Chapter Nine
Keeley
There’s a little less spring in my step when I trudge home around lunchtime, my pale skin beginning to redden as the sun climbs higher in the bright blue sky.
I’m so lost in thought about my phone conversation with Freya that when I fling open the front door of my apartment building, I don’t notice Archibald the Bernese Mountain dog hurtling towards me at full speed until it’s too late.
His owner, Sara, is about ten steps behind, yelling his name as he flings himself up and almost knocks me over. Somehow, I miraculously stay upright as Archie happily licks ketchup from my shirt before moving on to maul my face with ketchup-y kisses.
Despite myself, I have to laugh.
“Hey, cutie,” I say as I pet his massive black head.
“Sorry!” Sara pants as she struggles to take control of her pet’s leash. “Down, Archibald. Get down!”
“I think he’s grown even bigger.” I’m not sure what floor Sara lives on, but everyone in the building knows her. Mostly because they’ve been greeted by Archibald at some point or another.
“I know,” she says, half in despair and half in utter infatuation with her sweet dog. “We’re headed for a walk to burn off some of his energy. Later, Keeley.”
I watch Sara walk Archie outside—or rather, watch Archie walk Sara outside—before making my way upstairs to my apartment. Stairs being the operative word, because I’m definitely not up for another stuck-elevator incident.
My apartment is still about a billion degrees, so as I clean my slobbery face with a hand towel, I decide there’s no time like the present to get some laundry done. The laundry room is in the basement of the building, so logic dictates it’s got to be at least a few degrees cooler down there.
Plus, it’s unlikely that anyone else will be doing their laundry on a gorgeous Sunday. I can skulk in my dungeon in peace and begin to wrap my head around the fact that I have to write an article I’d happily trade for a hundred more pieces on traffic laws.
Huffing, I grab my (very full) laundry basket and begin my trudge to the basement.
Which, I am happy to confirm, is a lot cooler than my place.
I shoot off a text to Craig, asking (begging) to see if he can look at my AC this afternoon, and then get to work loading all my dirty clothes into a washer.
I’m adding soap when I realize I’m still wearing a shirt covered in ketchup. And I didn’t bring a clean one to change into.
Glancing at the door, I quickly decide that there’s little chance of anyone else coming in here. On top of that, I’m wearing a sports bra underneath my shirt, so if anyone did swing by, I could simply pretend I just got back from a run.
Which would, at least, explain how sticky and sweaty I am at the moment.
I’m whipping off my shirt when the door opens.
Because of course it does.
And because the universe hates me and is clearly out to get me, the person who has just walked into the room is none other than Beckett freaking McCarthy .
He’s already three steps inside the room when he spots me. The second he does, a crooked grin moves over his face as he assesses me, shirt in hand, blush blazing on my cheeks.
“Keeley, we can’t keep meeting like this.” His lilting voice is almost mocking, and that darned dimple in his cheek is back.
“Hello, Beckett.” Cool as a cucumber (yeah, more like hot as a chili pepper), I check my watch.
“It’s after noon. I figured you would have located the nearest Irish pub by now.”
His forehead creases, his grin disappearing. “That’s an extremely rude—and, frankly, offensive—stereotype of the Irish people, Keeley.”
His tone sounds a little injured, and I feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy or something. “Oh, my gosh, I’m sorry,” I say, backpedalling furiously. “I was totally joking. I didn’t mean to offend you…”
I trail off as I realize he’s laughing.
The jerk is laughing at me.
Again.
I cross my arms and level him with my gaze. “So, you’re not actually offended, then?”
“You couldn’t offend me if you tried, Roberts.”
“Oh, believe me, I try,” I snap back, and he grins crookedly.
“Well, let it be known your efforts are commendable.” He takes a couple of steps back, raises two fingers to his forehead and salutes me. “Now, I’d best be on my way and continue with my tour of the building. I’ll leave you here to your stripping.”
“Thank goodness. I thought you’d never leave,” I reply evenly.
Beckett smirks before he puts his hand on the doorknob and pulls.
Nothing happens.
He pulls again.
The door doesn’t budge.
“Are you serious?” Beckett mutters, and this makes me feel preemptively triumphant. Because I know there’s a little trick with the laundry room door—you have to push the door in slightly before pulling—and I’m already mentally picturing how I’m going to march over there and fling it open for him. That’ll make us even after he opened my “stuck” window last night.
“Need some help?” I ask in a sing-song voice.
