Page 37 of The Path to Loving Him
There’s always the opportunity of sneaking into the school locker rooms and showering there. Then again, if someone caught me, that might not be a good look. Nor do I think a naked teacher in the high school locker rooms is a smart idea.
Can’t afford a gym membership right now, hence the beach workouts.
Ughhhh . . . fuck.
That leaves me with one option—talking to Ryland.
I groan even louder, then reluctantly head to my front door, where my shoes and sandals are lined up.
“Of all the freaking days the shower has to stop working. It was working fine before, but then he goes and moves in, and now I need to ask him for something. Why . . . why me?”
I slip my sandals on, fling my door open, then stomp down my stairs, hating every second of this.
I’m not going to need anything . . .why did I say that?It’s like when someone says there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and then out of nowhere, it pours.
Stopping in the driveway, I study which door I should use. I could knock on the back door that leads to the kitchen—I know this because I secretly peeked through the windows before he moved in, you know, just to assess.
Then there’s the front door, which is far more formal.
If we were friends, I’d go to the back door, but since he’s my landlord, it looks like I’ll be going to the front.
Thankfully, the streets are quiet as I walk around the house. I keep my arms pinned down to my side because I know I don’t smell like roses as I head up the porch steps to the dark purple door. I take a deep breath, then knock three times.
I shift on my feet, looking anywhere but at the door, and when no one answers after a few moments, I question if I should ring the doorbell. It’s late, though. What if his niece—Mac, right?—is sleeping? I don’t want to wake her up.
Anxiety prickles at the nape of my neck as I try to figure out what to do. Maybe . . . maybe I should knock again.
So I do. I knock again, a touch louder this time, and then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Nothing.
Dammit.
Do I have his phone number? I don’t think I do. Maybe it’s on some paperwork that I stuffed away in a drawer.
Resolving that he won’t answer, I head back down the porch steps toward the garage. As I ascend the stairs, I glance over my shoulder at the kitchen just in time to see him move by the window.
Okay, so he’s in there.
Did he just not hear my knock?
Only one way to find out. I head over to the back door and knock again, really making sure it’s noticeable this time. I wait a few seconds, and when there is still no answer, I grow extremely irritated.
What the hell is going on?
Is he ignoring me on purpose?
I know I said I wouldn’t need anything from him, but he’s taking this to an extreme. And with how ripe I feel right now, in need of a shower, I’m going to make sure he knows I need him.
Taking a chance, I twist the doorknob, and to my surprise, it opens. Full of courage, ire, and stink, I push the door open just in time for him to look up from where he’s doing the dishes.
The look of shock and fear greets me right before he throws a plastic plate right at my head.
I scream and duck, letting it hit the door behind me.
