Chapter 4
Emma
Something crashes upstairs. I frown, balancing the box of muffins in one hand as I knock on the door because ringing again seems excessive.
“Hey, are you all right?” I shout when dead silence follows my knock. “Hello? Anyone home?”
Nothing. I frown at the door, wondering what to do now. I know he’s in there, so why isn’t he coming to the door? A pang of worry slices my chest. Did he fall and hurt himself? Was that what the thud was? What if he’s unconscious?
I press my lips together, laying my palm on the doorknob. The door is probably locked, anyway, but I need to check. I need to know he’s all right.
I’m about to turn the knob when the door flies open, my tall, blond neighbor filling the doorway as he watches me with his cold, blue eyes. I snatch my hand back, pretending I wasn’t about to enter his home uninvited.
“Uh… Hi!” I say, suddenly breathless.
I’ve never stood so close to him, and his height is overwhelming. I’m quite short, so I’m used to people being taller than me, but he’s positively a tower of a man. Also, the way he leans in with one arm propped up against the doorframe? Instant swoon.
Dressed all in black, he’s a study in contrasts. Blue eyes, fair skin, and light hair, and then an avalanche of a black turtleneck that molds to his chest, and long, black chinos cinched with a black belt. The buckle is silver, catching my eye for a second too long. I look up quickly, my face flaming.
He says nothing, just blinks. His face is utterly impassive. And I don’t know, but I expected… something. A smile, and if not that, maybe just a general softening of his features. But his expression is utterly blank, his mouth neutral, the lines around it so faint. As if he doesn’t move his face much.
And still, he takes my breath away. I was never into blond men, yet I see the appeal instantly. His hair is short yet long enough to flop on the side of his forehead. It looks so soft, just begging to be tousled. But if I wanted to touch it, I’d probably have to jump like a kindergartener trying to reach a lamp switch.
This is so awkward. I should say something.
“I’m Emma. I’m your neighbor,” I blurt out in a rush, cringing when I realize that duh, of course, he knows that. “And I thought… You know, it’s Christmas in a few days. And you’ve been living here a while, and we haven’t even talked yet, so uh… Anyway… Here. I made these for you.”
I thrust the muffins in his direction. He blinks again, frowning slightly, and I don’t know what to think. He doesn’t reach for the box, and my throat tightens suddenly.
God. I didn’t even think it might happen, but… does he hate me? Is that why he hasn’t spoken yet? Is that why he looks at my cute, white and gold box of gorgeous muffins like it’s a bomb?
My lip wobbles, and I lower the box.
He grabs it suddenly, practically tearing it out of my grip. I gasp, shocked by how fast he moves, and he clears his throat, the sound ragged and rusty, like his vocal cords haven’t been used in a while. He cradles the box against his chest, his throat working, but he doesn’t speak.
“Do you… not speak English?” I ask cautiously.
He shakes his head with a frustrated huff and finally points at his mouth with another headshake.
My heart sinks.
“Oh. So you can’t… You can’t speak. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Um… I know some sign language, but probably not enough to even say a full sentence.”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. I’m not sure what it means, and yet I’m thrilled by this bit of progress. We’re communicating! Finally!
“So, uh…” I play with the zipper of my jacket, my nose starting to feel cold. “I don’t suppose I can come in? No, of course not. Sorry. Uh, I hope you like the muffins! Maybe I’ll see you another time?”
He blinks at me again, slightly baffled, maybe… amused? Something definitely twinkles in his eyes, though his mouth remains perfectly neutral.
I’m about to leave in embarrassment when he takes one long step deeper into the house and waves me in with a flourish that seems a bit mocking. I press my lips together and go in, my nape tingling. I don’t know why, but it seems dangerous. Like stepping into the lair of a beast.
As the door closes behind me, I take in a steadying breath. The hall is dark, but he flicks on bright, overhead lights. A vast expanse of polished hardwood floor stretches ahead. My eyes pop with wonder. Wow, this place is clean.
