by Lindsey Hart
I finally can’t sit still any longer. It’s almost six, so I grab my toolbox and head next door. I knock, hoping Lu-Anne won’t answer the door as flustered as she was the night before. I could tell she was still embarrassed about getting caught in the middle of my kitchen.
She pulls open the door after a few minutes, and this time, she does look more composed. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, but I credit that to the heat. Her hair is done up in a fancy sort of thick braid that is thrown over her shoulder. She’s wearing an adorable red sundress, and her feet are bare, which I find bizarrely charming. My reaction surprises me as feet are usually not my thing.
I hold up the toolbox. “I came as promised.” In the ensuing silence, those words swirl around, sounding strangely dirty. This time, I’m the one swallowing hard.
Lu-Anne blinks at me. I stick out my free hand when I realize I’ve never even given her my name. I take a chance on using my real one because, for some reason, it actually matters to me that she doesn’t call me by a name that isn’t mine.
“Wade.”
“Wade?” She mouths my name like a question.
“Yeah. Wade. You know. My name. The thing people usually call me by. I thought it would be better to give it to you, seeing as we haven’t been introduced, but we seem to have seen…well, the more intimate sides of each other already.”
That does it. Lu-Anne goes completely scarlet. She won’t look at me, but she does stick out her hand and very softly, lightly, and briefly shake mine. Her touch sends a wild bolt of electric current racing through my arm, and I nearly jolt in place from the shock of it but hold myself steady so as not to give anything away.
There’s also some lightning happening between my legs but thank god my tighter fitting jeans and boxers take care of that. Still, it’s a first for me. Popping a mild hard-on from a handshake, that is.
“I think the unit is outside, actually,” I say quickly, because yes, it is. I spotted it when I was walking over, humming along merrily. It does actually look quite ancient. “I just wanted to let you know I’m out there. I’ll probably need to check the control panel in here as well.”
“Okay. I—sure.” Lu-Anne blinks. She blinks again—big, long swoops of her thick, incredible lashes. She still seems flustered, and I regret the stupid intimacy joke I just made.
“Okay. I’ll be outside for a bit then. I’ll knock when I’m done.”
“Okay. Should I—do you need help?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll knock if I do.”
“You don’t have to knock. Just come in. Uh—god knows I do.”
Now, I’m the one blinking at her. Did she just try to make a joke about the whole B&E thing? Yes. Yes, I believe she did. I grin at her with a big, goofy grin that isn’t forced at all. I turn quickly, hiding my elation before I scare her because grinning like that probably isn’t natural, and she’s already skittish.
Rob was right. This lady is probably the most entertaining thing that’s happened or will ever happen to me. Maybe getting to know her, no matter how our introduction went, isn’t the worst idea in the world.
I do a quick once over of the AC unit. Nothing seems to be out of place. It is old, but it seems to be chugging along just fine. In my experience, the quickest way to fix something is to give it a swift kick. It might not be the smartest way, and it might not always work, but when it does, it really does. If the kick fails, a few slaps to teach it respect are usually in order, and sometimes, those work just as well. Next time the computer craps out? Smack. The fridge stops working? Roundhouse kick. Furnace on the fritz? Backhand the bastard.
Being a carpenter by trade and trained by my father to fix almost anything, I can attest that kicks and slaps aren’t really the best method. But I am surprised by how many times I have been frustrated at something, and when I give it a good whack, it starts working right away.
Satisfied that there really isn’t anything more for me to do, I pick up my toolbox and make my way back up the porch stairs. I feel weird pulling open the front door without knocking, but Lu-Anne did say to just come in, so I do.
I spot her right away, sitting in the living room. She’s doing something with a hook and ball of yarn that I think is called crocheting. There’s a square taking shape under her hands, something bright yellow.
I clear my throat, and she nearly jumps straight off the couch. Her yarn goes flying onto the floor, and she drops whatever she was making.
