Book and Ladder (The Firemen of Waterford TN #2)

Chapter 1

Daisy

A bad neighbor is as great a calamity

as a good one is a great advantage.

~ Hesiod

“Books.” I spin in my front room, glancing one way then the other. “Books. Books. Books.”

“There you are!” I exclaim, grabbing the box of ten special editions.

I had them shipped to my house to ensure they didn’t get misplaced with our other inventory.

I grab my purse, my cell, and my tumbler of coffee off the entry table.

My phone rings as I’m walking out my front door.

I shift the box on my hip and pin it there with my elbow, holding my coffee, tapping my cell while I step onto the porch. Multitasking like a boss.

“Hey!” I answer.

“Heyyyy!” Winona’s chipper voice practically sings.

“I’m almost there!” I tell her. It’s my day to open at my bookshop, Moss and Maple.

“No rush. I wanted to let you know I decided to get up early. I’m here, opening up. But I’m in the back room. I didn’t want you to think I was a book burglar or something when you got here.”

“A book burglar? Pretty sure that’s not a thing, Win.”

“What are you talking about? Books are expensive. And valuable.”

I shove the phone next to my neck and bend my head to lodge it so it doesn’t drop. Pinning the box to my side with my arm, and keeping a secure grip on my coffee, I use my free hand to tug the door shut behind me.

“True. Thanks for the heads up,” I say. “And …” my words trail off when my eyes land on a moving truck blocking the driveway of the duplex where I live.

My neighborhood is an older, middle class suburb of our small town. Some of the homes show their age, but most have been maintained and refurbished over the years. And a few, like mine, have been split into rentals.

“Hold on, Winona,” I say into the phone.

Then I shout, “Hey!” to the dark haired mover standing near the passenger door of the moving van with his back to me.

He doesn’t budge, so I repeat, “Hey!”

The box is digging into my arm, and my fingers are starting to ache from the death grip I have on my coffee. I shift my weight, hoist my purse up and switch my tumbler to my other hand while still keeping the phone lodged between my cheek and shoulder.

“Sorry, Win. There’s a moving van blocking my driveway.”

“Oooh are you finally getting a new neighbor?”

“Looks like it.”

I glance around. The other movers must be inside the vacant half of my duplex.

“Plug your ears,” I warn Winona. “I have to shout again, sorry.”

“Knock yourself out.” She laughs.

“Heyyy!” I shout at double the previous volume.

The dark haired mover leaning against the passenger door is built like he could lift a sofa single-handedly.

He must have AirPods in. His head doesn’t pivot.

He doesn’t flinch—just stands there, casually, thick legs crossed near the ankles.

That hair: dark as coal … Dark like a boy I’ve known since elementary school. Dark like his maddening heart.

I start to walk toward him, balancing the box, gripping my coffee like it’s a life ring and trying not to drop my cell from the spot where it’s pinned between my cheek and shoulder.

The man turns and our eyes lock. I feel mine visibly narrow into a squint.

Since when did Patrick run a moving company?

He’s a firefighter.

Why would he take a second job, or worse yet, start a business?

“Oh, hey, Daisy,” he says casually.

Always that air of indifference like I’m a gnat on his windshield—one flick of the wipers and I’m gone.

“You’re … uh … blocking my driveway …” I state the obvious.

I bump my hip to reposition the box again. Then I pull the cell away from my ear and plop it into my purse.

Patrick’s eyes drift to my hip, the box, and back up to meet my not so subtle glare.

Those eyes—as dark as his hair. Inky. Intense. Infuriatingly magnetic.

His focus drifts to the driveway where my vintage Honda sits waiting for me to unload my burden and make a certain getaway.

“Our driveway,” Patrick corrects.

“Our … what?” I stammer.

“I’m moving in. This is my new apartment.”

“What? I thought you inherited your parents’ McMansion after they moved to Nashville.”

“I was taking care of their estate. They’re back for a season, so I need to … well, I want to have my own space.”

