Chapter 2
Clutching a freshly baked orange-and-poppyseed cake, my smile falters. ‘An apology for, well, you know,’ I say.
He stares at the plate and pulls further back like I’m offering him brussels sprouts or a vial of poison instead of a delicious cake.
‘Just so you know, I don’t normally throw up on my brand-new neighbours.
I usually wait until they’ve been here at least a week.
’ I grin. It’s big and wide and hopefully conveys that I’m charming and funny and a great neighbour.
I’m always quick with a hello and I’m known to hold doors open for people and walk their dogs or feed their cats if they’re out of town.
My apartment often smells of all the baked goods I love to make and I share them around.
I’m an ideal neighbour with a long list of references to back that up.
He looks from the plate to my face.
I continue grinning. ‘I’m Sabrina.’
His eyes narrow behind his black-rimmed glasses. Eyes the colour of the ocean. A stormy, angry ocean. You’d think I’d run him over with a car, not accidentally thrown up on his shoes. And it was only a splatter. Okay, a few splatters.
My cheeks ache from the grin and it’s getting harder to keep it in place. ‘I really am sorry,’ I say.
The door opens further but he doesn’t step aside to invite me in or move closer. In fact, he still looks like he’s holding his breath and I almost laugh.
‘It was food poisoning, for what it’s worth. It wasn’t like I was on a bender or something.’
The tension in his shoulders relaxes and he shuffles forward slightly.
He tugs on the hem of his T-shirt and it pulls taut against his broad chest. My gaze flicks over the faint definition of biceps tucked under his sleeves and then travels up to the stubble on his jaw, and back to those eyes that are no longer quite such a raging storm—but still a little choppy.
‘Anyway,’ I say and hold the cake closer to him. ‘I’m sorry and welcome to the building. If you ever go away and need someone to walk your dog or feed your cat, I’m in apartment 4D.’
‘I don’t have a dog. Or cat.’ His voice is a deep, low rumble, the thunder to the stormy eyes. He takes the orange-and-poppyseed cake from me, at long last. ‘Adam,’ he says.
‘Adam,’ I repeat. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Adam.’
‘Does this apology cover the little stunt with the umbrella too or should I expect another cake tomorrow?’
I cross my arms, grin gone. ‘You deserved that. When someone asks you to hold the elevator, you hold it. It’s the decent thing to do.’
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘You heard me.’
‘Didn’t.’
‘Did.’
The storm returns to his eyes. ‘You ruined my books.’
‘I did not ruin your books.’
‘You did.’
‘Prove it. Show me.’
Adam holds the cake up. ‘My hands are full at the moment.’ He pulls it closer to his chest, stepping back when I move to take it from him and I end up in the doorway to his apartment, which is like an Ikea catalogue—all white and beige, and completely devoid of personality.
His boxes are unpacked, flattened and propped against the wall.
Who unpacks the moment they move in? When you move into a new place you’re supposed to live out of boxes for weeks.
Sometimes even months. It’s a universal rule.
And if he’s already unpacked, then any hopes of him moving out are well and truly dashed.
Which means I’m going to see him. Regularly.
I force my signature grin back onto my face.
We can still correct course and veer off this rocky path—become the type of neighbours who tap on each other’s doors to borrow a cup of sugar.
Glancing around, I search for something we might have in common.
A mixer on his countertop or a rom-com among the stack of books on his white console table.
I point at the stack. ‘Do you have three copies of the same book? Are you a collector or something? The Sleeping Bones,’ I read from the spine.
‘Oh, that book was so overhyped. My dad and sister were obsessed with it and made me read it and, ugh, it was awful. Did you hear there’s going to be a sequel even though everything was wrapped up, so I have no idea why they even need one.
And they’re turning it into a movie.’ I roll my eyes.
‘Two hours of watching a guy mope and be moody while he solves a crime? No thank you.’
He stares at me.
‘He also wrote that other series, right? The one with that other guy who mopes while he solves crimes? Huh, I’m sensing a trend,’ I continue babbling because he’s saying nothing and silence makes me uncomfortable.
‘That series was all anyone could talk about for ages and I never made it past the first chapter. I only got through The Sleeping Bones with the help of a lot of wine. I never should’ve listened to my dad and Gabi when they said it was a hundred times better than that first series.
’ I chew on my lip. ‘Ugh, what was it called?’
His mouth forms a thin, tense line as he grips the plate. ‘Thanks for the partial apology.’ He steps forward, forcing me back into the hallway.
I stand there stunned as the door slams in my face.
Did he seriously just throw me out for saying I didn’t like a book?
After I practically grovelled at his feet with my apology cake.
New neighbour Adam is the rudest person I’ve ever met, and I once dated a guy who argued with a waiter over a five-cent discrepancy on the bill.
I stomp across the hall and slam my own door. What an infuriating, awful man. I hope my cake gives him food poisoning and someone lets the elevator shut on his face when he’s trying not to regurgitate it all in public.
My phone chimes on the kitchen bench. I snatch it up and stab my finger on the message, anger still boiling in my veins.
Mum: His name is Patrick and he’s 28.
Well, at least he’s only two years younger than me. She once tried to set me up with someone in their early twenties and the date was a complete disaster. He wanted a hook-up and I wanted a decent conversation. We both lost out that night.
