Page 26 of Never After Us
Back to the crisis at hand.
“Why are you bringing those boxes here?”I ask, stepping between Mila and the hallway as if I can physically block her curiosity.
One of the delivery guys checks his clipboard.“Daniel asked us to bring them to you.Part of Mrs.Lafferty’s estate.”
“Boxes?”I repeat, staring toward my apartment.“But ...isn’t everything already here?”
He shrugs.“I just get paid to deliver, ma’am.”
I look past him at the stack of boxes—old cardboard, worn corners, tape that looks like it’s outlived several seasons.They should just go to donations or recycling or ...not here.Definitely not here.
Something tightens low in my stomach.This isn’t good.I’m not sorting through my aunt’s past life.
“Neither Mr.Hanley nor Daniel mentioned boxes.”
I step closer and trail my finger over a faded handwritten label.It might be Aunt Lina’s.What in the world did she store that now I have to deal with?
Mila leans into my side.“Mom?What is it?”
“I ...don’t know.”
And that’s what unsettles me most.This must be what Mr.Hanley meant when he said more was coming.I haven’t even officially signed anything yet—the dotted line is waiting for later—but they’re already unloading pieces of a past I haven’t processed.
Alec shifts, posture still rigid but voice lower.“You should let them inside before they block the whole hallway.”
“Fine.I’m not sure where anything will go, but ...be my guest.”
He studies my face for a long moment—too long—and something in the way he looks at me makes my pulse jump in a way I refuse to acknowledge.It’s not swooning.Nope.Absolutely not.I’m simply reacting to the logistical stress of boxes.That’s all.
“This is making you uncomfortable,” he murmurs.
I narrow my eyes.“Are you enjoying it?”
“Surprisingly not,” he says, and the tone almost disarms me.“If you’ll allow me, I can go in first.Figure out where they can put everything.Move some furniture if needed.”
Oh, God.
Why does that land like an offer no one has ever made to me in my adult life?
Why does a man volunteering to handle boxes feel borderline intimate?
I want to tell him no.I want to tell him to mind his own business.I want to keep my stupid heart from doing a cartwheel because Alec Hovarth—resident grump, emotional hedgehog, certified avoider of all human feelings—is offering help without sounding like a burden.
But the truth is, I need him to.
I need someone to take the lead for a second because I’m suddenly aware that I still haven’t let myself grieve at all.And these boxes feel like a doorway I’m not ready to step through alone.
“If you don’t mind,” I say quietly.“Please.”
Something flickers in his eyes—warmth, maybe recognition, maybe something that should not make my knees do whatever they’re currently doing.He looks at me like I just revealed something I didn’t mean to show, and I hate that.I straighten my spine, trying to put invisible distance back where it belongs.
I don’t do this.
I don’t let people in.
Friendliness is one thing.Closeness ...that’s a whole different disaster waiting to happen.
People leave.