“Sorry,” I say guiltily. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Uh—your AC seems to be working fine. There isn’t anything I can do for it at the moment. If it dies on you again, come over and let me know, and I’ll take a look at it. Can’t have you melting away in this heatwave.”
“Maybe it will melt the spider too.” Lu-Anne gathers up her spilled yarn and hook and sets them beside her on the couch.
There’s a free chair on the other side of the room, something big and comfy looking, so I set my toolbox down and decide to take up residence there. Lu-Anne doesn’t tell me to get out. Rather, she looks like she actually doesn’t know what to say.
“I inherited the house from my grandma,” she blurts. “Most of the stuff is hers.”
I glance around. “It’s nice. I like antiques.” I only say that because I’ve seen her and her little blue car, wrestling out insanely large purchases. I don’t tell her that, though, because it’s creepy and stalkerish.
“Really?” Her eyes warm up just a little at that. “I like them too. I love going to sales and everything. Garage sales, antique sales, estate sales, thrift stores—all of it. I don’t have a lot of room, so when I find something I like, I either have to get rid of something I already own or clean it up and sell it.”
“That’s smart. Prevents clutter.” Did I really just say that? I search for something better to say and come up with a big pile of nothing. “I’m renovating the house. I…” I drag a hand through my hair, ruffling it a little. It’s sweaty at the roots, and it makes me wonder if I’m sweating in other places—mainly the armpit region. I quickly drop my arm even though I’m wearing a black t-shirt, which is pretty good at hiding sweat stains. “Well, you probably already saw that, though.”
Lu-Anne’s eyes become round and huge. She blinks hard and stares at me like I just started growing a big toe between my eyes. I quickly think back to what I said, but I don’t know what was so shocking about me doing renovations.
“Renovating?” she mutters like it’s her choice swear word of the decade.
“Yeah. Renovating. Sorry about the bin on the driveway. It’s going to be gone tomorrow. When I bought the house, it was pretty outdated. The carpets were pretty old and worn. Beyond saving, really. I want to put in hardwood. I took down all the kitchen cabinets to paint them, but I thought I would save what I could and reuse it. The cabinets are oak, so they’re worth repurposing.”
Maybe renovations aren’t the right thing to discuss, because as I’m going on, Lu-Anne is looking more and more disturbed. Or maybe embarrassed. I can’t actually tell which. Something is going on, though, and it isn’t good.
“What about the tattoos?” She interrupts. The question is flung out there like a stone being hurled in an abstract direction with too much force. After she blurts out the question, Lu-Anne looks at me with a little bit of shock, a little bit of shame, and a whole lot of alarm. She looks as if the errant stone she just threw crashed into the window of a house that wasn’t hers and completely shattered it.
“Right. The tattoos.” The ones she saw when she was in my kitchen, and I was virtually naked. It’s no wonder she can’t look me in the eye at the moment. “Uh—well…” I reach up to rifle my hand through my hair, remember the whole possibly smelly pits thing, and drop it fast. “Yes. Well. I worked in construction before.” I’m telling her too much. Stop telling her everything. She’ll figure it all out. She could sell me out if she does. But I can’t stop even if I want to. Maybe I’ve been left alone for too long with no company but my own, or mayb
e I really just want to talk to her. “Um—yeah, so it’s kind of a—well, lots of guys get tattoos. It’s not frowned upon, right? I have this friend, and we decided to get our last names tattooed on our shoulders.”
“Your last name?” She sounds shocked again, even though she’s now studying her feet and carefully not looking at me.
“Yes. Our last names. I don’t know why since it’s never going to change. My last name already belongs to me, but now it’s written across my shoulders, so it’s not like I’ll ever forget it.” I laugh at that, but Lu-Anne still doesn’t look up. Things are getting awkward really effing fast, so I keep talking. Because, you know, talking non-stop about nothing usually fixes everything. “I’m a carpenter by trade, so I have a tattoo of that on my back—a carpenter at his workbench doing woodworking. It reminds me of my dad too. He’s always doing hands-on stuff. The angel on my side and the roses are for my mom. She went through a cancer scare. Well, it was more than a scare. She actually had a lump removed and had to go for chemo, but she’s been cancer-free ever since.”
