Page 6 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Guy Next Door

“I think she's looking,” I say.

Kit doesn't care. He finishes the chicken and runs in circles in the yard a few times, letting off steam, before he heads back into the forest. I go back inside and make breakfast.

Around seven, my phone buzzes on the arm of the chair.

Are you awake? Weird question. You're a stranger. I don't know your schedule. You could work nights.

I smile.

I'm awake.

Chapter Three

MEGAN

Aunt Delphine arrives on Tuesday in a caftan the color of a traffic cone and an outlandish pair of sunglasses with sparkly frames. She comes through the door, drops a roll of paper on my kitchen table, and starts opening cupboards.

“Where are the mugs?”

She finds them before I can answer. “So, Harris is building my display stands for the festival.”

I put my pencil down. “Harris?”

“You remember… your grumpy neighbor? He starts today.” My aunt fills the kettle with a little grin on her face, which is how I know she's enjoying herself. “You'll be helping.”

“Absolutely not!”

“It's already arranged. I’m too busy getting the stock ready and I have a lot of hemming to do.”

“Look, he said yes to helpingyou. Not me.”

“That man owes me, Megan. I drove him down the mountain the day he put a chisel through his hand and didn't tell a single soul about it afterward.” Delphine turns around and leans against my counter with her bangles clicking, taking a sip of coffee. “He’s a very private man.”

I look out the window, over the gravel, to the yard next door where a stack of lumber has appeared overnight like a mushroom ring.

“Hegrowledat me. On Sunday I said good afternoon, and he made anoiselike an animal.”

My aunt laughs. “Meet in his backyard at eleven-thirty. This will be character-building for both of you.”

“For me or forhim?”

She changes the subject, telling me some gossip about the festival, before draining her cup and kissing my cheek on her way out the door.

The heat is intense by mid-morning. August in the mountains is so different from August in the city, with the pines throwing off a warm, resinous scent and the cicadas going bananas in the trees. I put on my oldest denim shorts and a loose green tank, twist my hair up off my neck, and go down before I can talk myself out of it.

Harris is already set up. Two sawhorses with boards laid across them and a canvas roll of tools spread open in the grass. He’s wearing faded jeans, work boots, a t-shirt that used to be black and has given up. His arms are incredibly muscular, his thick dark hair pushed back from his face.

“Morning,” I say. I’m going to be civil, rather than over-friendly.

“Morning.” At least he didn’t growl at me again. My neighbor holds out the end of a tape measure without looking up. “Hold this. Right on the line, not past it.”

So this is how it goes.

Sighing internally, I hold the end of the tape measure. Then I hold a board while he marks it, and hold another one steady while the saw screams through it and the sawdust comes off in a hot golden spray that sticks to my legs. He doesn't chat or tryto fill silences. But he gives me instructions, in bursts of two or three words at a time.

“The other side.”

“Sorry?”