I cringe at Patrick’s photo. Teeth as white as snow and a tan the shade of burnt orange.
I send Mum back one word. No.
Then she calls and I know if I don’t answer she’ll just keep ringing.
And if that doesn’t work she’ll probably call the police or force Dad onto a plane to check on me.
Or send one of her network around to knock on my door.
Dianne Fogerty makes connections wherever she goes.
She once met a woman in line at the supermarket and made small talk with her about the trashy magazine on the stand in front of them and they now swap recipes on a regular basis.
It’s also how she manages to find all these men to set me up with.
They’re all a son or a nephew or a cousin or a dog walker of someone she’s met along the way.
‘But he’s a dentist,’ Mum says when I answer the phone. ‘And his mum is Nancy who used to work at the post office. You remember, Nancy. She’d always give you a stamp when we went in there.’
So that automatically makes her son a catch?
I hold in a sigh. One of Mum’s main goals in life is to see her children married.
This isn’t just something she thinks about every now and then and chats about over a glass of wine with friends.
It’s on a bucket list. A printed bucket list that my sister-in-law Reese made for her in Canva and that now hangs in her lounge room.
Who doesn’t love seeing their failures printed in big, bold letters?
Especially when that failure is a clause attached to the loan agreement from their parents?
Sabrina will complete a business course and be in a committed relationship, or in a relationship headed toward commitment, two years from the signing of this contract. And if I don’t meet that condition, I’ll have to sell the cafe and pay back the loan.
As the black sheep of the family with a history of switching jobs and relationships that end before they get serious, I understand my parents had reservations about lending me the money for A Cup of Joy. Still, I hadn’t expected that their loan would come with strings.
‘Please, Sabrina,’ Mum says. ‘Just give him a chance. He’s going to be in Melbourne next week and I said you’d meet him for dinner.’
‘Mum,’ I whine like a five-year-old.
‘Sabrina.’
‘Mum.’
‘Do this for me,’ she says and my resolve slips a little.
It’s been thirteen months since Mum went into remission after a long, tough battle with breast cancer and when she was sick I made it my goal to keep her happy.
And even though she’s back to her usual self—loud, in everyone’s business, and manipulating us so that she gets what she wants—I still find it difficult to say no.
But Mum and I have very different ideas on who I should date.
Her only criteria is that he be breathing whereas I’d like someone who makes me laugh and who I love talking to and who doesn’t complain when I ask him to try every new muffin recipe (like my health-conscious ex, Wyatt).
It would also be nice if he did not belittle my dreams and call me stupid when I talk about opening my own cafe (I’m looking at you, Nate).
And if they could not be like my ex, Brent, who spent most of our twelve-month relationship cheating on me—that would be fantastic.
I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the photo of Patrick again.
Maybe I was too quick to judge. Ugh, no I wasn’t.
He’s just not my type and I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, or a guy by a photo his mum sent, but there needs to be some level of physical attraction in a relationship.
An image flashes across my mind: blond hair, black-rimmed glasses and angry eyes.
Adam may be a rude arsehole but he’s a hot rude arsehole.
‘Sabrina,’ she says. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘He’s a very nice man.’
The last nice man she set me up with talked about his ex and I ended up with food poisoning.
The one before that spent the entire evening staring at my boobs and chewing with his mouth open.
The one before that talked all about himself and didn’t ask me a single question.
And the one before that flirted with the waitress in front of me and then asked for her number before we left.
I don’t put much faith in Mum’s matchmaking skills.
‘It’s just dinner, Sabrina.’
I’d prefer to be thrown into a shark tank. Or endure another night of food poisoning and throw up on my neighbour again.
‘Please, Sabrina.’ Mum sighs heavily. ‘Fine,’ she says, fatigue dripping from her voice.
‘I can’t force you to go, but I wish you’d try.
I mean, life is fragile and who knows how long I’ll be around for.
But I suppose you could have a framed photo of me at your wedding if I’m not there to witness it. ’
Now it’s my turn to sigh. Dianne Fogerty is queen of the guilt trip.
‘Just call him,’ she says, her fatigue now gone. I can picture the gleam in her eyes now that she thinks she’s got me on board. ‘You know I only want what’s best for you. Your father and I want to see you succeed, Sabrina, but that won’t happen if you—’
‘I can’t. I have…’ my voice trails off. What excuse can I use that would put an end to not just this date, but any future attempts at setting me up? There’s only one way to keep her at bay.
‘I’m seeing someone,’ I say.
‘You’re seeing someone?’ Her scepticism rings loudly through the phone. My mum may be many things, but gullible is not one of them. ‘Why didn’t you say anything when I set you up with Rick? If this is just—’
‘Because it’s still early days, but I realised after last night’s disastrous date that I was ready to make things official and be exclusive.’
‘Oh, Sabrina, that’s wonderful! Tell me everything! Who is he? What’s his name? Where did you meet?’
I say the first name that pops into my head. ‘His name is Adam.’
I wonder if this is like one of those moments where someone senses their name is being used in a way they wouldn’t like and a chill runs down their spine.
I grin at the thought of Adam being creeped out by a sudden chill and I plop down on my sofa to tell Mum all about the handsome man who held the elevator for me and swept me off my feet.