Lu-Anne finally looks back up at me. “I’m sorry,” she says, and out of all the people who have ever said they’re sorry for anything, she’s the most genuine by far. “Are you self-employed?” It’s an odd question, and I don’t know how to answer it, but she takes my silence the wrong way and rushes to add on an explanation. “I mean, you seem to keep odd hours. You said you’re a carpenter. You’re not working right now?”
“Er—I needed a bit of a break from my job. Things went to pot if you know what I mean. Sometimes, that happens in the industry. Lay-offs and bad decisions, or you finish a project or whatever.” Lu-Anne stares at me blankly. Of course she doesn’t know. “I took the house on as a project. I’m hoping to renovate and re-sell it.”
“Oh. So, you’re not sticking around?”
I’m not sure if I detect disappointment in her voice or if it is just wishful thinking on my part.
“I’m not sure. It depends. I don’t plan on leaving Chicago, though. I have family here.” I wish I could stop giving out personal details, but I can’t seem to stem the tide, so they just keep on coming.
“Oh,” she responds quietly after a brief, tense silence. “Well, I hope everything goes well. I mean, the renovation. The flip. Whatever you call it. I hope you can sell the house when you want to.”
It’s starting to look like a good idea for me to get going. I really need to take a cold shower since I’m starting to sweat even though the damn AC is obviously working. No, not starting. I am already sweaty. It was a good idea not to raise my arms after all. It will also be a good idea to leave before I blurt out my entire life story and wreck the cover I’ve worked so hard to construct.
I shove out of the chair, and Lu-Anne looks up at me in surprise. “I should be going. Get back to work and all that. Being on your own schedule and being your own boss is sometimes tough. I don’t want to start slacking off. If the AC acts up, don’t hesitate to come over and let me know.”
I stalk over to the door, grab my toolbox, and get ready to make a fast getaway.
“Okay, thanks,” Lu-Anne says as I reach the door. “Have a good night.”
“You too.” I let myself out into the sticky and overly warm summer evening.
That went well, you idiot. I pep-talk myself all the way back to my house. I spilled enough details tonight to seriously put my real identity at risk. Like my name. My real damn name. And the fact that I have family here. It wouldn’t take much for Lu-Anne to jump on the old internet, do a quick search, and come up with the whole story.
Back at the house, I tackle tearing up a few more carpets just to work out my annoyance at myself. I have a big garbage bin to fill up after all. I tell myself it’s why I need the distraction. Not because I can’t stop thinking about my spider fearing, kind of crazy, hella-beautiful neighbor who could very well be my downfall.
CHAPTER 12
Lu-Anne
Baking is not my forte. Baking when it’s already as freaking hot as an inferno outside is just silly, but the day after Wade stopped by to “fix” my AC, I’m still attempting it.
Attempting being the keyword here. I tried texting Leanne to come over and help, code for I wanted to debrief her on everything I found out about Mr. Mob—I mean Wade—last night, but she’s in the middle of writing some huge, epic ass paper, and she refuses to leave her mounds of books and stacks of research for a good gossip session. I settled for texting her that my suspicions about Wade turned out to be unfounded. She responded back with a what do you know, your neighbor isn’t a mobster after all kind of sarcastic reply.
I decided that after all the crazy stuff I’ve done, maybe I should do something neighborly to make up for it. I’m now ninety percent sure Wade is just a normal guy. What he told me last night explains everything—the rolled-up rugs and the plastic in his living room. If I was smarter and not so overly paranoid, I think I would have noticed it before, given that his kitchen was ripped apart when I walked in there. The sex doll blow up thing is weird, but hey, to each their own. It was actually sent to him by someone. He didn’t order it himself, and it appeared to be a joke.
