“No. I mean it. I’m fine. I’m just having a meltdown. People have meltdowns. I’ll get over it. But I really don’t want to do this in front of a stranger, okay? So just go away.”
“I will, I will. But here’s the thing. What if you have a concussion?”
“I don’t.”
“It looked as if you fell partly on the side of your head, because I felt quite a bump-”
“I don’t care.”
He squinted, scratched his nape, thinking that was another female comment that was invariably booby-trapped. Obviously she had to care if she had a concussion, if she needed medical attention-for her daughter’s sake, if not for her own. She wanted him to disappear. He got it. But if he went back to his place, he wasn’t going to sleep all night, worrying whether she’d collapsed over here alone.
“I’ve got a plan,” he said firmly. “You head into the shower. Clean up. Get the paint out of your hair and all that. And I’ll be downstairs. Nowhere near you. You come out of the shower, call down that you’re all right, then I’ll lock your door and go home.”
She was still sniffling hard, but she let loose an almost inaudible “All right. Only because I’m worried about Molly.”
“Got it.” He didn’t care why she agreed. She agreed. He helped her stand up, trying to think like a big brother, not an adult man who was handling attractive female flesh, but it wasn’t that simple. When a woman was vulnerable, a guy instinctively reacted.
It was a sick instinct, a stupid instinct, an instinct that got a guy in trouble every time, but whatever. The brush of her body against his provoked an unfortunately magnificent hard-on. He’d just touched her side, her arm, her hair… That was all it took. Some baby-blue paint came off in his hand when he touched her hair…which she saw.
“It’s just latex,” he assured her. “It’ll come out with plain old soap and water.”
It seemed an innocent enough comment to him, but, par for the course, he must have picked just the wrong thing to say, because her eyes welled up all over again. Still, she stumbled off, disappearing into master bath right off her bedroom, and closed the door.
That left him staring at her mess. It wasn’t his problem, of course. And he’d the same as promised her that he was going downstairs, away from her personal space. But it really
If she had to come out of a fresh shower and clean all this up…well, he could just picture her breaking into tears all over again.
It’s not as if that was his problem, either, but he was stuck hanging around until she came out of the shower. She could still fall. She could still have a concussion. He wasn’t about to leave Teddy alone next door much longer, but he was probably committed for another ten minutes anyway.
So he started to clean up…except that when he picked up the paintbrush and actually looked at the project- well, she had only a couple of square feet to go near the ceiling. It was downright silly to seal up and clean up, when just that little bit was left to do.
He finished the bit of wall in two shakes. She still wasn’t out of the shower-he could hear the water running from beyond the closed door. She was making noise-some might call it a frightening attempt at singing the blues- but the noise at least verified that she hadn’t keeled over.
He’d just do a little more cleanup. And then split.
Amanda couldn’t
She shampooed and soaked and shampooed all over again. She scrubbed her skin practically raw, then conditioned and rinsed and soaked some more.
Eventually she had to climb out. She just didn’t want to. She wanted to stay holed up in the bathroom until her neighbor was gone for sure. How humiliating, to have a meltdown in front of him. She was a crybaby. Always had been, always would be.
But she’d hoped her hunky neighbor would never have to know that.
She toweled off, pulled on a clean T-shirt and shorts, opened the door a peek to let out the steam-and to listen. No sounds. She’d have heard Molly-she’d been known to hear her baby from two floors away from behind closed doors. But in this case, she only listened for the clump of a heavy footstep, a tenor sigh…the hint of testosterone in the air.
Nothing.
Still rubbing the towel through her hair, she tiptoed across the hall to her bedroom…or her bedroom-to-be. Until the room got painted and carpet was put in, she’d been camping on a couch. The point, though, was that Mike was definitely gone.
But so was her disaster area. The paint can, news papers, roller and pan, brushes-everything had disappeared. He’d finished painting the rest of the wall. A few splotches of “Clear Skies” blue still marred the floor, but there was nothing else in the room-except for a note.
“I stole your ladder-so you wouldn’t use it again. Mine’s hanging in the garage. Borrow it anytime you want. I’ll have your painting supplies back on your porch by tomorrow-it was just easier to clean up in my basement than mess up your new place.”
There was no signature, no personal comment. He’d just come to her rescue out of the complete blue. Did the whole silent take-care-of thing.
She flipped off the overhead light, stalked over to the window-carefully avoiding the splotches of paint-and stared down at his place.
There were no lights on that she could see. No dangerously good-looking adult male in sight. But he was going to be a problem, she could just smell it.
All her life she’d needed a hero.
Except for now. Right now she needed to stand on her own-to learn to stand on her own-or die trying. She was running out of chances to feel proud of herself and her life. The suburbs was it. Her foxhole in the battle. Her line in the sand. Her Custer’s last stand.
She wasn’t going to
Chapter Three
The next morning, keeping his eye on the time, Mike clattered down the basement steps just ahead of his son. Teddy was running in circles-even on the stairs-chanting, “Hoboy, hoboy, hoboy!”
His joy, naturally, was about the worm-farm project. And before Teddy had woken up, Mike had hustled downstairs to set it up. The “ingredients” needed for the farm were all laid out-the plastic drawers, newspaper, garbage, burlap and, of course, the worms.
“Now, both of us have jobs,” he told his son. “Your job is to tear up the newspaper. Like this. That’s to make the bed for the worms.”
Teddy took to ripping up paper like a nun took to prayer. “I’m doing this really, really good, aren’t I, Dad?”
“You sure are. And then…we’re going to add just a little water. That’ll be my job.” Mike wasn’t born yesterday. A “little water” to his son was like inviting Armageddon. “But you get to do the next thing. The worms need food. Something we call ‘organic waste.’”
“What’s that?”
“Organic waste is the stuff we usually put down the disposal. Like old lettuce. Maybe some carrots and carrot stalks. We could try a little broccoli.”
“Dad,” Teddy said earnestly. “I think we should give the worms all the broccoli in the whole world.”
“That’s precisely how I feel about brussels sprouts. Okay. Now…we add the worms.”
“Can I do that? Can I? Can I?”
“Are you kidding? The worms are
“Thanks, Dad!” The thrill on his son’s face was almost as good as Christmas.
