The camera rotated to the left, where Johnny waved and called, “That’s right. Hey, Trevor Dudes!”
The feed panned to Trevor. “Today will be full of surprises for both me and Connor. Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers, reconsidered, added a third, and then waved his hand dismissively. “Aw, forget it. I don’t know the salute. Is that even what they call it? Who cares? I was never a Boy Scout!” He laughed, and Johnny joined in from off camera. “Seriously, though, let’s get down to business and announce challenge number one!” He held his right hand out, and from off-screen, Johnny handed him a white board. Trevor read the red marker, nodded approvingly, then showed the text to the camera as he read it aloud.
“Take a selfie wearing a strange woman’s piece of clothing. Owner of the item must be in the shot.”
He gave a thumbs up. “This should be an especially interesting challenge for the middle of the night.” He leaned forward and grew more serious. “Now remember, Connor, it has to be an article of clothing from a strange woman.” With one finger, he tracked the word on the board, almost as if he were a kindergarten teacher. “That doesn’t mean some weird chick, right Johnny?”
“Nope.” Johnny appeared in the frame. “Finding a freaky chick like a streetwalker isn’t the point— although that would be interesting, and it would count.” He and Trevor laughed and high-fived.
“So it just has to be something owned by a woman we don’t already know?” Trevor clarified.
“Right,” Johnny said, nodding at the camera and then leaving the frame again.
Trevor turned to the camera, and when he spoke, Connor felt as if his nemesis were speaking to him right there in the living room. “Someone we don’t know. No borrowing your mom’s high heels or your sister’s maternity dress. And no putting on something for sale at a store like at a Walmart because it’s open late. It has to a piece of clothing that belongs to a real chick you didn’t meet until tonight.” Trevor lowered the white board and grinned mischievously. “Let’s see what Team Trevor Dudes and Team Wynn Rocks come up with. Ready, Connor? I am. Let The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge begin!”
The video ended with the electric guitar riff Trevor used at the end of all his videos, along with his bright yellow logo of a fist punching forward, as if it were hitting the viewer. The guy was nothing if not lacking in class. Connor glanced at the stats. The video was only a few minutes old, but it already had more than a thousand views and almost a hundred comments.
Connor let out a mouthful of air. Where was he supposed to find a woman he didn’t know, who would willingly let him put on something of hers and post a selfie of the two of them? He grabbed the sweatshirt off his shoulder, meaning to toss it onto the couch, but then the obvious solution hit him. He looked out the window at the spot where the woman had clung to the mailbox for dear life. What if he got a picture of himself wearing it at the laundromat before returning it to her? He might complete the first task before Trevor. A boost of energy went through him.
But how to approach her and ask for the picture? He could hear his mother’s voice in his ear now. You’re going to frighten the poor dear to death.
What if he showed up to do his own laundry? A guy with a laundry basket wouldn’t be as threatening, right? He doubted that she’d seen him, so walking into the laundromat shouldn’t scare her. He wouldn’t put the sweatshirt on until after getting her permission, of course.
This could work.
Plan set, he went to his room and gathered his laundry. Soon he had the basket, a bottle of detergent, and the sweatshirt all loaded into his car, and he was driving down the hill to the laundromat.
Valentine’s Day and the stupid Ultimate Bachelor Challenge might start off on a very good note after all.
Chapter Three
Sam pushed her way through the laundromat door and hefted her bag on top of the nearest washer.
No one was inside. Washers and dryers lined the perimeter, and a double-wide row ran down the middle of the room. One washer was mid-cycle, with a basket on top, filled with folded tops and cardigans— definitely a woman’s laundry. After Tara’s car took a nosedive into the snow, and having to walk the rest of the way in the dark, Sam had been on edge. Hearing some guy call out to her hadn’t exactly helped her nerves. But now, in the warmth and solitude of the laundromat, she relaxed.