I made a shit pile mountain of assumptions out of a tiny little molehill, or however the saying goes. Anyway, I feel pretty ridiculous after the conversation I had with Wade last night. He even explained his tattoos. So, instead of doing the writing that I should be doing, I’m now furiously attempting a second pie.
Yes, a second one, because the first one I made came out black when I got distracted with cleaning up the kitchen and forgot to set a timer. My grandma’s oven is also really old and not the most reliable at temperature settings because the pie wasn’t nearly in there long enough to come out as black as it did. At least, I didn’t think it was in there that long. But when I got it out, it resembled a lump of charcoal and was virtually unidentifiable as an actual pie.
I had to open all the windows to air the clouds of smoke out of the house, but now I’m standing in front of the oven, watching my second pie turn golden brown. I’m leaving no room for error here.
After ten minutes of watching the oven like a freaking hawk, I slide the pie out. It’s a blueberry pie since it seemed like the easiest thing to make, and I happened to have a few clamshells of berries in the fridge. A few, meaning a lot, considering I have a habit of overbuying when there’s a sale.
I set the pie on top of the oven to cool and shut everything down. I’ve already cleaned up the kitchen. While the pie is cooling, I figure going into the bathroom to make myself presentable isn’t a bad idea.
It’s hot, and I’ve made the house even hotter by running the oven for nearly two hours. I probably smell like burned pie smoke. My hair feels sweaty, and my whole body feels damp and clammy.
A quick shower fixes everything. I put my wet hair into a braid and throw on just a touch of makeup. Maybe Wade won’t even be home. Maybe I just baked a pie for myself. Maybe he won’t answer the door, in which case, I’ll just leave the pie wrapped up with a note. But it might just attract porch pirates. If it does, though, I still have all the cameras mounted on my house.
As I wrap the pie up in a clean tea towel and write a quick note expressing my thanks for looking at the AC, I make a mental note to call about having those cameras taken down.
I really don’t know what I was thinking.
I don’t understand how I could have been so silly about everything. How could I really have assumed that Wade was into something shady? I guess it was just my imagination. Leanne was right.
I head out into the heat of the afternoon, which instantly makes my yellow maxi dress cling to my body. I feel like I’m getting a second shower, but this time, it’s my own perspiration doing it. I guess I should have saved the actual shower for later.
I hesitate before I ring the bell. I’m standing here, pie in hand, looking like a complete idiot. But this can’t be any worse than breaking into his freaking house and getting caught, I tell myself. Just
ring the bell. Give him your peace offering.
I finally do press the doorbell and wait. A few minutes tick by, followed by a few more. The sun is unrelenting, and I feel like I’m going to sizzle to a crisp just like the first pie did. I’m about to give up and go back home—pie and all—when the door opens.
Wade is there, filling up the space, and I mean, filling it up. He looks incredible, and yes, even when he’s covered in something that looks like white powder, speckled with paint, and obviously very sweaty. The dusty-looking stuff is stuck to his face, and there’s a paint smear across his forehead. His shirt is a mess of paint and dust, and his jeans haven’t fared much better.
Still, when he smiles, it stabs me.
Right in the lady bits.
Flustered, I thrust out the pie. “I—er—I wanted to make you a pie. You know, to say thank you. For coming to inspect me. I mean, my air conditioner.”
Wade brushes a hand over his face. He glances at it after, as though just realizing he’s really grimy. I mean, really grimy is also really hot, and it’s not a criticism. Now that I know the guy isn’t going to wrap me up in plastic or in a rug and dispose of me, my normal inhibitions seem to have lowered right along with my good judgment. My hormones, on the other hand, seem to have ramped up.
“Give me a minute,” Wade winks at me. “Come in. I can clean up, and this time, I’ll keep things decent as long as you promise not to lift anything while I’m in the shower.”