Beckett—clearly without the same get-even vitriol pumping in his veins—shrugs and gestures to the door. “Be my guest.”
I march right over. Place my hand on the door handle with a flourish.
Do the little trick where I push the door in slightly… and then, I pull.
Pull again.
Pull once more, with two hands this time.
Sigh in defeat.
“You’re right, it’s stuck,” I concede.
“Weird, weird place, this,” Beckett murmurs, his brow furrowed as he jiggles the door again.
The reality hits me that, for the third time in two days, I am trapped somewhere with Beckett in some kind of state of undress. It’s beyond what feels like a regular coincidence at this point. It’s almost… freaky.
And I must put an end to it. Now.
I wrap one arm around my stomach self-consciously and use the other to pound on the door. “Hello? Anyone?”
Of course, there’s no response. There’s only one apartment down here in the basement, where a really nice woman named Scarlett lives—but if she’s home right now, she can’t hear us.
“I’d call someone, but I don’t have my phone with me. Again.” I groan, more to myself than to him.
“Same,” he says. “I guess we’re stuck here. Again.”
“Lucky us,” I say sarcastically. It comes out harsher than I mean for it to.
He studies me for a moment, and then in one swift motion, he shrugs off the sweatshirt he’s wearing and hands it to me almost hesitantly. “If you want it.”
I hesitate, too, but come to my senses pretty quickly.
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, pulling it on only to almost instantly regret my decision.
The sweatshirt is big and soft and fleecy inside, and it smells… well, it smells incredible. Woodsy and clean and masculine and delicious. It’s all I can do not to breathe in deeply as I roll up the sleeves, which are comically long on me.
I thought there could be nothing worse than being trapped down here with Beckett while wearing only a sports bra. But I have to say, being practically bathed in his unfairly good smell might be worse. It’s probably going to smell like ketchup and dog saliva when I give it back. Which is just one more item to add to “Keeley’s Embarrassing Moments of the Weekend.”
“Can’t believe you’re even wearing a sweatshirt in this heat,” I tell him as I hoist myself up to sit on one of the dryers.
Beckett laughs good-naturedly and sits a couple of dryers over, his long legs dangling over the side. He’s wearing shorts, and I can’t help but notice what nice legs he has. Muscular, like he played a lot of soccer growing up.
“Mr. Prenchenko keeps his apartment at sub-arctic temperatures, and I haven’t figured out how to change the thermostat yet,” he confesses, and I laugh.
“He likes to be reminded of the winter he once spent in Yellowknife, studying Inuit culture.”
Beckett smiles in amusement. “He’ll be right at home in Ireland, then. It’s been cold and rainy every day this summer so far.”
“Um, on that,” I hedge slowly. “I’m sorry about making a joke about the Irish drinking culture. Offended or not, it wasn’t super polite of me.”
“Unfortunately, the stereotype is often true. The Irish are big drinkers.” He grins. “Not me, mind. I’m a desperate lightweight. But in general, I guess we are famous for drinking like fish. And for manufacturing Botox.”
“Botox?” I blink.
“Yes,” he says mock-proudly. “Ninety percent of the world’s Botox is made in my very own County Mayo.”
I snort, wondering if Sissy—a huge Botox fan—knows this little tidbit. “Fascinating.”
“It’s a real cultural hub, where I come from.”
“What else is Mayo famous for?”
That flirtatious smile is back on his face. “We’re known to be great craic.”
My eyebrows fly up. “Ex-squeeze me?”
“Ya know, good craic. A grand old time. Life of the party. Et cetera, et cetera.”
Man, just as I was warming to him, I find out he’s on crack.
“I don’t know how they do things back in Ireland, but crack is something upstanding citizens of the community generally avoid in this country.”
“How boring,” he says, eyes glittering.
“A little boredom never killed nobody,” I mutter as I look at Beckett. He doesn’t look like he’s on crack, but then again, my only experience with such things is from watching those shoot-em-up movies with lots of bad guys and explosions. My eyes move desperately to the door. “Shall we bang on the door again? Shout a little louder for someone to rescue us?”
“It means fun, Keeley.”
“Huh?”
“Craic. C-R-A-I-C. It’s the Irish word for a good time.”
“Oh.” Abject relief washes over me.
Beckett grins wickedly. “I was informed that it means something entirely different to you Americans, but I needed to test that theory first to see if it was true. Turns out it is.”
“You’re the worst, Beckett,” I tell him.
His smile grows. “My friends call me Becks.”