6. Get Aheads #2
I thought we’d turned a corner that day at the food truck park.
But I should’ve known. It’s always one step forward, two steps back with that woman.
I would think her cageyness would be a turn-off, especially with an upbringing like mine, but there is just something about her.
Her smile, her friendliness. Even if she’s also frustrating.
Aggravatingly shut off at times. When I offer to help, she won’t take it, or at least not willingly.
I mean, it took the almighty power of the HOA to make her take me up on the offer of my guest room.
And yet… it feels right being around her.
Thirsty, I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water. Tipping my head back, I chug, eyes on the ceiling, right below where the object of my affections is hiding. I swallow nearly half the bottle before I drop my head back down, sighing in frustration as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
I get it. She had a secret, and I found it out. Between that and whatever else she’s running from, moving her trailer, quitting her bar job, and now having to live in someone else’s house, Trish hasn’t had it easy of late.
I understand that.
Even so, it wasn’t until recently that the phrase shake some sense into them started to sound logical. Although I still like the thought of kissing some sense into Trish better.
Leaning on the counter, I look out the window over the large yard. Time to mow. I wonder what Trish will think when she sees that this rich boy likes to mow his own grass.
Glancing down at my white poplin Tom Ford dress shirt and sapphire wool Kiton dress slacks, I know I’m one hundred percent to blame for her thinking I’m a quintessential rich boy. Besides liking nice things, I never told Trish why I left that night at the trailer park. Which is pathetic.
True, at first Trish ran her best defense— avoidance—but since then there have been plenty of openings, plenty of times when I could’ve explained?—
Ding dong .
I narrow my eyes at the front door, visible from the kitchen thanks to practically no walls in my open concept layout. If it’s that moronic HOA representative, he chose the wrong day to show up again.
Marching into the foyer, I yank the double-wide oak door open, my bicep straining to keep it from slamming against the wall.
I’m near blinded by tan skin over silicone.
“Ian dear! How are you?” Veronica, the neighborhood alley cat, greets me with a feral smile, a flutter of thick lashes, and a plate full of cookies.
Fuck .
Trish
I can’t write. And I haven’t been able to since I moved into Ian’s guest room.
Writer’s block is the worst.
I’ve been lucky so far in my writing career that I haven’t gotten stuck too often. When it has happened, all it took was a shift working at whatever bar I happened to be hustling drinks in and I was recharged and ready to go. People watching is the best inspiration.
However, after the private eye found my trailer, I quit Big Texas Saloon, blaming it on the job’s long hours rather than the fact that I was worried the guy would tail me there.
So now I’ve got nothing to ignite my imagination.
I want to blame this on Ian as well, but I’m still feeling guilty about avoiding him.
I have no idea what to say if he asks me about why I’m enrolled in class under a fake name. I’m a writer, I lie on the page for a living, but something feels wrong about straight-up lying to Ian’s face. His all-American, baby blue-eyed, handsome face.
I mean, he is putting me up in his mansion, and the only thing he’s asking in return for staying in his guest bedroom is a date to some charity ball.
Which I should probably question him about, since that seems weird.
I mean, he is Ian Kincaid, NASA’s Captain America, good-looking rich boy.
Why does he need me to pretend to be his girlfriend in front of his parents when he can probably just honk his Audi and have women come running?
But in order to question him, I’d have to leave the guest bedroom. I survey my new private domain.
The guest bedroom is huge. It’s twice the size of my silver bullet baby. And in two days I’ve managed to make it look like a deranged beauty pageant queen’s dressing room. Another reason I have for not opening the door to Ian. I can’t let him see what I’ve become.
In my trailer, I’m neat as a pin, the small quarters ensuring I keep everything in its place.
Here, in Ian’s twenty by twenty guest palace, I’ve let my messy flag fly.
Beauty products scattered all over the attached en-suite bathroom counter, clothes draped over the window seat and sitting area chairs (yes, there is a sitting area inside the bedroom), shoes strewn across the floor.
Tapping my fingernails on the bureau, which I’m using as a desk, I take stock of the chaos.
It started with me not wanting to put things away.
That would make my stay at Ian’s seem more permanent, and it’s not.
But when I thought I should at least neaten up and just make piles on the floor, I still just left the mess as it was.
I started liking how my stuff looked spread out across all this luxury.
I’m so ashamed.
Probably why I can’t write.
Well, that and the Cap’ sleeping in the bedroom across from mine. The sound of water running as he showers before work. Listening to him walk around downstairs.
I tried to pretend to focus on work, but as soon as I heard those garage doors open a few minutes ago, I couldn’t sit still.
Wondering if he’s going to come upstairs. Knock on my door. Ask me to dinner. All the things I’ve both looked forward to and dreaded since I closed up my trailer and moved inside. All the things that haven’t happened yet.
I tilt my head like a bird dog listening for signs of prey. I hear Ian’s footsteps below me, so he must be in the kitchen. Now I’m staring at the floor like I’ve somehow acquired X-ray vision. I must be suffering from cabin fever.
He’s quiet for a spell. Wonder what he’s doing now. Maybe I should go say hello. Ask him if he wants me to cook dinner tonight. Not that I can cook all that well, but I should thank him for letting me stay here with more than just a simple fake date.
I’m halfway out of my seat when reality comes back, slamming my butt back into the silk upholstered chair I confiscated from the dining room yesterday.
“Ugh.” I drop my head on my desk, cursing myself.
I’m just about to officially give up on writing for the day and grab the next book on my to-be-read list when the doorbell rings.
The pulse at my neck speeds up, a million fears running through my head as Ian’s footsteps make their way to the foyer. HOA? Private eye? Cops?
“Ian dear! How are you?” The familiar, grating voice of neighbor Veronica is easily heard through my closed door.
I sigh, the fear leaving me. Curious to see what the mean girl wants, I get up and tiptoe across the room, cracking open my door.
“I thought it was funny, your car being here so early during a weekday.” There’s a deep rumble which I know is Ian, but I can’t make out the words.
“Must be kismet. I’ve just baked some cookies.” Veronica’s grating cheerfulness, however, is easily discerned.
“Yeah, I bet you’d like him to taste your cookies,” I mutter.
“I’ll just put them in the kitchen, shall I?”
Again, I can’t hear Ian’s response, but I do hear the telltale sign of high heels clicking across the floor.
My knuckles whiten on the door frame as an irrational feeling of possession takes over me.
Calm down, Patty, calm down. This isn’t your house. You shouldn’t care that Desperate Housewife Barbie is invading it. Or wonder what low-cut, tight outfit she’s wearing, trying to entice Ian to bite her oversized apples .
I repeat this over and over, trying to think realistically. In my persuasion writing course, I learned that logos, the appeal of logic, carries far more weight in an argument than pathos, the appeal of emotions.
I run through my list of logical reasons why I should stay put in this room and not insert myself any more than needed into Ian’s life. Then I do it again.
According to my professor, this method of persuasion should work.
So I’m not sure why, but the next thing I know I’ve stripped, and my lime green string bikini that I had draped over a lamp is pulled on and cinched tight.
Veronica’s tinkling laugh echoes around the house.
Freaking ethos.
Sliding into my tallest espadrilles, I yank the door open and head for the stairs.
Cookies my sweet ass.