multitasking was another specialty. Shay chopped vegetables and garlic, sautéed some chicken, and slipped a casserole into the oven. While she waited for it to bake, she returned her mother’s texts—assuring her she was fine and just settling in. She kept her responses about her “new job” vague and hoped her mother would let it go. She unpacked her books and set up her computer. By the time the oven timer went off, she’d finished organizing her workspace, had checked her emails—happy to see a request to plan a small author’s event at the local library—and tweaked her website. She added a tab for Virtual Personal Assistant and listed the services she could offer from the comfort of her own living room. It was something that would tie in nicely to the book event and any connections she made there.
Since graduating as valedictorian six years earlier, Shay had enrolled in, prepped for, and dropped out of programs for Early Childhood Education and Paralegal Training. When those hadn’t worked out, she’d tried a different route and received a diploma in Business Administration and Marketing. While it interested her—and pleased her to finish it—she wasn’t sure what to do with it, which had led her to enrolling in a Hotel Management Diploma program. After six months, she’d dropped the program, for a variety of reasons. None of which she wanted to think about right now.
As she’d tried to put herself back together, she had worked as a nanny for a lovely couple with two adorable little boys. She’d probably still be doing that if they hadn’t moved. Which was for the best. The nanny position had been a safety net. Now that it was gone, it was time to grow up.
She was done flitting around from one thing to another, trying to find her place. And done with disappointing her family—all of whom had solid and steady careers or at least a fixed destination for where they were heading. They also had far better judgment than she did. Not that they ever held her choices against her—in fact, they indulged and encouraged her to live at home and fall back on their support. Ian, her second oldest brother, offered her a job in his real estate office after the nanny gig, but she’d known it was time to move forward. It was time to make her own place and put down some roots that others hadn’t started on her behalf.
The knock on the door startled her. It was nearing ten o’clock, but an eagerness to do something made energy, or restlessness, rush through her.
She opened the door to Wyatt’s sexy, scowling face. “You cleaned my house.”
She didn’t smile. “No. I straightened your kitchen. Did you know you have countertops?”
His eyebrows scrunched together. “Not funny.”
She disagreed. Wyatt’s eyes scanned down, taking in her bright blue pajama bottoms and sleep top. When his eyes made it back to hers, she felt like it had been his hands roaming over her. Every inch of her skin warmed.
Swallowing down unexplained nerves, she stepped back and gestured for him to come inside. “At the risk of further upsetting you, I made you something. Come in.”
He stared at her, his dark eyes trying to see through her—like if he looked hard enough he’d have all the answers. Maybe he’d share them with her. Stepping in, he shut the door and locked it. His silent staring made her skin feel alive, like it was pulsating with energy.
“I only intended to look for some pliers. I didn’t mean to clean up.”
He followed her into the kitchen. “So it was an accident?”
She laughed. “Sort of. By the way, where do you keep your pliers?”
“In my toolbox. Why?”
She nodded. She’d known he had one. “Where’s that?”
“You ask a lot of questions. My toolbox is in my hall closet. I didn’t check, but you better not have cleaned it.”
Shay turned around only to realize he was right behind her, which meant they were now standing too close. Too close if she wanted to breathe something other than sexy Wyatt-scented air. “I didn’t. I swear.”
While he stayed quiet, making her wonder what he was thinking, she pulled the casserole out of the oven and then grabbed a Tupperware dish out of the cupboard where she’d put them earlier that day. The stove had been off for a bit so the dish wasn’t warm. Much like Wyatt’s voice when he spoke.
“Why would you make me something?”
His voice was hard, which, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, made her want to be gentle.
“You’re not very trusting, you know.”
“I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Trust doesn’t work like that. It’s earned. And even then, it’s the easiest thing to break.”
He had a point, but Shay couldn’t help but think it was a jaded one.
He leaned his hip against the counter, which revealed the butt of a gun. His eyes followed her gaze, which must have shown surprise. Her heart hammered in quick beats. Wyatt moved his jacket aside, revealing a badge clipped to his jeans. And a hint of smooth, sexy stomach.
“I’m a cop.”
She let out a heavy breath and gathered her jumbled thoughts, stuck on the sadness of his view on trust. Or maybe he was the smart one, and she should learn to trust less. Still, if she couldn’t risk a little, she’d get nowhere. One of them had to start. “Okay. So I can trust you, right? I’m not a cop, but you can trust me, too. At least enough to accept dinner as a thank-you for helping me.”
She cut into the casserole, transferring half to the container.
He leaned in. “You made that for me?”
She nodded, glancing over with a smile.
With very little space between them, their eyes locked, and Shay’s pulse ramped up, working toward a steady gallop. His breath smelled like peppermint. Peppermint was delicious.
Wyatt nudged the casserole dish. “Why are you cutting it in half?”
Shay laughed and put the lid on before handing it to him.
“Because I’m giving the other half to Brady.” Brady. The nice, sweet neighbor who doesn’t make my heart feel like it’s about to enter the ring for twelve rounds.
He continued to scowl, but she thought she saw the hint of softening in his features. When his eyes locked on hers again, her stomach dipped, fluttering with excitement. Just nerves and restlessness. He stepped closer, and Shay’s breath caught, lodged in her chest.
One corner of his mouth quirked up. H
e didn’t try to be sexy. He just was in that dangerous way some men were. Men like Wyatt should wear signs that read: proceed with caution.
“Why does he get half?”
More fluttering. And heat spreading out from the pit of her belly, making her feel like she was melting from the inside.
“Because he helped me, too.” Her voice was low, nearly husky. She cleared her throat.
His eyes held hers captive. “But I helped first. So I should at least get a bigger portion,” he said.
Shay laughed around the tightness in her chest. This was how trouble started, and she did not need any more trouble. Her heart couldn’t deal with another crack. He smelled like dryer sheets and cologne. And maybe a bit of the cold air he’d been out in. It made her want to wrap herself around him and snuggle in like she would with a favorite blanket on a stormy night. She shook her head. This man was the exact opposite of what she needed in her life, and she wasn’t even entirely sure he liked her—or anyone—that much.
She grabbed a fork out of the drawer and scooped up a huge bite. It was just barely warm still and smelled of rosemary and thyme. Her stomach growled loud enough to compete with the heavy beat of her heart drumming in her ears. Taking a step closer, she went up on tiptoes to hold the bite to his mouth. His eyes were darker up close, with a hint of green. They sparkled with amusement—and maybe something more. The more should have stopped her, but instead, it made her want to get closer. Taking his time, he leaned forward, slowly opening his mouth, letting her feed him.
He chewed and then sighed in pleasure, his eyelids flitting closed for half a second. Everything inside Shay pulsed with awareness and want. She took a step back. The fork rattled when she set it on the counter.
Those eyes pinned her once again. When he licked his lips, she bit hers to keep from making a fool of herself. Good Lord. What was wrong with her? Had she learned nothing from the past?
He swallowed before asking, “What do you do?”
It took her a second to refocus enough to answer. “I’m an event planner. Well, that’s my goal. So if you need anything organized, other than your house…” she said, laughing as she trailed off, thinking of Wyatt at a party or social function.
