The door opens again and a little boy runs inside with his mother chasing him. The toddler squeals and smacks into the back of the blonde’s legs, pushing her against the metal mailbox wall.
Her stack of mail avalanches to the floor. The mother pulls her kid away. “Sorry about that.” She drags her kid away by the arm without even offering to help pick up the mess.
My box is on the opposite side of the store, but I make my way over to her before I can question my own motives.
Curiosity has always been my strongest and worst personality trait. “I’ve got it.” I bend to pick up the envelopes. There are at least twenty bills strewn around her feet.
She tucks a strand behind her ear and kneels to pick up the nearest mail. “Oh, thanks. This is crazy. I just moved here and all my mail must’ve forwarded at once.”
I reach for a large manila envelope and she’s grabbed for the same package. We don’t say anything for a second.
She hasn’t looked up at me yet, and when she does, there’s a blush to her cheeks.
I glance at the name on the envelope as I pass it to her. Mrs. Wesley Wade. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Her voice is low and husky and shy.
“Anytime.” We’re both still kneeling even though we’ve picked up the mail. At this close proximity, I notice all the things I couldn’t see from across a room. Amazing eyes, full bottom lower lip, creamy skin. Too bad she’s married.
What an asinine thought. It’s a good thing she’s married. In fact, the Mrs. in front of her name is a stabbing reminder that I’ll be staying far away from her.
I get to my feet after staring into her eyes far longer than acceptable. I blame it on the incredible flecks of green in her eyes that make me think of cool water running over the rocks of a spring creek. I hold out my hand to help her to her feet and give her a friendly smile.
She takes my hand and rises. Her touch is silky but her grip firm. “Thank you. Have we met before?”
Is that a pickup line? Because she’s been stalking me. Or watching me, maybe. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” She hugs the envelopes to her chest. “Are you sure?”
I get an uneasy feeling in my gut. The kind of intuition private investigators must have when something isn’t quite jiving. “I’m sure. Have a good one.” I turn and leave without even checking my box or offering my name. She’s married and might be interested, since she seems to be wherever I turn. In my book, married is equivalent to carrying the black plague.
My apartment building is a good mile from Letters Express. I could have mail delivered to my building, but I keep the box for business purposes. The walk always starts my workday with a way to clear the morning fog in my head. My routine gives me the illusion that I’ve walked to work when I return to my home office.
I skip the coffee this morning. The married blonde has wrecked my routine.
My loft apartment is located in what was once the old fire station. It’s a historic renovation, part of an initiative to keep buildings alive through the decades.
The outside of the fire station looks much the same as it did a hundred years ago. Weathered red bricks on the outside have been carefully restored instead of replaced. I know from talking with the contractor that restoring costs a lot more than replacing. The bottom floor houses a pastry shop owned by a couple of guys who moved from Rhode Island earlier this year.
I enter the back stairs that lead to the two apartments on the upper floor. The heavy metal door to the apartment squeaks as I open it, and I make a mental note to add WD-40 to my shopping list for the week. The smells of vanilla and cinnamon waft up through the vents and I’m glad I don’t have a sweet tooth. Otherwise, living here would be insane.
Tossing the mail onto one of my few pieces of furniture, an antique architect’s desk, I walk to the kitchen to make a drink. Since I’ve missed my mandatory coffee run, I grumpily search through a cabinet to find my coffee press and a tin of coffee.
I’m so wrapped up in putting a tea kettle of water on to boil and measuring out coffee that I almost miss the sound at my door. The door literally dings like a bell when anyone raps on the steel surface, the acoustics sending sound high into the hallway ceiling.
“Coming.” I stride over and open the door, hoping my new stereo speakers have arrived. Instead of the delivery person I expect, it’s the woman from this morning.
I stand speechless as I take her in. Did she actually follow me home?
“Can I help you?” My automatic response is a stupid thing to say, like I’m offering her customer service.
The blonde licks her bottom lip and smiles nervously. “You’re Leo Jensen.”
“Yes.” An unpleasant feeling jabs me in the gut. Dane probably gave her my name after all. I can’t really be upset at him since he doesn’t actually think she’s stalking me. But showing up at my place crosses the line. Of course, stalking does too.
She looks past me into my apartment. “Can I come in?”
“I’m sorry.” I cock my head to the side and squint at her. She’s a piece of work. I step outside into the corridor and close my door behind me. “I don’t mean to seem unfriendly, but is there a reason you’re here?”
“Oh, I’m…well…” Her cheeks flush a deep pink. “James and Erik told me your name. I’m Harper.” She holds out her hand.
I stare for a second, but good manners prevail. “Nice to meet you,” I say and give her hand a quick shake. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to meet you before I move in.” She tucks the same strand of hair behind her ear and points across the corridor to the door opposite mine. “Here.”
“I didn’t realize they intended to rent it. So, you…” Actually, I’d assumed my bakery owner landlords wouldn’t rent to anyone after the year of complaints they’d had about the thugs who lived in the apartment across the hall. They’d even mentioned using it for storage.
There’s a good ten seconds of holy shit silence while I wonder what to do about this situation.
She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Well, I should let you get back to work. Just wanted to say hey to my neighbor.”
“Oh yeah. Neighbors.” I nod. The teapot on the stove begins to whistle and my cell phone rings in a duet of interruption. “Sorry, I—”
She raises a hand in a wave. “No, it’s fine. I’ll talk to you later. I’ll be right,” she points across the hall, “there.”
Harper pivots and takes four steps across the hallway. Throwing one glance over her shoulder before she twists the knob, she beams at me. Like she has my number and can tell she’s freaking me.
She’s attractive and scary as hell at the same time.
Fuck my life.
4
Catching a Tailwind
Harper
After introducing myself to Leo, I walk across the hall, and throw a glance over my shoulder. I beam at him in an encouraging way. A trust-me-I’m-harmless face. This is no time to fall prey to paranoia. He can’t know I’ve been in his apartment.
He’s watching me with these cute wrinkles marring his forehead. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s absolutely terrified of me—a comical thought. When I pilfered through his belongings, I left everything in place, but maybe…just maybe, he’s noticed me watching him.
I’ll have to back off from the overly friendly thing if I ever want to get a hold of my postcard.
Thoughts of my postcard are quickly replaced with what I admit is a gleeful thrill.
I enter my apartment and tread softly, as if I’m going to disturb the real owner. Because I still can’t believe this is my new home.
Not only is this apartment the most beautiful empty space I’ve ever seen, it has the sunniest windows on God’s green earth. And there’s the perk of its location, right next to Leo.