Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Grayson
I swipe my bow over the strings of the cello and feel my body relax as the notes fill the air. I’ve been working on this piece for hours, wanting each instrument to sound perfect. I’m nearly there when a loud banging comes from beneath me, jarring me from my musical world into the stark reality of the real one I live in.
I was weary of the woman who rented the commercial space below me. I had to yell at Troy a few times when he was making noise down there, but he tries to get things done when I’m not working since he knows my schedule. Al has tried at least a half dozen times to reassure me that she’s the perfect tenant to take on the space formerly occupied by his late wife’s antique shop.
I long for the antique shop. I’ve only been here a little over two years, but that first year was perfect. Edith was quiet and kind. Aside from that damn bell on the door ringing on the rare occasion that someone came in, she made nearly zero noise. And then she died.
That was brutal…for everyone in the building. Edith was like family and losing her left a gaping hole in all our hearts. Her old age and life well-lived were the only things that kept us sane during those first few months.
I didn’t think I could become so connected to a building and the people residing in it. In the world I come from, relationships are transactions. And transactions come at a high cost.
With a shake of my head to clear my thoughts, I start again but an immediate bang has me setting down my beloved instrument and heading straight out the door and downstairs.
I walk outside and press the door of the shop to enter it, but it doesn’t budge. I lean forward and peer inside and see two women nailing something to a wall.
I pound on the glass, but no response.
What in the actual fuck?
I pound again and one of them looks over at me. She looks a little younger than me with long blonde wavy hair that’s pulled up in a ponytail on top of her head. Her giant blue eyes stare back at mine and widen a little before she steps off a ladder and walks toward me, pulling out an earbud as she does.
She unlocks the door and pushes it open.
“Hi,” she says meekly, looking up from beneath dark lashes. She might be gorgeous, but I don’t give a fuck right now.
“Hello. I’m Grayson Porter,” I state as I stretch out my hand deciding to try to be civil first. “I live upstairs, right above your shop.”
“Oh, right.” She wipes her hand on her pants and shakes mine. Her skin is warm and smooth and a zing of static passes between us. She retracts her hand, clearly feeling it too. “I’m Roxy Benedict. I just moved in. It’s nice to meet you.”
The other woman begins hammering what looks like a bookcase.
“Isla, can you stop for like two seconds?” Roxy asks before looking back at me. “Sorry, that’s my sister Isla. She’s helping me get the shop sorted.”
“Well, about that. I’m trying to finish writing a piece…” I trail off taking a deep breath. “I’m a composer and a musician and I sort of need it to be quiet.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. I swear the hammering is almost done. Maybe we can take a break for a few hours,” she offers.
I nod. “Thank you. If you could, that would be very helpful.” I look around. “What exactly is your store going to be?
She smiles proudly and holds up her arms. “A romance bookstore.”
I frown as I try to comprehend the meaning. “I’m sorry…a what?”
“A bookstore for romance readers,” she reiterates as one eyebrow shoots up as if she’s assessing my reaction to this information.
“Right…” I say slowly with a small shake of my head. “Do people actually buy that many of those books to make that a profitable store?”
She sighs. “Yes. Yes, they do.”
“Right. Anyhow, I need total silence for at least two more hours,” I state as I look over her head at the store, still unsure how anyone could make a living off romance books.
“Sure. We can finish the painting instead,” she offers.
Fuck. Painting might be worse than the noise.
“Could you maybe do something else? And paint tomorrow?” I ask.
Now she’s the one frowning. “Why?”
“Paint fumes give me migraines,” I state, with a sigh of exhaustion. Actually, I feel one coming on right now.
“Fine, we’ll set up furniture,” she grumbles like a petulant child.
“Will there be hammering involved with that?” I ask from behind gritted teeth because the fact that I have to ask her to be neighborly is putting me in a mood.
