“What are you doing?” Dylan stops mid-stride. He shields his eyes from the sun.
“I’m here. Thought I’d get some things done.”
“Can’t you come back later? I’m a little hung over.”
I eye him carefully. A muscle in his jaw twitches and I’m well aware that I tiptoe the line between employee and friend. Not that I consider myself his friend. But he’s the one who hurdled over that line today.
“Nope,” I say. “I need to manage my time this week and since I already—”
“Whatever.” He stalks inside. There’s a rip along the back of his designer shirt and beside that, a dark liquid stain deserving identification in a crime lab.
The house is empty like it usually is this time of the morning. Both Dylan’s roommates are at their respective jobs.
I put in a load of laundry, start a pot of coffee, and water the plants. There are mostly cacti in pots scattered around the kitchen area. Plants I brought in when I started working here. Otherwise, it’d resemble that county jail waiting room. Institutional. Minimal furniture. No personality.
Sunshine streams in from the backyard and fills the kitchen. Sometimes I pretend it’s my house with the spacious rooms and the beautiful deck out back.
Since there’s no time to go back to the coffee shop, I drop into a kitchen chair and pull out my textbook. I have enough time to ensure I get at least a passing grade. It’s soothing to study here with the view of an oak tree. A resident squirrel sprints to the top and daredevils along the thin branches.
The churning white noise of the washing machine almost masks the sound of footsteps. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“Thanks for bailing me out.” Dylan says in a fierce, forced tone. He walks to stand at the window with his hands in his pockets.
I lift my gaze to his and nod. I could tease him, but I won’t. He seems too vulnerable today.
He’s showered and dressed for work, wearing a black suit, crisp white collared shirt, and gold tie. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
His statement has effectively stunted my snarky bone. I’m the Grand Poobah of sarcasm. This lonely tone he has? It slices the skin of my defenses like a serrated blade, leaving me as vulnerable as he seems.
I glance out the window to the point where he’s staring, but he’s not even looking at the acrobatic squirrel. “Bad night?”
“You could say that.” He rubs his fingers across his forehead.
We’re both silent for minutes of me staring at the same nothing in the back yard. I can’t stand the heaviness of his thoughts that sit on his shoulders like gargoyles on a building rooftop.
I exhale loudly and drum my fingers on my book. “Going into work, huh?”
“Thought I would.”
“You sound very excited about it.”
“I’ll give you a check for the bond money later. My checkbook is at the office.” He moves to the table and pulls out a chair. The scraping sound of wood against tile reverberates through the kitchen.
I’m alarmed when he flips it around and has a seat so close our knees might touch. I hope he can’t hear my unsteady heart rate rattling like a runaway cup in the wind. “I knew you would.”
“Were you in class when I called?”
“No.” I suck in a composing breath and open the textbook so I’ll have somewhere to look other than his face.
“What are you studying?”
His questioning spikes my heart rate to space-shuttle speed. “Econ.” I stare at the page before me like there might be a pop quiz in the next five minutes.
Even though it can’t be that long since Dylan was in college, he’s never asked me about school or my major or anything beyond where he can find the clean towels. He leaves before I arrive to clean. He returns after I’m gone. If we cross paths, he might ask a question using less than ten words. Probably five.
It’s silent as I continue to stare at the words on the page, allowing them to blur together since I’m incapable of concentrating.
The seconds stretch my patience. “Do you want something?” Besides to give me an aneurysm from anticipation. My gaze flicks up to meet his.
His mouth pulls up into the slowest, sexiest smile of the millennium. “I wanted to thank you.”
“You did that already.” My heart pulses in my ears like a tornado warning. Down girl. He’s saying thanks, nothing else. He’s definitely not saying he’s going to put that sexy mouth anywhere close to mine. Too bad.
Dylan folds his hands along the top of the chair and rests his chin on the knuckles of one hand. “I don’t take you for granted.”
“You’d better not. Or I’m asking for a raise.” I look down at my book and flip a page.
“Emerson, do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.
My gaze lifts to meet his.
Since the night of the infamous kiss, I’ve cleaned their house twenty-four times. In those twenty-four, I’ve come across several phone numbers with ‘call me’ scrawled on them, one pair of lacy panties, and numerous shirts smelling suspiciously of perfume.
Not so much as a phone call until this morning when he asked me to bail him out.
When I was younger, no guy would’ve treated me this way.
“Yes. Yes, I have a boyfriend.” I don’t swallow. I’m normally a good liar. Someone asks how I’m doing and I pull on my hunky-dory mask. Another mentions my dad in the federal penitentiary and I act as though it doesn’t bother me. My real feelings are buried deep, a grave of emotions. No visitors allowed.
His eyebrows inch up a fraction. “I see. Well, okay. Just curious.” He rises from the chair and reaches across with his right hand. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to grab me and kiss me.
He gently rotates the book, placing it right-side up in my hands. “Easier to read this way,” he says with a smirk.
And then he walks away and out the front door.
“Damn,” I mutter under my breath. I jump to my feet, wishing I had a punching bag or one of those voodoo dolls. Who does he think he is? I roll my eyes so hard I risk going cross-eyed. I stand a little straighter and get myself a cup of coffee, settle down—with my book in the right direction—and study for my test.
As far as quizzes go, it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been written in Latin, or Chinese, or Braille. At least in English, I was able to make a weak guess on the multiple-choice questions.
I exit the business building and make a wide pass around the guy giving me the once-over. Men are such douchebags. My unhappy expression—the don’t-even-approach-me-buddy face—can in no way invite any kind of interest, yet this jock thinks it’s a possibility. I want to stop and give him a lesson that having breasts does not qualify me as interested.
Due to my last minute sprint to available parking, I’m winded by the time I reach the lot reserved for off-campus students. I tug my sweater closed. Leaves swirl from the trees, falling quickly after the latest drop in temperatures.
I search among the cars for my pale blue Toyota. A dependable car. Boring. Inexpensive. Nothing like the car my dad gave me on my sixteenth birthday—a red Ferrari as flashy as my family.
I’m better off the way things are now. People either like me for who I am or I have no use for them. Money lies. It tells you you’re pretty and desirable and invincible.