Neighbors

by Ashleigh Royce

  After he carried me over the threshold of our new house, he went into the den and closed the door. I had raced into the bedroom and put on another one of my new lingerie sets, lied across the bed in the best seductive pose I could muster, and waited.

  Three hours later, I woke to him sitting on the bed to take his shoes and socks off. “Sorry. I had to catch up with the hospital.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, winding my arm around his neck from behind him. I pulled myself close to his back, but he pulled away and stood up. “I have to meet George in an hour to have him transfer my cases back to me.” He disappeared into the walk-in closet. I sat on the bed in my pretty underwear and tried not to be hurt that he didn’t even notice.

  He emerged from the closet in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt. His socks matched one of the stripes. “Don’t wait up. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  Then he left. I sat on the bed, rationalizing that he was a dedicated doctor who was interested in his patients. Later on I found out that he met with one of his bimbos. Right after he came back from his honeymoon!

  Disappointment fills me as I fall onto the couch. I call Tracy on her cell phone to complain about my lack of finesse.

  “Well, at least you tried,” she says.

  “A lot of good it did me.”

  “You’ll have better luck at the club on Saturday.”

  “About that, Tracy, I don’t really want to go. I’m feeling rejected and I need some time to think about what I want.”

  “Mel, you’ve had eight months to think about what you want. Two years, if you count the time you first knew Greg was an asshole.”

  “I’m just not up for meeting anyone right now, Trace. You go and find a nice guy. I’ll go the next time. Promise, okay?”

  “I’m going to hold you to that, Mel. You’re going the next time, no matter what.”

  Instead of wallowing, I decide to be productive. I pull out the cleaning supplies and head into the kitchen.

  At 12:30, just as I finish up, there’s a knock on my door. Dylan is standing on the front porch. The top button of his golf shirt is undone and a few strands of his chest hair peek out. I can smell the shampoo he used. It’s fragrant, but masculine. I try to suppress both the elation of seeing him and the denial I felt earlier. He looks yummy! My brain comments, Get back on the horse. Try again. But remembering the rejection from before ruins the optimism. Don’t forget, he did dismiss you.

  “I was wondering, if you’re not busy, if you’d like to go to lunch with me. It’s the least I can do to show you my gratitude, you know, for the pizza and the shower. You could acquaint me with the neighborhood.”

  My blood takes off like a bullet through my body and my heart thrums in my chest. “You don’t have to do that.” Yes he does.

  “Please,” he asks. His eyes are wide and he looks so…freakin’…hot.

  “Sure. Let me get my purse.”

  He waits in the living room while I run my fingers through my hair and smooth out my clothes. A quick squirt of perfume before I collect my bag and car keys. I offer to drive and we go to the local diner.

  Stealing a few glances from behind my menu, I watch him contemplate the lunch choices.

  Once the waitress takes our order, Dylan begins to talk. “So, what’s out here? Anything you recommend?”

  “Like bars and pick-up places?”

  He shrugs. The fabric of his shirt pulls at his shoulders, outlining his biceps. “I guess.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t go to those places. My friend, Tracy said there’s some kind of singles mix on Saturday. I could get you the information, if you’d like.”

  “Are you going?” he asks.

  “No. When I’m not working, I tend to stay home.”

  “Why is that?”

  Tracy’s voice is in my head: Yeah, why is that? “I don’t want to get hurt again.”

  “What makes you think you’ll get hurt?” He sips his water, but his eyes are fixed on me.

  I shrug. I ‘m never comfortable talking about myself. My fingers pick at the paper napkin in front of me. “I don’t know if the right guy for me is out there. I don’t seem to attract the best of them.”

  “Just because your ex-husband is a jerk doesn’t mean you should take yourself off the market. You’re very attractive and you have a nice personality.” His smile is there and his stare melts me. Embers from the small fire I had yesterday are kindling inside me.

  I return his smile. “How do you know? You’ve only known me for, what, twelve hours?” I look up through my lashes. “I could be a horrible person.”

  “I doubt it,” he says. “You look okay to me.”

  Enough about you, my brain shouts. Find out about him. “What about you? How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  “I did have one. She was a real doozie. It was great when we first met. We had a lot of fun and we enjoyed being together. Then I moved in with her and she changed. It was like Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. I never knew what would set her off. A few times, I came home and found that all of my shirts had been ripped. She said she didn’t know how it happened. Then one day, I found most of my tools broken.”

  I gasp. “What did she say to that?” I lean over the table, interested in hearing what happened next.

  “She denied it, but I found the hammer she used to pound them with. I packed up whatever she didn’t vandalize and moved in with my dad. He let me stay for a while, but I’m not comfortable with his new wife. I knew I needed a place of my own. Then I saw the sign for the house.”

  The waitress serves us our hamburger platters and drinks.

  “Oh wow. I hope she doesn’t find out where you live.”

  “Me neither,” he says, picking up the ketchup. “So, what are the other neighbors like?” I guess he doesn’t like to talk about himself either.

  “Well, the Millers, the people you bought the house from, were nice. They had a little girl and a little boy. I think they have another on the way so they wanted a bigger place. As for everyone else, I don’t know much.”

