Chapter Two #3
He sighed, leaned toward her. “I wanted to find my own place, you know? And Gramps doesn’t need me like Grandpa did. This feels like my place, for now. I guess it feels like yours, too.”
“It’s a good place, a good neighborhood, and my family’s here. I’m going to miss Zoey like a limb when she and Boone relocate to the Pacific Northwest. But we won’t lose touch.”
“That’s a long way.”
“It is, but the move’s a career boost for both of them. Everyone has to find their place.”
“Mine’s the mountains. A good cabin in the mountains, solitude, scenery.” He laid a hand over hers before she could move it. “You could really write in a mountain cabin. No distractions, someone to take care of you.”
She slid her hand free. “I’ve been a city girl my whole life. What do you do now, until you try out that mountain cabin? For work?”
“Right now I’m stocking shelves at Costco.” He shrugged. “Grandpa left me everything he had, so I’ve got a buffer, but a man’s got to keep busy, right? Got to work and provide. And I use that time to think about the story I’m writing. People-watch, you know?”
“Yes.” She finished her latte, nudged the cup away. Before she could speak, he did.
“Listen, I feel like I’ve spent this whole time talking about me. Why don’t I take you to dinner so we can talk about you?”
“First, you didn’t. And second, I really have to get home. I have a million things to do before I leave on Thursday.” Standing, she took her jacket from the back of the chair. “Thanks for the latte.”
“My pleasure.” He got up quickly, helped her on with her jacket. “You don’t need it, but good luck in New York.”
When he moved in, she shifted her face just enough so his lips met her cheek.
“Make that contact,” she advised. “If nothing else, you could make a writing friend.”
“I feel like I already have one.”
She smiled. “Thanks again.”
She went out, quickened her pace to make the Walk light at the corner. The attempted kiss shouldn’t have surprised her. And meant she’d have to go back to making excuses. Or worse, telling him outright she wasn’t interested.
It seemed to her he mostly wanted a mentor, and she simply wasn’t qualified. Or wired for it either. And if he looked for more, a relationship didn’t fit into her short-term plans.
Plus, he just didn’t stir anything up in her but sympathy for the losses he’d suffered. And a feeling there was something off about him, maybe due to those losses.
Coffee was as far as it would go, and she’d avoid a repeat there.
She put it out of her mind as she walked into her building. Her downstairs neighbor—wife, expectant mother, physician assistant—had grocery sacks over each shoulder as she dug for her keys.
“Monica. Let me give you a hand.”
“I’ll take it. Whew.” She blew out a breath that fluttered the fringe on her short brown hair. “Long day, and John’s having a longer one.”
Arden carried one of the sacks into the apartment with nearly the same footprint as hers. But where she had calm, quiet colors, Monica and John Betz went for bold.
In the kitchen, they set the grocery bags on the counter. Then Monica rubbed a hand over her baby bump. “Twelve more weeks to go, and this is one of the days when I feel like I’ve been pregnant for five years. Maybe six.”
“How about I put this away and you sit down?”
Monica tapped up the blue-framed glasses that had slipped down her nose.
“You know, Arden, you’re the queen of upstairs neighbors.
We rarely hear you up there. No stomping around, no loud music, no wild parties.
And the few times you’ve had a party, you invited us.
You watered our plants and got our mail when we were on vacation, and had fresh fruit and milk stocked when we got back. And you’d put my groceries away.”
“You had a long day, and you’ve got twelve weeks to go.”
“Very true, but I’ve got this. You’ll end up organizing my refrigerator again, like you did when we were on vacation.”
Arden winced. “I can’t help myself.”
“I’ve learned that in our—what is it?—eighteen, nineteen months of living above and below each other. Why don’t you have the glass of wine I can’t while I put this stuff away?”
“I’d love that, but I’m already behind schedule. Which reminds me, I’m going to be in New York for a few days. Leaving Thursday, back Sunday.”
“Water your plants?”
“It’s just a few days, and I’ll do that before I leave. I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t be here. I’m not expecting any deliveries, but—”
“If something comes, we’ve got it.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
She went upstairs, then let out a long breath. Home, alone, quiet. At last.
The first thing she did was change out of her work clothes.
It was, to her mind, never too early for pajamas.
Though she wasn’t particularly hungry, she ate her classic quick and easy meal.
A cup of tomato soup from a can, a grilled three-cheese sandwich.
And since Monica had put it in her mind, had a glass of wine with it.
Then with three Double Stuf Oreos—fresh from her organized fridge—on a saucer, she went into her office.
Two hours, she told herself, and booted up her computer. And if she hit a roll and went for three, who’s counting?
She didn’t look out the window. Even if she had, it was unlikely she’d have noticed the man sitting at a window table of Amigos, drinking a Dos Equis with his chile relleno.
He’d seen her lights go on before he’d gone into the restaurant. From his seat—booked the day before—he’d watched her move from room to room. She had shades on what he assumed was her bedroom, but the rest weren’t blocked.
He’d ordered, waited, watched.
He considered himself a patient man.
A man with a plan!
The lights came on in another room, and he saw her walk across the window. Then he couldn’t really see her.
Working, he thought. Writing. Yes, that’s what she did now. He knew it. He knew because they were connected.
A harmless hobby, he decided. He’d allow it, for a while. For as long as she didn’t neglect her duties once they had their place in the mountains. But he’d provide—the roof over her head, the food she’d cook, the clothes she wore.
And she’d be grateful. They’d be happy, the way it was meant.
So he ate and he drank. He watched and he planned.