8. Halle
CHAPTER 8
HALLE
A s I take in Caleb’s front yard from up close, it’s obvious he’s put a great deal of time and energy into it. New pavers make up the walkway to the porch steps, and the front of the house is lined with bushes and wispy yellow flowers.
The siding is a warm gray blue that complements the brick on the foundation. My house looks positively pitiful next to this one, but with enough time and money, I’m hopeful I can change that.
The front door is a muted shade of orange—I’ve never been a fan of the color, but somehow it works—and the doorknocker is shaped like a dragonfly. It makes me think his daughter picked it out. Based on the little herb garden in the back, Caleb seems like the type to let his little girl have a say in things like that.
There’s no doorbell, so I use the knocker to signal my arrival. When he doesn’t answer, I try again, knocking harder this time.
When the door swings open, my breath catches at the sight I’m confronted with.
A shirtless, sweaty Caleb stands in front of me, wiping his face with a towel.
“Sorry about that.” Smiling, he lowers the towel. “I was in the gym, and time got away from me. I’ll shower really quick, then I’ll be down.”
Would it be wrong to ask him to stay like this? I’ll gladly ogle him in all his gloriously sculpted, sweaty perfection. He’s a slim guy, so I wasn’t expecting so many muscles. I have to squeeze my hands into fists to resist the urge to poke his abs to see if they’re real or a figment of my overactive imagination.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He smiles, that dimple appearing again. The dimple in combination with his current state of undress is almost too much. “Make yourself at home.”
It’s a throwaway sentiment, in most cases an empty offer. But I have a feeling that with Caleb, I could take over his kitchen and make myself a late lunch, then get into his liquor cabinet for a drink, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye.
Caleb jogs up the stairs, and when a door shuts a moment later, I take a deep breath and slip my shoes off. I’m not a nosy person, but I can’t help myself. I’m drawn to the sideboard on the left of the foyer and the photos hanging on the wall above it.
One is of a much younger Caleb dressed in a cap and gown and standing with a middle-aged man and woman I assume are his parents. In another, he doesn’t look much older. His smile is even wider, and he’s holding a newborn Seda. The next image is another of him and Seda. This time, he’s kneeling, arms held out for a baby who looks wobbly on her feet. In another, Seda is covered in spaghetti sauce. My favorite is the one with Seda on Caleb’s shoulders. They’re standing in front of a carousel, and she’s licking a rapidly melting ice cream cone. Caleb’s face is alight with laughter, and the ice cream is dripping onto his hair and forehead.
I venture into the living room space next. Though our houses are similar in size, the lack of walls make his feel much larger than mine. The sectional couch looks like a cloud. It’s low and white and fluffy, tempting me to dive onto it and sink into the cushions, never to be seen or heard from again.
The bookshelves are filled with everything from self-help books and law texts to children’s and middle grade books. There are even a few fantasy novels tossed in. I pull out a thick tome and read the blurb before sliding it back onto the bookshelf.
The upright piano beneath the front window makes my heart ache with a long-forgotten desire. As a girl, I’d wanted to learn to play an instrument more than anything. But I quickly found out something like that took money and time we didn’t have .
Gently, I tap a few keys. It sounds horrible, but it still makes me smile. Maybe one day, when things are better, I’ll learn. That could be fun.
As much as I want to continue snooping, I rein in my curiosity and plop down on the couch.
Instantly, a sigh escapes me. God . It’s so comfy.
I sink into the plush pillows, tipping my head back and closing my eyes. I could easily fall asleep here. It’s like a cocoon, holding me gently and practically rocking me to sleep.
I wonder what Caleb would think if he came down and found me curled up asleep on his couch.
Again, he probably wouldn’t bat an eye. Hell, he’d probably cover me with a blanket and go on about his day.
Luckily, I don’t have to put that theory to the test. When I hear his feet on the stairs, I straighten. A heartbeat later, he appears, jogging down the steps, bringing with him the scent of his woodsy, masculine soap. Wet like this, his hair is light brown instead of blond. His gym clothes have been replaced by jeans and a t-shirt, and he’s barefoot. It makes sense, this being his house and all, but the casualness of the sight is strangely intimate.
I scoot forward and push off the couch. Only it’s so low and deep that I get up about halfway before I flop back down on the cushions.
He bursts into laughter, the sound low and rich, lighting up my nerve endings. Maybe I should be embarrassed. Instead, I’m filled with a sense of pride. I get the impression he doesn’t laugh like that often, so it makes me unreasonably happy to be the one to make him sound like that .
“Your couch is trying to eat me.”
He sidesteps the coffee table and holds out a hand. “It’ll do that. I’ll help.”
I slide my hand into his, trying to ignore the warmth of his skin and the contentment that soaks into me on contact. Instead, I focus on using him as the stability I need to find my balance.
“Thanks.” Only as I smooth my hand down the front of my t-shirt, do I wonder if I should’ve dressed up more, worn a more professional outfit. This is a trial run, after all, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
“Office is this way.” He nods toward the stairs and heads that way, so, with a deep breath, I follow.
If he’s really okay with this, then I’ll get over my concerns about his tendency to fix the problems of others. Because I couldn’t ask for a more ideal working situation. I’d be right next door, so if the boys needed me, I’d be easy to get to. And I can’t imagine that Caleb would be upset if I needed to pop over and check on them on occasion. He has a kid of his own. He knows how it can be.
