Page 11 of The Man Next Door
5
I’ve taken off the poncho, and slipped on my sexiest jeans, the ones that make my ass look great. Why? Just because.
Noah is holding a bottle of beer when he swings the door open. He’s all smiles when he invites me in. “Thanks so much,” he says. “I was just taking a little break. Come in. Make yourself comfortable,” he urges. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Uh… I’m okay for now. Maybe later.”
I take in the space again as I follow him around the corner. I’m awestruck at the sight of his grand piano in the living room, bathed in the light from the windows. It’s magnificent, all sleek and shiny black.
“That’s my pride and joy right there,” he tells me.
I smile. I don’t have a pride and joy, my collection of travel souvenirs and books, I suppose.
“So what are we starting with?” I ask.
He points towards the empty bookcases next to the piano. “These are all empty and ready to go,” he tells me. “Now we just need to dig into those boxes and fill them.”
I can barely contain my excitement. Bookshelf stacking. What could be more fun? I eagerly open the boxes of books. “Any special way you need these stacked?”
He scratches the stubble on his jaw. “Uh… by genre or author I guess. Whatever you think.”
“Okay.” I reach for a box labeled OFFICE/DEN and start to pry it open. Noah lunges at me and rips the box from my hands. “Not this one,” he barks. “Don’t touch this one.”
My breath hitches. I’m spooked by his reaction. “I’m… sorry. I just…”
“No worries.” With much effort, he grabs the box and heads toward the den.
I’m left there, frozen, wondering what the hell just happened.Did I do something wrong?
When he comes back, he’s smiling again. He points to the boxes labeled BOOKS. “Those ones.”
I smile and plough into one of them. It’s full of James Patterson novels, and I eagerly dig them out. “So where are you from, Noah?”
“Uh…” He’s speechless for a second or two. I seem to have caught him off guard.Just making conversation, buddy.
“Uh… sorry. Chicago. I’ve always lived around here.” He stacks a bunch of books half haphazardly. He obviously doesn’t care about his bookshelves as much as I do. “How ‘bout you?”
“Originally from Michigan, but I’ve lived around here for about eighteen years.”
He pauses and turns to me. “Do you miss it?”
“Nope,” I say decidedly. I definitely don’t. I would rather forget the whole thing actually.
“So, what do you do, Abby?” he asks politely. “Uh… when you’re working?”
I smile up at him. “I’m a social worker. I love it.”
He nods. “Yep, that seems about right.”
“What do you mean?”
“You strike me as a giving person, that’s all. I have a feel for these things, you know.”
I laugh. “Oh, so are you a psychic?” I tease.
“Kind of,” he jokes. “You better watch it, I can read your mind. And I know more about you than you might think, Miss Abby.”
I laugh out loud. “Okay… I’ll bite. What am I thinking right now?”