“No,” she growls and pauses as she opens the door to walk back inside. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Porter.” But the way she says it tells me she thinks it was anything but nice, and honestly, I feel the same. I don’t want to look for another apartment. I was here first.
And with that she closes it, leaving me on the other side, inhaling her perfume that slowly dissipates after a few seconds. I run a hand through my hair as I turn and press the key code to get back into the building.
Trudging up to my apartment, I pass Carly on the steps.
“Hey,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, pausing mid-step and looking down at me from the landing on the second floor.
I walk up to her and lean on the wall. “That new woman downstairs is making a shit ton of noise.”
“When do you have to get your composition to the producer?” she asks. The entire building is aware that I’m in the running to compose music for a film. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for over a year, and after networking way more than I ever wanted to, it was my family name that got me a meeting with a well-known Hollywood producer. He agreed to listen to a sample I’m making based on a film concept he shared. The film is just about to wrap up in the coming weeks. This could be my big break. I walked away from my family and their fortune to pursue this dream and being so close to getting what I want has me laser-focused. I’m so close to making my dream come true, I can practically taste it.
“Tomorrow,” I answer.
Carly hugs me and I hug her back.
“You got this, Gray. Go finish it. You’re going to kick some ass. I just know he’ll love it. You are meant to do this,” she says as she pulls back, giving me a giant smile.
“Thanks, Carly. I’m just stressed and I’m used to the quiet here and…well…” I trail off.
“I know. But remember, she’s new and she doesn’t know any of us yet. Cut her some slack, OK?” Carly suggests.
Shrugging, I start up the stairs. “Where’s Ava?” I ask, realizing that Carly’s nearly five-year-old sidekick is missing.
“She has a playdate with a little girl we met at the park a few weeks ago. It turns out I went to high school with the kid’s mom. How wild is that? Anyhow, it is giving me four whole hours to run errands with no child. I’m not sure I’m going to know what to do with myself,” she says with a laugh as she continues walking downstairs.
“I don’t want to see you on an episode of Moms Gone Wild ,” I tease as I open my door at the landing.
“Funny, Gray. Real funny,” she retorts and I hear the outside door swing open. Somehow, my little interaction with Carly has me feeling lighter than a few minutes ago.
Fuck my family. This one I found is so much better.
* * *
I hit send on the file. I’ve worked through most of the night in the makeshift recording studio I made out of my walk-in closet. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do for now. I couldn’t get time at my friend’s recording studio, and frankly, I don’t need the demo to be that polished yet. But I do want it to be good and I think what I just sent was damn near perfect.
I breathe a sigh of relief and decide to go for a walk. I take my travel mug of coffee and start down the Hearts Lane Park trail. The flowers are sitting on the bench as always.
I snap a photo and send it to the building group chat.
Me: (photo) Are we ever going to solve this mystery?
Brayden: I sort of dig keeping it a mystery.
Carly: I’m on Team Leave It a Mystery.
Hutch: No way, inquiring minds need to know.
Drew: I propose a stakeout.
Cam: You and Hutch propose a stakeout every time we discuss this. Just do it already.
I laugh. Drew Whiteford and Camryn Tanner are roommates, so I know they’ll be discussing this later. Carly Maxwell and Brayden Murphy live in the two apartments on floor three. They have been friends ever since Carly moved in with Ava, who was just a toddler at the time. And Hutchinson or Hutch Cromwell is my neighbor on the second floor. They are all wonderful people. And along with our other neighbors, we’ve been speculating on the mysterious flowers for years. People have stayed out looking at the bench but no one has ever seen the flowers delivered here. So the neighborhood lore continues.
I have half a mind to take the flowers today. Why not? Men never get flowers and it’s a big day for me. So I pick them up on my way back.
I’m just about to the building door when my mug splashes coffee on my pants.
“Shit,” I mutter as I try to brush it away. I’m not paying attention and run smack into someone. I look up to meet the gaze of Ms. Benedict. Great. Just what I needed.
