Chapter Two
Keeley
“Today is going to be a good day,” I tell my steam-obscured reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I tuck the towel tighter around my chest, then lean forward and run a hand over the fogged-up mirror, my fingertips trailing through the condensation as I peer into my own blue eyes.
“You hear me, Keeley?” I squint at myself in a vain attempt to make my apple-cheeked, round face look stern. “Good days only from now on.”
I nod at myself in agreement, then begin to drag a brush through my long black tangles, reveling in the fact that I feel human again after my shower.
Forget Andrew.
Forget about him needing “space.”
Today is a good day.
I will it to be.
Three weeks ago, Andrew—my boyfriend of five years—completely blindsided me when he announced out of nowhere that we should “go on a break.”
Three days ago, I managed to be completely unprepared and caught off guard again when he told me he thought that break should be permanent.
So really not a break at all, but a break up.
It was clear to me from the moment he said it that he had already made up his mind, and I wasn’t about to grovel if he didn’t want to be with me anymore. I watched my mom plead with my dad to take her back during their divorce more than a few times, and it was heartbreaking to watch her get rejected because Dad had “moved on.”
Even more heartbreaking was what happened after the divorce was finalized.
So, when Andrew suddenly “moved on” from me, I was hurt and confused… but I wasn’t going to follow in my mom’s footsteps. So, I gave myself these past three days to eat entire pints of Ben & Jerry’s while watching The Notebook on repeat.
Wine may have also been involved.
Three days was more than enough, because honestly, by the time I woke up this morning, I was kind of sick of my own moping. And given that this is the week my air conditioning decided to completely give up in the midst of scorching summer heat, I’m also just generally sick from rotting in my furnace-hot apartment while sustaining myself on sugar, dairy, and fermented grapes.
Nevermind the fact that I was beginning to smell fermented, too.
The glorious everything-shower I’ve just stepped out of marks the beginning of a new era: it’s time to stop crying and get my head back in the game.
I haven’t heard his footsteps upstairs over the last few days, so I’m going to go ahead and assume that he’s packed up and gone camping or something. That he’s taken some time, alone, to reflect and process our breakup.
I’ve done the same. And now, I have no choice but to continue as normal. Which means getting dressed in actual clothes and heading to the town library to get some writing done… right after Craig comes to fix my air conditioning.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates on the vanity.
I drop my brush and press my phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Keeley! This is the fifth time I’ve called!” My second cousin’s shouty voice is so loud and booming, it echoes through the bathroom.
“Sorry, sorry, I was in the shower,” I tell him. “Just need to get dressed. I’ll be down in five minutes to let you in.”
Craig clicks his tongue impatiently. “Can I just come up?”
“The front door will be locked,” I reply, patiently. My cousin is notoriously grumpy at the best of times—he’s known around Serendipity Springs as “The Scowling Handyman.” But I don’t want him to leave without taking a look at my AC unit. The apartment building I live in, The Serendipity, has air conditioning throughout, but for some reason, my apartment hasn’t been cooling off lately.
The building manager, Steve, insists there’s nothing wrong with my AC—or anyone else’s—and while he’s point-blank wrong about this, he’s also stubborn as a mule that he’s right.
So I called in scowly backup in the form of Craig because I could really do without another sweltering late July night of non-sleep.
“I just saw some guy walk in without using a key,” Craig says, and I let out an audible sigh of relief.
“Oh, perfect. Yes, come on up.”
“On my way,” he replies.
I’m about to hang up when I hear some banging, followed by a lot of swearing.
“It’s locked,” Craig grunts.
“But didn’t you say you just saw someone walk in without a key?” I ask. Stupidly. Because my question serves as a red flag to a bull.
“You’d better be down here in one minute, Keeley, or I’m leaving!” Craig practically shouts. “I have better things to do than wait around outside your apartment building.”
I want to point out that he told me he would be here sometime between nine and ten this morning and that it’s only 8:58 right now, but I know that will just make him leave faster.
So, instead I say, “Coming now!” and run.