“Here?” I basically shriek out the word.

He smirks, just one corner of his mouth tipping upward enough to trigger the dimple on his rugged cheek to pop.

His face is excruciatingly nice. Deceptively attractive.

He sports a perpetual shadow where his beard would grow in if he didn’t shave daily.

He’s got these wide lips, the bottom one just a bit fuller than the top.

His jawline is straight out of a geometry textbook.

And his lashes are unfairly long, framing those inscrutable eyes.

“Yes, here.” He says the word so nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just choose to move in next to me.

It is a choice. Deliberate. A person doesn’t fall into an apartment. They tour. They see where it’s located. They explore the neighborhood—and they research the neighbors.

Why here? Of all the houses, apartments, and rooms for rent in Waterford, all the guesthouses on ranches around the outskirts of town, why here?

“Why?” I ask out loud. And then, realizing how defeated and demoralized I sound, I add, “Slumming it?”

Patrick smiles a full smile with his perfect teeth and full lips. He reminds me of that shark, Bruce, in Finding Nemo when he sniffed blood in the water.

“Thought I’d come see how the other half lives,” Patrick says with a teasing tone.

“Well, you’ll never see how this half lives.” I tip my head toward my half of the duplex and add, “Never,” for emphasis.

“Hmmm.” He studies me.

“I’m late,” I say, remembering my life and the things that really matter.

My words drag me back from this alternate universe where Patrick O’Connell is my new next-door neighbor.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry,” Patrick says, looking away from me for the first time since our eyes locked.

He pushes off the side of the truck with the finesse of a jungle predator, walks around the front of the truck, and hoists himself up into the driver’s seat.

Without another glance in my direction, he puts the truck in drive, pulls forward and parks so that the van now blocks our neighbor’s driveway.

I wait for him to hop out. He doesn’t.

I feel foolish.

Waiting for Patrick. When will I learn?

I walk to my car, set the coffee on the roof, wiggle my fingers to regain circulation and open my door.

My keys drop to the ground, because, of course they do.

I pull the box out from where it’s wedged under my arm, and then I set it and my purse on the passenger seat.

I bend to retrieve my keys in as dignified a way as possible.

That’s right. I totally meant to set my keys on the ground while loading my car. Nothing to see here, Patrick. Absolutely nothing.

I grab my coffee from off the roof and shut myself into safety. Turning the key, I back up, passing the moving van and taking off down my street at just a smidge over the speed limit.

Halfway down the block, I check the mirror—Patrick’s already backing up to reclaim my driveway.

My driveway.

“There is no our, Patrick,” I say to no one.

I turn my radio on and blast the country station, lifting my homemade latte from the cup holder and taking a long sip as if the hot beverage will erase images of Patrick leaned against that moving van and the way his smirky smirk looked so self-satisfied and pompous as he announced his invasion into my world.

I hear a faint voice as if another station is trying to come through the radio. The voice almost sounds like it's calling my name. Then I remember. Winona. She’s still on the call?

“Win!” I shout, digging the phone out of my purse while keeping my eyes trained on the road.

“Girl.” She chuckles. “That was awesome!”

“What part?”

“The part where Patrick and you sparred on your front lawn. It’s better than reality TV.”

“Happy to entertain,” I joke. “And sorry I forgot you and I were talking.”

“No problem. I’m patient. Besides, I really loved being a fly on the wall through that whole exchange.”

“It’s crazy, right?”

“What? Patrick moving into the same exact house as you?”

“Yes!”

“A little. I mean, Waterford is small. Rentals are a bit hard to come by. Maybe he couldn’t find anything else.”

“Cody’s ranch has extra guesthouses.”

“True,” Winona says. “Maybe he just wanted to be near you.”

I spit out the rest of the mouthful of coffee I just sipped and grab for a napkin in the console to mop up the spray. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it. Patrick O’Connell wants to be near me. That’s about as likely as me wanting to watch a movie before I’ve read the book.”