“Oh, sorry,” she says as I stand back to my full height and look down at her.
She’s holding paint cans.
“Are you doing that today?” I grimace.
She nods. “Yeah, remember you asked that I do it today instead of yesterday. It’s just the trim. Everything else is already painted.”
I fucking did ask that, but shit, I’d just like to chill at the apartment today. If I lived a few stories up, then I’d probably avoid the smell altogether, but not right above it.
“So I did,” I mutter.
“Cool, well, I’ll be starting shortly,” she adds as she sets down a can and opens the shop door. I glance inside as the window and door are now covered in brown paper. There are rows of shelves lining two of the three walls and some smaller shelves by what I think is going to be a checkout table. I see boxes with stickers on them that appear to be more tables that need to be put together.
If I was a nicer man, I’d offer to help her, but not with paint fumes. And honestly, she’s annoying the hell out of me, so it’s better if I can keep my distance.
I start to say thanks for stopping the noise yesterday, but she shuts the door in my face. Well, I guess it’s going to be like that. Shaking my head, I decide to pay Margie and Cornelia a visit. The fourth floor should be far enough away from the fumes. And my two favorite elderly ladies have been asking me to help them get a subscription service on their television for a month now.
I walk up to their apartment, deciding not to take the rickety old elevator that seems to break at least once a month. It’s one of the reasons I love the second floor.
I don’t even knock before Margie opens the door.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. You turn in that new tune you wrote?” she asks as she opens her door and ushers me inside.
“Yep. It’s done,” I confirm as I plop down on her sofa next to Cornelia who is knitting what looks like the world’s longest scarf.
“You meet our new neighbor yet?” Cornelia asks, not bothering to look up at me.
“I did.”
She glances over at me from above her giant tortoiseshell-framed lenses that magnify her eyes. “And?”
“She’s opening a romance bookstore,” I state, deciding to withhold sharing my initial judgment. I’m not one for gossip, well, not normally.
“I saw her yesterday. Pretty little thing,” Margie says from the perch on her favorite leather chair that has seen better days.
“You don’t like her?” Cornelia asks.
“No, I didn’t say that.” Fuck, did I say that? No. I wouldn’t.
“Uh-huh,” Cornelia mumbles and looks back down at her world record–length scarf.
“I didn’t. She just…makes a lot of noise,” I try to explain for reasons I don’t understand except these two little old women are good at putting me in my place and I both hate that and love that about them.
“Gray, dear, she is moving in and opening a business. That’s not exactly an activity that is noise-free,” Margie points out as she leans back and takes a long sip of one of her herbal teas that she drinks all day.
“Margie has a point,” Cornelia agrees.
“Well, I didn’t say I had an opinion yet. It’s just been noisy,” I try to argue.
“Just mind your manners. We know you can get grumpy but she doesn’t know you yet. And you should always lead with a good impression. You just never know if someone could be ‘the one,’” Margie states with a nod.
“Yes, ma’am. But I highly doubt that she’s going to be anything but a neighbor.” I look toward the new television that Cornelia won at the community bingo night a month ago. “OK, let’s get you all sorted so you can watch Netflix,” I add, trying to change the conversation to a different topic.
“Netflix and chill. Isn’t that what the kids call it?” Cornelia says as she motions to the television with a knitting needle.
“I heard it’s code for something else,” Margie says with a wicked smirk.
I groan. “Ladies, it just means to watch Netflix and literally chill.” I start going through controls and setting up their account. But my mind keeps wandering back to Roxy. Did I overreact? Maybe. Was she accommodating? I guess so. Whatever, as long as she’s quiet from here out, I guess I’ll survive.
I snort to myself. Romance bookstore. Who believes in romance anymore? Seriously, everyone just right-swipes on their phone. She’ll probably be out of here within six months tops.
At that thought I smile to myself and start showing my adoptive grannies what Netflix shows to watch.