6. A Stranger
6
A STRANGER
“D on’t eat the weeds, Marco,” Charlotte said on Saturday while she was on her hands and knees pulling what she hoped was a weed and not some plant that was supposed to pop up this time of year.
Marco was on his leash and tied to the deck so he couldn’t get away but had a lot of lead to move around while she tried to tackle the outside. She’d hoped it’d be easier than what she was doing inside.
Marco barked at her, started to jump around, then knocked over his bowl of water.
She pushed herself up, moved to the hose and filled it back up. It wasn’t that hot out, but she wasn’t sure how hot dogs might get. The way her life was going lately, she’d end up at the vet for not knowing the signs of heat stroke.
When she turned to go back to the flower bed, she heard a noise and looked up to see a tractor coming up the property from Foster’s house.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him since Marco almost pooped himself in the driveway with a near-death experience.
Looked like Foster was towing something behind the tractor and not cutting the lawn. When he turned, she saw it was rocks. He wasn’t close enough for her to say hi, just more like she could see him.
He veered off to the side by his driveway and started to unload them. She’d noticed when she walked down his driveway the other day to leave him the painter’s tape in a gift bag with a thank you note that there were large rocks on just one side of the driveway. Must be he was putting them on the other side now.
“Calm down, Marco.” Her dog wanted a better look at her neighbor too.
Oh, the cookies.
Her second batch had been a massive fail too, but by the last sheet tray and moving the heights of the racks, she got it figured out.
She ran inside, got the plate she put together, unhooked Marco from the long lead and put him on his leash. Then the two of them walked down the driveway.
“Afternoon,” she said to him.
“Hi,” he said. “What’s that?”
“Cookies,” she said. “They won’t fit in your mailbox. I was going to put them on your porch since I know you’re home. I didn’t want to do that not knowing in case some animal got them.”
“The only animals around here are the squirrels and Marco,” he said. He was eying the plate while she did her best not to stare at his arms in his fitted T-shirt.
Yummy!
Who the hell knew he had muscles like that under his clothing?
“That’s good to know,” she said. “Do you want to know what kind they are?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Peanut butter chocolate chip.”
“I’m allergic to peanut butter,” he said.
Her smile dropped. What the hell?
Three batches of cookies to let him know she was capable of doing something only to not even think of that.
“Seriously?” she said. “I’m so sorry. I should have asked. I’ll make just regular chocolate chip ones.”
He smiled and she was right.
He took her breath away.
Normally she was attracted to the suit-and-tie-polished type of guy.
No one could say Foster was any of those things, though the first time she’d seen him last Friday night, he’d had a suit on.
But since she saw him going to work the other day in just a cotton shirt, jeans and sneakers, the suit had to be for one of those family things he’d talked about.
“I’m joking,” he said.
Didn’t look it to her with his facial expression not changing in the least.
“You’re not allergic to peanut butter?”
“No,” he said, reaching for the plate.
She held it away from him. “Say you’re sorry.”
“What?”
“Tell me you’re sorry for making my heart stop that I might have killed you.”
He started to laugh. “You wouldn’t have killed me.”
“I’m serious, Foster. I didn’t even think to ask you that. What if you were and I just left them in your mailbox and then you touched them and blew up like a balloon and exploded.”
He started to laugh even harder and Marco was barking and jumping on him.
“I doubt people explode,” he said.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“Fine. I’m sorry,” he said seriously. “I’m not allergic. I promise. Give me one. I’ll show you.”
She pulled the plastic wrap away, handed him a cookie, and he took a bite. “Not bad, huh?”
“Good,” he said and started to cough. “My throat. It’s getting tight. Shit, I thought I’d be fine.”
Her jaw dropped and she reached for him. He caught the cookies as she let them go.
The laughter had her slapping his arm. “That isn’t funny!”
“You should see your face.”
“I can’t believe you’re the same guy who barely said more than two words at once the last few times we saw each other and didn’t smile and now you’re picking on me.”
She’d like to think he was flirting too.
Wouldn’t that be something?
She was thinking of getting her flirt on back, but right now she was too annoyed.
“It’s not normally like me,” he said.
“Then why are you doing it now?” she asked.
He took another cookie out. “Because you’re being nice.”
“And people aren’t normally nice to you?” she asked.
“Long story,” he said.
She wanted to say she had time, but she didn’t know him that well.
How many times had she thought someone was a great catch for the world to see and then in private they were a complete jerk?
But in private, Foster had been nothing but helpful and considerate to her. A stranger to him no less.
That said a lot.
“We all have long stories in our lives. So, the cookies are good?”
“Awesome,” he said. “Really. And thanks for the painter’s tape though you didn’t need to replace it.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” she said. “You helped me out.”
He nodded and finished chewing his cookie. “I don’t suppose Marco can have any?”
“No,” she said. “Don’t you know anything about dogs?”
“Nope,” he said. “Never had one. We moved too much as kids and too many mouths to feed on top of it.”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “It had to be hard. It’s just me and my sister, Amanda. Neither of us has a relationship with our parents though. See, one of those long stories.”
“Are you planting flowers today?” he asked.
“No,” she said. Which meant he did see her out there. “Weeding. Or hoping it’s weeds I’m pulling. If not, then I’ll have empty beds.”
“Most of the perennials around here have come up for the spring.”
“You know flowers too? Is there anything you don’t know?”
He snorted and reached for a third cookie. That had to be good if he was eating that many of them.
“My mother gardens. It was one of those things she did to find peace. Us boys did a lot of hauling for her when my father was deployed.”
“Oh, your father was in the service,” she said. “That’s the traveling part. Is he still?”
“He was killed when I was eleven,” he said.
“I’m so sorry. And you said there are eight of you. Are you the youngest?”
“No.” He seemed to hesitate. “I’m in the middle.”
He didn’t say anything else so she let it drop.
She got the feeling that her cookies might be loosening his tongue and he just caught himself.
“I’m the baby,” she said.
“You don’t look like one to me,” he said.
“Unfortunately, I’ve felt it or been treated like it too many times in life. Mostly my fault. No more though.”