Upstairs, he leads me to the room at the very end of the hallway and gestures for me to step inside first.
Every aspect of this home is impressive. The walls, baseboards, crown molding, ceiling, and even the bookcases behind his desk are all painted the same shade of dark olive green. I never could have imagined a room this dark could feel anything but claustrophobia-inducing. But this space is the complete opposite. It’s warm and cozy. Downright homey. Within seconds of setting foot inside, I itch to pluck a book off the shelf and curl into the leather chair in the corner.
“I love this room,” I blurt out.
He chuckles, the low sound rumbling through me. “Thanks. Having a workspace I enjoy being in makes work a little less tedious.”
“I bet.”
He pulls out the chair behind the computer, gesturing for me to sit.
Once I’ve settled, he spins the chair so I’m facing the iMac on the desk. The screen practically beckons me to run my fingers along its sides. It’s sleek, modern, and like everything else here, it’s green.
The desk is bare of anything besides the desktop, keyboard, and mouse.
“Where are all your”—I wave a hand over the spotless surface—“knickknacks and stuff? Like sticky notes and pens and?—”
Lips curling in amusement, he pulls out a drawer. It’s extremely organized, but sure enough, there’s a cup with blue pens, another with black, and a third with red. Sticky notes in a variety of colors, a stapler, and a jar of paperclips. He closes it and opens the next. Envelopes and mailers of varying size. The third drawer is full of printer paper. He moves behind me and opens the top drawer on my left. It’s full of documents. The one below it is filled with files.
“If you need anything else, let me know, and I’ll pick it up.” He shuts the last drawer and turns to face the bookcase. He slips a small, thin book off the shelf and sets it in front of me .
“Any log-in information you need will be in here.” He taps the cover. “And I’ll set you up with your own, then add the information to it.”
“Okay.”
He leans in closer, one hand braced on the desk, the other resting on the back of the chair near my shoulder. The proximity makes my heart skip a beat, his scent overwhelming.
I clear my throat and inhale through my mouth. “Could you walk me through some of the things you’d need me to do?”
My knowledge of family law begins and ends with taking custody of my brothers. I suppose that may be more than most, but I’d say it’s no more than basic.
“Sure.” He reaches around me and wiggles the mouse. A heartbeat later, the computer screen glows. He quickly types in his password and then logs into his email. He scours through them and eventually clicks on one. “This is something like I’d have you reply to.”
It’s a short message, a client requesting a face-to-face.
“All you’d need to do is check my schedule and respond with times I’m available.”
“Easy enough,” I reply.
Almost too easy. I’m back to worrying that he’s offered me this position out of pity.
But I need this job, so I don’t dare speak up.
He shows me how to access his appointment book next. Then his email address book and mailing address catalog. After an hour of navigating and clicking and taking notes on where to find which kinds of files, my brain is spinning, but it seems doable.
And my worries about charity are assuaged, mostly, when he says, “Once you get a feel for that stuff, I’ll give you more responsibilities, but for now, stick with this. I’m not great at explaining what I need done, so this will be a learning opportunity for both of us. Okay?”
“Okay,” I echo, fighting a smile. He and I have that in common.
He leans away, and for the first time in an hour, it feels like I can breathe.
“When do you want me to start?” I ask as I follow him down the stairs.
Rather than lead me to the door, he heads for the kitchen and the fancy-looking coffee setup that’s nearly as intimidating as the espresso machine at the coffee shop.
He scratches the back of his head. “I’m not technically working tomorrow, but why don’t you come over whenever you want? You can respond to emails. That way I’ll be around if you have any questions. I’ll pay you for your time, of course, but how about you officially start Monday?”
“That’s fine.” With the elastic I always keep on my wrist, I pull my hair back and twist it into a low bun. Instantly, a little tension ebbs from my shoulders. I wanted to do it while I sat at the computer, but I worried I’d end up elbowing Caleb in the face or something.
“I’m making quesadillas for dinner,” he says.
I frown at the comment. Why is he telling me this?
“You and your brothers,” he says before I can ask, “are welcome to come over. It’s just Seda and me, and I always make too much food.”
The part of me that steadfastly hates any kind of handouts or help instantly bristles. But I tamp that emotion down. His suggestion feels genuine, and I swear he’s surrounded by an aura of sadness. I’ve noticed it each time I’ve seen him. Like he’s lonely.
It’s that reason alone that makes me agree. “I’m sure my brothers would love that.”
Caleb’s whole face lights up with his smile, easing the underlying concern that he’s doing this for my benefit alone. “Great. Want to head over at about five thirty? Feel free to let yourselves in.”
“All right. Sounds good.” Head ducked, I pad to the entryway.
Caleb skirts around me, beating me to it—his hand hovering at my waist; not quite touching, but close enough for me to feel his warmth—and opens the front door and follows me out onto the porch.
“Thanks for helping me out with this. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s not a problem.” Even though I’m still not totally convinced it isn’t a pity job.
He remains on the porch as I cross our yards and ease my way up the rickety front steps. With one hand on the doorknob, I wave. He lifts a hand in return, but rather than retreating, he continues to watch until I’ve stepped inside.
I close my front door behind me and lean against it.
Instantly, I’m assaulted by the sound of my brothers yelling at their video game. It’s the antithesis of Caleb’s silent house, but I can’t help but be grateful for it. For the noise and the company. And my heart breaks a little for my neighbor.