Page 24 of Rising Heat
Two minutes later, footsteps sound on the stairs again, quick and familiar enough that I know it’s Tyler before he reaches the landing.
He appears in the doorway carrying two brown bottles beaded with condensation and lifts one slightly.
“Locally brewed New England lager,” he says. “Figured move-in day deserved better than lukewarm tap water.”
“Bold of you to assume I wasn’t planning to spiral into a stress nap instead.”
“That’s for after the beer.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and take the bottle from him. Our fingers brush when I take the bottle from him, and my stomach does an annoying little dip.
Tyler lifts his bottle.
“To fresh starts.”
The words catch me off guard, making me swallow before I tap my bottle against his.
“To not immediately regretting it.”
He gives me a smirk.
“Takes at least forty-eight hours.”
We settle on opposite sides of the kitchen counter, beer bottles sweating onto the white quartz between us.
“So,” I say. “How long have you lived here?”
Tyler tips the bottle against his lower lip.
“My whole life, technically. My grandparents bought the place in the seventies. Mack and I took it over a few years ago.”
I glance around the apartment.
“You renovated it?”
His laugh comes out through his nose.
“Eventually.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“It’s mostly a story about drywall dust, three separate trips to the emergency room, and Mack nearly murdering me with a nail gun.”
I lower the bottle.
“A nail gun?”
“In his defense, I was kinda being a dick.”
“Mack sounds like someone with a low tolerance for bullshit.”
Tyler laughs.
“That’s pretty much accurate.”
“But?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he says. “People meet him and think he’s all rules and lectures and disappointed head shakes.”
