I open my trunk and pull out my suitcase and the box where I tossed the contents of my bathroom drawers. I didn't start packing until right before I had to leave so everything's just stuffed in boxes instead of being neatly organized. It's my grandma's worst nightmare but that's just how I am. My mom's the same way.
As I shut the trunk I look up and notice a guy walking out of the neighbor's garage, wiping his hands on a towel as he heads to a toolbox that's set up on a tree stump in the yard. His sandy brown hair looks wet, probably from sweating in this sweltering heat. He's shirtless and really tan with muscular arms and washboard abs.
The neighbor guy is hot. If Jules were here she'd be staring at him with her jaw dropped.
He grabs a wrench from the toolbox, then glances over and catches me watching him.
"Hi!" I call out, giving him a quick wave.
He stops and stares at me a moment, then walks back to the garage. He doesn't seem very friendly.
When I get back inside, Grams is still talking on the phone.
"Faith just walked in," she says as I set my suitcase down. "I'll put her on."
"I don't need to—" I stop as Grams shoves the phone at me. "Hey, Mom," I say into the mint green phone that matches the lamps. It has a really long cord that could probably reach through the whole main level.
"Hi again," my mom says, laughing. "I told your grandma we just spoke but she insisted I talk to you again. So what do you think of the house?"
"It's nice." I look around, my eye catching on one of the cow figurines. "It's a little dated but it's big and open and has lots of windows. And it's out in the middle of nowhere so it should be quiet for studying."
"Not with that neighbor of ours!" Grams says, loud enough that my mom can hear.
"Maybe you could calm her down about the neighbor," my mom says. "He's an old man. How loud could he be?"
"I think it's his grandson making the noise."
"His grandson is staying with him? Mom didn't mention that."
"I don't think he's been there long. He works on stuff in the garage and can be kind of loud."
"Maybe you could go over there and talk to him. Your grandmother isn't always good at handling these types of things."
"I don't think she wants me going over there. She was pretty insistent I stay away."
"Faith, don't let your grandmother tell you what to do. She has to understand you're an adult now and can make your own decisions. Be respectful, of course, but don't be afraid to let her know when she's interfering where she shouldn't."
Easier said than done. Grams is so headstrong in her beliefs that changing her mind about something is nearly impossible. If she already doesn't like the neighbors, making them be quiet won't change how she feels about them.
"Mom, I should go. I need to unload the car and find something to eat."
"Call me later this week and let me know how things are going."
"I will. Bye!"
My mom lives in San Diego. I grew up in Denver but when I left for college my mom moved to California and took a job as an English professor at a small private university. I plan to teach English too but at a high school.
"Did I hear you say you're hungry?" Grams asks, her eyes lit up. She loves to feed people, especially her granddaughter.
"Yeah, but I should unload the car first."
"Go ahead." She motions me to the door. "I'll fix you something and let you know when it's ready."
"Grams, you don't need to go to any trouble. I can just make a sandwich."
She shrugs. "If you'd rather have a cold sandwich than your grandma's spaghetti and meatballs…" Her voice drifts off as she turns to go in the kitchen.
"Forget the sandwich," I say, smiling. "I'll take the spaghetti."
She turns back and winks at me. "Be right up."
The way my grandma cooks and bakes I'll probably gain twenty pounds living here.
She walks through the door to the kitchen while I go back outside to my car. As I'm taking a box from the back seat, the music next door gets louder, so loud that Grams will probably hear it inside the house.
Maybe I should go over there. The guy acted like he wanted to be left alone but I could just stop by and politely ask him to turn the music down.
I set the box on my trunk and quickly walk over to the neighbor's garage, my heart beating faster with each step. I don't like confronting people. I avoid conflict whenever possible but the music is really loud and it wouldn't kill the guy to turn it down.
As I approach his garage I'm tempted to turn back. I just got into town. I shouldn't be stirring up trouble with the neighbors. But hopefully this won't turn into anything more than a calm discussion that will end with the guy agreeing to keep his music down.
Unfortunately, I'm thinking that's the least likely scenario.
Chapter Two
"Um, hey," I say, standing at the edge of the garage. The guy has his back to me and he's bent over, his head under the hood of an old convertible. It's like one of those classic cars you see at car shows, except this one isn't all shiny and fixed up.
I cautiously walk toward him, pausing a moment as my eyes get caught on his backside. I shouldn't be staring but he has a great ass. His jeans are worn and faded, and hang low enough that I can see the top of his black boxer briefs. My eyes move up to his shirtless back, which is lean and tan.
Forcing myself to focus on why I'm here, I step up beside him and say, "Excuse me but—"
"Fuck!" he says as his head hits the hood of the car. He stands up straight, rubbing his head. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Sorry, I just wanted to talk to you. I tried to get your attention but—"
"You don't sneak up on someone like that!" He walks over to his workbench and grabs a rag, holding it against the back of his head.
I race over to him. "What's wrong? Is it bleeding?"
"Nah, I just like holding a towel to my head," he says, rolling his eyes.
"It's bleeding? Oh God, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Do you need to see a doctor? I could go get my car and take you. I don't really know this town but—"
"Go," he says, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on mine. Despite the anger in them, he has gorgeous eyes. They're the richest shade of green I've ever seen. His face is rugged, manly, with a sharp-cut jaw covered in a thick layer of stubble. He's probably around my age, early twenties, but looks nothing like the fresh-faced boys I knew from college.
"I can't just leave you like this."
"I'll be fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Just get outta here."
"Let me at least get you a clean towel. That one you're using is filthy. You're going to get an infection."
"Are you a nurse?" he asks, and I can't tell if he's being serious or being a smartass.
"I'm not a nurse but everyone knows that cuts have to be kept clean and I guarantee that rag you're using isn't clean."
"Trust me, I'm good." He walks back over to the car and picks up the wrench he dropped when I startled him, then tosses the rag aside and gets back to work under the hood of the car. His hair is wet and matted where the cut is bleeding.