It’s not just the fact I can almost see my reflection in the floor. As I unzip my jacket and peek further into what seems like a large living room, I notice instantly that there are no open shelves or knickknacks around. By the door is a coat rack, empty, and an umbrella stand with a single, perfectly folded umbrella in it. No shoes are out, but I see a big shoe cabinet, one of those pedantic ones with separate compartments for each pair of shoes.
My neighbor carefully places the box of muffins on top of the cabinet and takes my jacket, hanging it up. I hasten to take off my shoes, and as soon as my feet meet the toasty floor, I sigh in bliss. He’s got floor heating.
He picks up the box and looks at me for a moment before heading down the hall. I follow him, biting the inside of my cheek in embarrassment. Honestly, I have no idea how to behave now. Should I just talk for us both? That seems selfish.
I shouldn’t have blabbered about wanting to come in, but my mouth ran away from me. I’m just so curious about my reclusive neighbor. What does he do for a living? Why can’t he speak? Why does he barely go out?
He leads me into the kitchen, and I take it in with wide eyes. The polished black surfaces of the kitchen cabinets are spotless, not a fingerprint in sight. He puts the muffin box on the empty kitchen island and takes out two plates. Next, he gets a compartmentalized tea box and offers it to me, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
There are twelve compartments, each containing exactly five tea bags in a different flavor. I pick milk oolong, my favorite, and he nods, one corner of his mouth lifting in a shadow of a smile.
“So, uh, this is a nice place,” I say when he makes tea. “Really, uh, neat. Tidy.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, and even though he doesn’t smile fully, it looks like he’s laughing at me. I smile back, encouraged.
“I’m very messy,” I confess. “So your house might as well be an alien planet to me. I mean, I love when things are neat and in order, it’s just… never a priority. But, uh, I admire it.”
He gives me another half smile and opens a drawer. As the water boils, he sits opposite me and sets a notebook on the table.
“Oh,” I say softly as he starts writing. “That’s a good idea.”
A moment later, he pushes the notebook toward me and gets up to make tea. A thrill goes down my spine when I see his handwriting. It’s simple, neat, each letter perfectly shaped. Just like his place. Like him.
“I learned order in the military. Clean, well-organized spaces save lives. And it helps me feel in control. My name’s Logan Hayes. Nice to meet you.”
My throat bobs as I swallow with difficulty. I’m acutely aware those are the first words he’s communicated to me. They seem vulnerable for an opener.
“So you were in the military? How long?” I ask.
He raises a hand, four fingers extended, after placing a peacock blue mug in front of me. I grin automatically. It’s my favorite color.
“Four years? What did you do in the Army?”
He pulls his notebook back to him, and I wait, watching him write. He has large hands, his fingers long and graceful, nails perfectly trimmed. The blue pen—peacock blue, just like my mug—looks so thin in his large palm.
“I was stationed in Fallujah. Then in Yemen. They sent me home after a mission went wrong. I was the only one who survived. I’m mute because of the trauma.”
I stroke the page with my fingertips, unsure how to answer. This, too, seems heavy for a get-to-know-your-neighbor small talk, but then, who am I to judge? Maybe that’s how he rolls. Or maybe he learned to only say the essential, meaningful stuff since writing takes so much more effort than speaking.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly, startling a little as I look up into his intense, blue eyes that watch me without blinking. “It must have been awful. I can’t even imagine what real war is like. Is it hard not being able to speak? If you need help, I’m available. For real. Any time of day and night.”
That coaxes the first full smile out of him. He laughs soundlessly, his shoulders shaking, and his eyes spark. My heart stutters, and for a moment, I’m speechless. God, he’s not just handsome. He’s beautiful.
What is this gorgeous man doing, hiding in his home all day? He should be out there, making hearts melt.
“I don’t see the joke,” I say with a smile, because nothing I said merits such a laugh.
When he pushes the notebook back to me, there is only one word in reply.
“Good.”