She planned to start two loads and read a novel on her phone until they were done. She’d call a taxi or Uber to her apartment. It was only five blocks, and part of her argued that paying for such a short ride would be silly. But she’d been spooked enough on the way here, and walking up the icy hill even later into the night would mess with her head even more. She’d enlist her roommates to help dig out the car, maybe during a break between movies. Hopefully the car didn’t have any damage.
She crossed to the double row of machines and dumped her mesh bag on top, then proceeded to sort her dirty clothes into two machines— whites in the left, colors in the right. One of these days, she’d separate her clothes more, into both lights and darks, whites and delicates. But not until she owned her own machine and didn’t need to be aware of exactly when her loads were done or risk having her laundry stolen. And when she didn’t have to make sure she had enough quarters.
Just as she started the colored load, which included her beloved maxi skirt, the bells on the door rang behind her, followed by the squeak of a wet sneaker on the linoleum. Sam’s head came up, but otherwise she froze, and her fingers dug into the holes of the mesh laundry bag, though she wanted to bite her thumbnail. Who had come in at this hour? Hopefully the owner of the pink cardigan.
Please be another woman, Sam thought as she slowly folded her bag, trying to act casual. Too bad she hadn’t thought of using the machines on the other side of island; that would’ve given her a perfect view of the door. And too bad Steve wasn’t with her right now to play the part of bodyguard. Then again, if he was in town— which he probably was— they wouldn’t be hanging out in a dingy laundry room. There was a reason she would be showering, straightening her hair, doing full makeup, and wearing her best outfit before she saw him again. She definitely wouldn’t be getting engaged wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and sporting a messy bun.
The person walked to her right and set a laundry basket on a washer on the side wall. From the corner of her eye, Sam confirmed that it was indeed a man. From the corner of her eye, all she could see was his back, so she couldn’t tell much besides the fact that he had to be over six feet and probably in his twenties. That also described about eighty percent of the men who lived in the area.
He might be entirely harmless, but she’d still create some distance between them and discourage conversation. After all, these were Ted Bundy’s old stomping grounds, and being a friendly person is what got all of his victims into trouble. She heard about the serial killer every time she went home; her parents worried over her and regularly reminded her to stay safe, and that even nice-looking guys could be dangerous. Maybe their paranoia had affected her more than she’d realized.
Sam turned around and hopped up to sit on a washer and held her phone to her ear, pretending to be on a call. “Oh, Steve, you’re so sweet,” she said in her most maple-syrupy voice. Anyone hearing her would have to assume that she was actually talking to her boyfriend. She pretended to listen to a response, twirled a lock of hair and tossed it over one shoulder, then laughed. “I’m going to hold you to that, you know.”
The guy, now off to her left, glanced her direction, then resumed loading a washer with jeans and t-shirts. She couldn’t avoid noticing his build. He probably played some kind of sport. But he was shorter than she’d guessed at first glimpse. He might be barely six feet, if that. He took off his coat and tossed it onto a dryer, revealing a t-shirt stretched over his torso. Was it possible to have a six pack on your back? Because every inch of the guy seemed ripped. What kind of sport created that kind of physique?
Good thing none of her roommates had joined her. Tara would have ga
sped, or even said something embarrassing, like, “Ooh, I’d like him for dessert.”
Her parents’ warnings cranked up her nerves. She was a small-framed, five-foot-one, as her mother often reminded her. Even with a self-defense class under her belt— something her dad had insisted on— someone that ripped could pretty much do anything he wanted to her without breaking a sweat.
He closed the washer door, and as he reached for his detergent bottle, he looked over, throwing her a hint of a smile and nod as a hello. Her nerves relaxed a bit. Except that her mother would argue that putting a girl at ease was exactly the kind of thing a creeper would do. Sam shook her head and ordered herself to stop thinking like that.
With the detergent poured in, he started the washer, then tossed a faded Utes sweatshirt to one side. He must have forgotten to toss it in with the rest, though it probably belonged to his girlfriend; it was much too small for him.