  Dylan eats his burger while I fill him in on the little I know about the people I share a street with. Although I’m doing all of the talking, I can’t help but stare at his sexy mouth as he chews. A thought pushes in. I’d like to be his meal. Followed by a counter thought. Oh, don’t start that again. Remember, he’s not interested. Keep to being friends.

  “As long as there are no nutcases that live around here, I’ll be fine,” Dylan laughs.

  Our conversation moves to some construction projects he’s currently involved with.

  After lunch, I drive around the neighborhood and point out where the necessary vendors are located: the bank, the supermarket, the library, and the local fast food restaurants. When I glance his way, he doesn’t seem interested in any of it. He’s looking at me. I become self-conscious and wonder if I have some leftover lunch on my face. Nervously, I return his smile and show him the location of the post office. Then I drive back to my house and park in my driveway.

  “Thanks for the tour,” Dylan says.

  “No problem. Thanks for lunch.” I don’t want to look at him because I know my eyes will betray me, but I do look at him. As he walks around my car, I find myself admiring how well his jeans hug his behind. Too bad he isn’t interested. A mental vision of Tracy shaking her head in disappointment fills my head.

  “It was my pleasure,” he says.

  Accepting that I’ll just have to be satisfied with a friendship, I remind him of my earlier offer. “Don’t forget…if you need help, okay?”

  A smile stretches across his face. He starts to cross the street then turns. “You know what? Maybe you can help. You said you were good at organizing stuff, right? I nod. “Maybe you can suggest how I can set up my closet so it won’t look like a disaster area. Wanna come in and take a look?” He doesn’t move as he waits for my response.

  My brain is screaming, Yes, yes, yes!

  When I say nothing, he says, �
��I found the coffee pot while I was unpacking last night. I can make you a cup.” His stare pleads with my wantonness.

  I know I should say no, especially since the message he sent earlier is clear that he’s not interested, but I don’t want our time together to end. “Sure.”

  He opens his door and moves some of the cartons so that I can walk in. Watching his muscles flex makes my insides tighten. An urge to touch him is combated by my quickly grabbing the belt loops on my shorts to keep my hands occupied. I sashay around stacks of boxes and misarranged furniture.

  “Sorry about the clutter. I’m hoping to be done by the end of the week. I have to go back to work next Monday.”

  I follow him into the kitchen. Random cabinet doors hang open and the counter is buried with more boxes. He walks over to the refrigerator. “Do you take milk in your coffee?”

  “Yes, and sugar, please. Thanks,” I say.

  He starts the pot then spreads out his arms. “So, this is the kitchen,” he laughs.

  I laugh, too. “I figured that when I saw the stove. It’s nice.”

  “I’m going to rip out these cabinets and put new ones in during the winter. House building is usually slow during cold months.”

  “I bet you’re good with your hands.”

  One eyebrow rises and he offers a suggestive grin, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part.

  He takes me on a tour of the house. We start on the main level. In each room he shares his ideas for decorating. I offer some of my own when he asks. With the first floor concluded, I follow him upstairs. His tight jeans offer a nice view as we climb the stairs. Behave. Remember, friends.

  Two small rooms flank to the right side of the hallway. Each of the Miller children must have had a room as noted by the pink and blue colors.

  “I’m going to make this one an office,” he says pointing to the smaller, blue room. I lean in past him to poke my head into the room. As I do, I inhale his scent. That combination of his shampoo, clean cotton, and him is a mental seduction. I want to turn around and taste him to see how wonderful that is too, but I fight to control my urges. Still, I steal another quick whiff of him before I shake myself back to the conversation.

  At the end of the hallway is the bathroom. Fluffy, beige towels are piled on edge of the tub, and a few toiletries—an electric razor, a bar of soap, and a container of deodorant—are scattered on the top of the sink. I feel awkward that I know something more personal about Dylan now that I know the brand of soap he uses. The wrapper reads Clean Linen. That explains the cottony smell.

  “Sorry. The bathroom isn’t as clean as yours. I’m working on it.”

  “You’ve only been here one day. You’ll be fine once everything is put away.” I look up and he’s staring at me. A surge of electricity races from my head, down my body. A small knot forms in my stomach.

  He points to the hall closet. “This is where I thought your expertise would come in handy. Maybe you could suggest how I should set it up.”

  “Sure.” I nod. “You’d have to show me what you want to keep in here first. That way I’ll know what I’m working with.”

  His smile reveals his dimples. “It’s just sheets and towels and extra soap and stuff.”

  “Oh,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

  “Um, this is the master bedroom.” He holds an open hand out to the room across from the two smaller ones. Large in area, there’s a king sized bed on the far wall. The blanket and throw pillows are haphazardly tossed on top.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company just yet.” A flicker of red brushes his cheeks.

  The knot that started in my stomach tightens and a tingle spreads down my legs. An awkward silence hangs in the air between us as I try to stifle thoughts of rolling around that big bed with him.

  My inappropriate images are interrupted when the phone rings.