It’s only when I fly out of my apartment and into the hallway that I realize I’m barefoot and still wrapped in a bath towel.
“Noooo,” I moan.
I stop for a moment, weighing up my options, before ultimately deciding that running around my building practically naked is a safer option than sleeping in burning heat for another night. Most of my neighbors have surely already left for the day to go to work, and I’m unlikely to bump into poor old Mr. Prenchenko next door and give him a heart attack because he usually doesn’t take his morning walk until around ten.
Plus, if I take the elevator rather than the stairs, I have less chance of exposing myself to any unlucky souls who may be lingering in the lobby.
A quick dash down to let Craig in, and I’ll be back in my apartment and fully dressed before anybody will be the wiser.
And I’ll get my AC fixed. Win, win.
I run to the elevator at the end of the hall and jam my finger on the button, and luck must finally be on my side—see, told you today was going to be a good day—because the bell pings and the doors fly open right away. Which is unusual, at best, for our creaky old elevator.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I launch myself inside and promptly stub my toe on something hard.
“Ouch!” I exclaim as I trip, tumbling forward. The feeling of falling makes me weightless for a moment before?—
“Easy there,” comes a smooth, deep voice with a lilting, melodic accent. The sound of the voice is accompanied by the sensation of rough, sure hands on my upper arms.
The hands steady me, preventing my fall, and I look up into a pair of glinting eyes that are the prettiest shade of hazel-green I’ve ever seen. A pair of eyes that belong to the person with the deep voice and the sure hands. Which, I realize, make up three very attractive parts of a very attractive man who is currently holding me upright. In an elevator.
While I’m wearing only a towel.
Alarm bells ring in my head and I stumble back, only to almost trip again over what I now see is a guitar case.
The handsome stranger’s eyes follow mine to the large, black case on the floor. He smiles a little sheepishly. “Ah, sorry about my guitar.”
Only, with his accent—which I now identify as Irish—it sounds more like “sahrry aboot me geetaer.”
I suddenly feel a little giggly. Although that could have more to do with the general hysteria of meeting a handsome Irishman in an elevator while unclothed than his pretty accent.
“Oh, no, no, that’s okay,” I say as I back away, both hands tightening around the top of my towel. AKA, clinging to it for dear life. “I should be the one to say sorry about my, uh”—I look down at my body, then back up at the stranger—“general state of undress.”
The stranger’s smile turns amused, his eyes full of laughter as he runs a hand through his short, messy light brown hair. “Ah, I hadn’t noticed until you mentioned it.”
I look up at him to gauge the extent of his sarcasm, and when I see his lips twitch, I realize he’s speaking it fluently.
The Serendipity is a relatively small apartment building with a tight-knit community feel. I know most of the residents, if not by name, then by face.
So at least I can confirm this isn’t one of my neighbors. Hopefully he’s a one-time visitor to the building whom I’ll never, ever see again.
This is the shred of dignity I cling to as I hurriedly reply, “Yes, well, goodbye,” then turn to flee the elevator, deciding I’ll take my chances with the stairs.
The elevator doors close in my face.
Swearing under my breath, I hit the “open door” button, but the doors stay firmly closed.
Guess this is happening, then. I’m taking the elevator. With an Irish stranger who smells not unlike Irish Spring soap. And who may or may not be laughing at me.
“Not quite goodbye,” he says, his eyes twinkling as he watches me, a smirk playing on his lips.
Yeah, scratch that. He’s definitely laughing at me.
“Guess we’re stuck together,” he adds. “At least, until we get to the next floor.”
I slump against the wall in defeat, trying to ignore my unfortunate elevator buddy.
“Why are we not moving yet?” I mutter, more to myself than to my new Irish elevator buddy.
Craig is bound to be grumpy as all heck. In fact, he’s probably getting in his truck and leaving as I speak, which means that by the time we get to the lobby, I’ll be faced with the dilemma of slinking back to my apartment to bake like a Thanksgiving turkey for another day, or chasing The Scowling Handyman down the street like a crazy woman.