Sam said a fake good-bye and pretended to hang up, then brought the novel up on her phone. Sitting cross-legged on the washer— still mostly facing the guy— she tried to read, but mostly swiped pages without comprehending the words. Instead, her gaze kept returning to him. She hadn’t yet gotten a good look at his face, but a few glimpses said he was definitely cute. Not that it mattered; she had a serious boyfriend.
Based on the sweatshirt, he was probably a university student— or at least a girl he knew was. He seemed a little older than the typical college student, so maybe he was in grad school. She kept pretending to read, and even made a real effort to, but even if her college degree had depended on it, she couldn’t have described the first thing about the story.
With his one machine running, the guy turned around and leaned against it, looking at his phone, too. Sam’s attention kept returning to the discarded sweatshirt, still visible behind him. Strange that he’d brought it but not washed it.
Unless...
Wait. Where’s mine? She looked around but found nothing in the empty mesh bag. She remembered putting the sweatshirt into it— but didn’t remember putting it into the washer with the load of colors. Had she put it in with the whites? She hoped not; the red shirt would turn her socks and underwear pink. But no, she hadn't seen the sweatshirt at all since she’d stuffed it into the laundry bag in her room.
It had probably fallen out on the way there. She’d try to find it in the morning when it was light, but knew the chances were slim of locating it. She’d worn that shirt at almost every meaningful college experience since her first home football game. She considered it a lucky charm, in a way, often wearing it while studying for tests— along with her pink bunny slippers, which clashed with the red hilariously. She could replace the shirt, but a new one wouldn’t be the same.
I get to talk to Steve soon, she thought to lighten her mood. And he has something to ask me. Sam tried to read again.
“Um, miss?” Laundry guy’s voice seemed amplified in the room filled with metal machines.
Sam looked up at him. He looked oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Maybe they’d crossed paths on campus. She didn’t answer, exactly, just made a noise that might have sounded a bit like, “Hmm?” or maybe, “Me?”
He picked up the sweatshirt and held it out. “This may sound like a weird question, but... is this yours?”
“Uh, I don’t—” She meant to return her attention to the book, but the faded elbows caught her eye. Hers were worn in a specific way, and the sleeve hanging in front of her looked just like hers.
He looked closer at something on the collar. “Maybe not. Someone wrote Sam here.” He turned the shirt front to back, looking at it again, then at her.
The movement revealed a dark spot to the right of the white U— the hint of a stain from a food fight. Alyssa had lobbed a wooden spoon covered in melted chocolate right at her.
No one was ever supposed to see Tara’s faded handwriting, done with a black Sharpie. She’d written everyone’s names into their shirts to avoid any mix-ups. Sam had protested that they were adults, not kindergarteners, and could find their own clothing, but more than once, having their names written inside the collars had been convenient. Now, though, having an attractive guy see it made her feel about six years old. Her cheeks felt warm as she held out her hand for her sweatshirt.
“Yep. Sam. That’s me,” she said. “Technically, it’s Samantha. I answer to Sammie and Sam, too. One of my roommates wrote that. It was out of my hands. But you know, try winning an argument with Tara, and you’ll lose every time.” She stopped talking, aware that she’d blabbed a long, meandering reply. Her cheeks blushed hotter. She decided to blame the warmth of the room.
He grinned. “So this is yours.”
“Yeah.” She hadn’t lost her school sweatshirt after all. But how did this guy find it— and her? Had he followed her here?
Mom would so freak out.
She could hear her mother’s warning as clear as day. No, Salt Lake isn’t Chicago, but it is the place where a serial killer got away with killing a lot of young women, because they were too trusting of a normal-looking guy.