  “That was quick. I just called to turn it on yesterday. The phone’s downstairs. I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

  “Sure,” I say and he disappears down the stairs. The phone isn’t the only thing he turned on yesterday… Without him next to me I look at the bed again and wonder if I truly would have made my contemplations a reality. The traffic in my head is stifling. The two sides of my brain—the naughty side and the rational side—are shouting at each other. Ultimately, good sense wins and reaffirms Dylan’s lack of interest in me. I shake both sides off and go downstairs.

  His back is to me as he talks on the phone. I stare at how his jeans hug his behind and think about how I shouldn’t be.

  “Okay, Thursday is fine. I’ll see you then.” Hunching over the counter, I see the muscles in his back ripple as he scribbles something on a scrap of paper. My breathing is audible and I attempt to calm my heart rate by holding my breath.

  In order to distract myself, I look at an open box on the counter. Some of the contents have been transferred to the cabinet just above it. I reach in and pull out a box of cereal and begin arranging it in the cabinet.

  Dylan says goodbye and hangs up the phone. “That was the gardener I hired. He’s coming Thursday afternoon to install some sprinklers. Then I can start obsessing over my grass the way all other suburbanites do.” He laughs.

  “How nice,” I say holding the box of cereal.

  Dylan registers what I’m doing.

  My hand freezes with the cereal, mid-reach. “Um…Oh sorry. I didn’t mean to…I just thought I’d help out. That way you can start your road to normalcy quicker. I told you, I’m an organizational addict.”

  His mouth morphs from a hard straight line into a smile as he takes the box. His fingers brush my hand. My finally controlled heart rate spikes again. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

  Again, I apologize. “I just wanted to help.”

  He pauses as if to contemplate something. It makes him look delectable. My brain warns me again. Remember, you promised you’d be friends. The other half jumps in, Give the girl a break. She can look, for Heaven’s sake. The discourse chases the pull in my belly away.

  “Well, you are persistent,” his tone wanes. “I would like to have everything in its place… and you are very pleasant company.” His smile is full. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” The way he looks at me makes me think he can read my thoughts—including all of the dirty ones.

  I swallow hard to push the lump in my throat down. “I don’t mind. Just show me what I can do.” I say it with innocent intent, but my libido has other ideas.

  “I guess you can help in here. All the kitchen boxes are scattered. But, they’re labeled. I’ll clean the upstairs bathroom so at least I won’t have to annoy you later to borrow your shower again.”

  I blush at the memory of knowing that he was naked in my house while I sat in the other room and thought about him. And did nothing. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t mind.” Tell me I don’t sound pathetic.

  He continues. “I’ll work on the closet too so you can check and make sure I’m doing it right.” He winks.

  All of the boxes are labeled. I begin my task as he goes back upstairs. As I put each thing away, I take note of all the foods he likes to eat. The internal battle in my head begins.

  Stop being so pitiful. Go up there and take him.

  If you do that, you ruin the chance of having him as a friend, at least. None of his actions suggest that he’s interested in you that way. Just help out your new friend and you’ll look for someone else.

  * * *

  An hour later, Dylan comes down the stairs.“So, how’s it going in here?” he asks. “Will I be able to find anything?”

  Most of the boxes I found labeled “kitchen” were now empty and dismantled in a pile. “I want to show you where I put everything,” I say, placing the last of the glasses into the cabinet above the sink. I open and close cabinet doors, showing him the system I used to put things away. He nods his approval with each display. He leans in close to move some items around so he can see what else is in the cubby. He s
mells heavenly and I feel his heat. My pulse quickens.

  It’s difficult to keep my breathing steady. With every intake of breath, his scent fills my nose. It makes me want him. A warm rush circulates to every edge of my body. A mental picture of me undressing him fills my head. My thoughts flip to a hand ripping the needle off a record. Snap out of it!

  I decide it’s best to put some distance between us. I move to show him the other cabinets and he follows. He’s only inches from me. I can’t think straight. You can still reach out to touch him. He might be receptive. The other half of my brain is telling me that thought is not an option.

  He looks at me. A million tiny bubbles burst inside my veins. An urge to kiss him commands my concentration. Although I don’t want him to, he backs away, and averts his eyes. Ouch! See? Not interested. Reality has bitten me hard again. I’m now aware of how stupid I’ve been behaving. Mentally I confirm my rational brain. You’re right. I’ll stick to friends.

  After a minute to reassess, I file Dylan in the “friends” folder in my mind. Attempting to fix the weirdness, I walk to the other end of the kitchen. “Um, I put your spices in here.” I open the cabinet to show him. I grip the handle steady so he can’t see my hand shake. “Of course, you should move it around the way you want, but it’s a start.”

  “No, it’s great. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I can’t look at him for fear he will see my embarrassment and read my thoughts through my disappointed expression.

  “Please let me take you for dinner to show you my appreciation.”

  My eyes flash up at his. This is too hard. Go home. “That’s not necessary. You already took me to lunch. “ I walk toward the door, where I left my purse.

  “I want to. You’ve been so great—the cookies, the pizza, your shower—then taking me around today and helping me unpack. Please? I’d like to show you how grateful I am.”

  Being friends would be better than nothing. And like and idiot, I relent. “Um, okay.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at six. You don’t have to tell me where you live.” He chuckles. It’s bittersweet.