I’m not sure which option is worse.
“I think it might be stuck.” Irish Stranger smiles, totally unfazed. “It’s probably because of the number of times you pressed the buttons. Maybe you confused it.”
“I don’t know what goes on where you’re from, but elevators don’t get confused here in the USA,” I retort. It’s this guy’s stupid guitar’s fault that we’re stuck, when you think about it. It was the root cause of all my panicked button-pressing.
“Mayo,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I turn to look the guy full in his face.
And my, what a pretty face it is. He’s got a strong, angular bone structure that contrasts with his full lips and mischievous eyes.
“Mayo,” he says again in his lilted accent, and I’m now faced with the additional concern that I’m stuck in an elevator with a psychopath who wants to put me in a sandwich.
“I have no idea why on earth we are talking about condiments, but I’m more of a Miracle Whip girl, thank you very much.”
His brows fly up. “What in the name of arse is Miracle Whip?”
“It’s like mayonnaise, but better.”
He starts to laugh. It’s a nice laugh. “Ah, no, no, no. I’m from Mayo. As in, County Mayo, Ireland. Although, now, I am very intrigued about this Miracle Whip you speak of. Can I buy it at the shops here?”
“Oh,” I reply, my cheeks reddening. “Yeah, it’s in every grocery store. On the shelf right next to the?—”
“Mayo?” he finishes with a lopsided smile, a dimple popping in his right cheek.
“I was going to say ‘mustard.’” I can’t help but smile back, forgetting for a moment the peril of my current situation. Probably due to that admittedly very-much-not-unattractive dimple on show.
Just for a moment, though. Because as we share a smile, he seems to remember that he’s smiling at a woman in a towel and abruptly looks away, his cheekbones flushing. He presses another button, uselessly. We’re still not moving.
“Do you really think the elevator’s stuck?” I ask the obvious.
He pauses for a moment. “I do.”
I slump farther against the wall. Craig will be long gone by now, my dreams of sleeping in a cool room tonight up in smoke.
“I’ve lived here for three years, and the elevator’s never gotten stuck, as far as I’m aware,” I can’t help but grumble.
“Today’s your lucky day, then,” Irish Stranger says.
“Ha,” I bite out, then assess the elevator panel. The thing is ancient, and I don’t see a button to call for help. I also, of course, don’t have my phone on me in my towel-clad state. “So what do you folks do in Ireland during emergencies?”
“Dial 999,” he says immediately.
“Congratulations, we’re both dead,” I reply with a sigh.
“112?”
“What on earth is that?”
He gives me a look. “The other emergency number.”
“The other one? You have two different emergency numbers in your country?”
“We do.”
He offers no further explanation, and I continue to stare at him. “ Why ?”
He blinks, like he’s never considered this to be strange, then shrugs. “Guess we Irish like to have choices when facing mortal peril. What do you do here?”
“Call 911. But I don’t think a stuck elevator constitutes a real emergency.”
Although, it should. Especially when you’re stuck with someone this good looking.
“Maybe we could call the building management,” the man suggests, looking at me expectantly.
I raise a brow at him. “I do not have a phone in my current possession.”
“Ah.” Irish Stranger smiles. “I wasn’t going to ask but… any particular reason you decided to take an elevator ride unclothed this morning?”
“Because today was going to be a good day,” I say, which earns me a baffled look.
“I see,” he replies slowly, and I have a sudden feeling that now he’s the one wondering if he’s trapped with someone deemed a danger to society.
Suddenly, the elevator lurches, and I do a little cheer. Silently, in my head, of course. Because this man already thinks I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
Nevertheless, I’m delighted. Maybe my luck is turning and I’ll catch Craig before he leaves after all!
My cheeriness, however, is short-lived when I realize the elevator is going up, and not down.
Ping!
The doors slide open at the third floor, and before I can throw myself out of the elevator and make my escape, I instead freeze to the spot.
Because standing in front of me is Andrew. My boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend.
And he’s holding hands with Lisa. His best friend.
Though they look a whole lot more than just friends at this moment.