But this guy was so not normal. He was something out of a movie or a magazine. She felt a twinge of guilt for noticing, but quelled it with the rationalization that she could set him up with one of her roommates. One big point in his favor: he didn’t hold himself like so many guys she’d met whose every word and movement oozed a complete awareness of their good looks. Ironically, that was something she found unattractive more than almost anything else. She tended to gravitate toward guys who didn’t live in a gym, and who would otherwise be categorized as average. Someone, she realized, a lot like Steve.
“Hey, are you okay?” laundry guy asked.
That was what the man had asked when she slipped on the road. Wait. This was the same guy. Had he really come to do laundry? He took a step closer and tossed the beat-up sweatshirt onto the machine beside her.
Confused at the understanding gesture, she reached for the shirt and held it to her chest. He seemed like such a nice guy, but then again, she had to know...
“Did you follow me here?” she asked, looking at the chocolate stain instead of him.
“I live just up the road, and…” He drew his hand down his stubble. “My name’s Connor, by the way.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you follow me?”
“Technically?” He raked one hand though his hair, mussing it, and nodded sheepishly. “Sort of.” He held up a hand and took a step away as if he knew his answer would freak her out. “You were carrying a laundry bag, so I figured you were heading here, and when you dropped that”— he gestured toward the sweatshirt— “I wanted to be sure you didn’t lose it.”
She tilted her head, unconvinced.
“Plus, I have my own laundry to do, as you can see. And nothing going on tonight except...” Connor cleared his throat. “Well, anyway, sorry to interrupt your evening. I’ll leave you alone.” He returned to his machines, hopped onto one of them as she had onto hers earlier, ignoring the folding chairs in the corners, and pulled out his phone.
For the next half hour or so, neither spoke. Connor seemed engrossed with his phone, scrolling through posts or comments, tapping here and there, reading short things— maybe posted comments or tweets. Hard to tell at that distance, but he was certainly reacting to whatever he found online— and not in a good way. His posture rounded slightly. He sighed more than once and began worrying his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger. He looked upset.
Her heart softened toward the guy; he seemed genuinely frustrated over something. It took her a few minutes to muster up the courage to break the silence, but finally she asked, “Hey, are you okay?”
He looked up, clearly surprised at the question. He looked at his phone screen and bit his lip again before answering. “Okay, so I really did want to return your sweatshirt— honest. And I assumed you were headed here because of the laundry bag. But... I had another reason for coming here besides laundry.”
Sam
’s brow furrowed. Her mother’s voice threatened to break through and ratchet up her nerves again, but she fought back the reaction. “So... why did you want to find me?” Something about him felt familiar and safe— something she could never explain to her worried parents— but for some reason, she wasn’t nervous. She simply waited for Connor’s explanation.
He licked his lips. “This will sound really weird, but I have a favor to ask. If it makes you feel the least bit uncomfortable, I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again. But I swear I’m not a stalker or anything.” Again he raked his fingers through his already-mussed hair. His expression looked half hopeful, half filled with dread, as if she held his future in her hands.
But Sam grinned. The sudden shift from her feeling insecure and uncomfortable to sensing him feeling the same way calmed any lingering worries she might have had. He looked vulnerable, and if she could help him, she would.
“What if I say you need to leave? What happens to your laundry?” She couldn’t stop smiling. The shift in tension from her to him put her so much at ease that she found humor in the situation.
He patted the chugging washer and shrugged. “Then I’ll hope my clothes are still here in the morning. Even better, I’ll send my roommate Ben to pick them up. That way, you can be sure you never have to lay eyes on me again.”
“Oh, but that would be unfortunate,” she said, then closed her mouth. Did that come out sounding as if she was attracted to him? Because she totally was. In an odd way, she almost felt as if he were an old friend— just one she couldn’t quite remember.
“But maybe you’ll see Ben,” he said. “He’s shorter than I am, but much better looking. At least, that’s what he says the ladies say. That may be changing, though. After his last breakup, he swore he wouldn’t shave until he kissed another girl, and he’s starting to look like the missing Duck Dynasty brother.”
Valentine's Day Collection (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 19) Page 17
