Page 14 of When the Walls Come Down
I hated that we were parting, but I’d see him soon enough. “Good night.”
He rocked onto his heels, having shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Good night.”
Then he turned and marched off in the direction I was about to head. What were the odds? Well, fifty-fifty, I supposed, but really, I felt like I was living out this sitcom version of a meet-cute. To avoid any further awkwardness—as if there were any point in trying—I held back a few seconds and let him get about half a block away.
Surely, he’d be turning or crossing the street soon.
Then he did. Left. The same block I was going down.
Perfect.
The second I rounded the corner, my phone chimed with a text.Unknown: I might have to cancel our date tomorrow. I think someone is following me, and I may be in danger.I stifled my laugh so I didn’t look like a maniac as I walked past others on the sidewalk.Me: Buck up, buddy. You can’t cancel on me after all that begging.Quickly, I added his number to my phone.Shane: That wasn’t begging.When I looked up again, he’d stopped walking and was waiting for me.I could sense somehow that she was behind me, and after confirming it with the camera on my phone, I’d sent her a text. “Are you following me?” I asked when she caught up to me.
She scowled as if I were nuts for thinking it. “Hell no. I live in The Pike Complex up the street.”
That was a pretty nice place. A behemoth of a building that had some of the best views in the city. Great location, right downtown, close to nightlife and anything you’d want to do. A safe neighborhood for the most part and prime location for someone new to San Francisco.
I should know. I lived in the building too.
It was unbelievable, so I didn’t even bother telling her. I just continued down the street, and she fell into step beside me. Every so often, I’d offer her a quiet, closemouthed grin and she’d return it without saying a thing. Out of the corner of my eye at the crosswalk, I caught her doing this adorable head bob thing as the timer counted down. She was like a little traffic headbanger.
And when we approached the front door, I opened it for her and heard the night watchman, Clarke, call to me from behind the desk.
“Good evening, Shane.”
Maggie swung an accusatory glare my way, which I swiftly ignored. I waved at Clarke silently, knowing if I made any sound I’d lose it right there—laughing at the absurdity of it all.
He stood and snapped his fingers, attempting to jog his memory. “Um, Ms. Light. There, I remembered.”
“Hello,” she answered. Her heels clicked across the marble as we walked toward the elevator bank.
So she wouldn’t feel like I was messing with her, I pressed the button, and after we were both in the available car, I hit the floor I lived on.
“Unbelievable,” she mumbled under her breath.
“I know. I can’t believe my door guy knew your name before I did.”
She cocked her head to the side and huffed. “I can’t believe we share a door guy.”
“Do you think we should invite him on the date?” I asked, being a shit. But come on. The whole thing was crazy.
Additionally, she hadn’t pressed a button for a different floor than mine. Either she was going to let me off first to keep some semblance of privacy or the universe was letting me know that, regardless of us both being at Two Ships that night, we were bound to run into each other sooner or later.
“Maybe just you and Clarke should just go?” she quipped.
“Ouch.” I clutched my chest as we exited the elevator on the same damn floor. Again, I didn’t wave her ahead of me. I sauntered down the hall, and she followed only a step or two behind. At my door, I pulled my keys out.
“You have got to be joking. This isn’t your apartment,” she accused.
“It very much is.” As evidence, I produced my driver’s license and held it out for her to examine my address.
She bent forward to really give it a study. Her eyes cast down, shot up to me, and then bounced back down to my ID in rapid succession.
“Two hundred and fifty-three pounds?” she said and then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
“I’ve lost a little weight.” Something I was damn proud of, actually, so I didn’t care if she noticed how different I looked in the photo or what the number said on the card. “I’m still six-two though, thank you very much.”
She continued to stare at it, and in awe, she remarked, “You’re old too.”
“Early thirties isn’t old,” I argued.
“And how were your early thirties—two years ago—Mr. Warren?”
Mr. Warren. Oh, I liked that way—way—more than I should have. “I think I liked you better before I found out about you and Clarke. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a thing for older men.” It was only funny because Clarke was clearly over retirement age and just worked because he was lonely. White hair. White, fluffy mustache. Glasses that barely hung on to his nose.
