He walks to where I’m standing and gazes down at me. “It’s me. I’m the guy. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Cash or check, I don’t take credit cards.”
Then he brushes past me and leaves without asking if we have a deal.
He already knows we have a deal because I’m desperate.
The son of a bitch just checkmated me.
7
At eight o’clock sharp the next morning, Mr. Personality knocks on my door.
Pounds on it actually, with brutal force. As if he’s the leader of a SWAT team, and he’s been tasked with taking down a group of crazed hostage-takers to save a hundred people’s lives.
I open the door and stare at him. “Good morning, Mr. Leighrite. What’s the emergency?”
Frowning, he looks me up and down.
Because the house is freezing, I’m wearing a bulky sweater with a down vest over it along with sweatpants and a scarf, but the man looks at me like I’m wearing a beehive on top of my head paired with assless leather chaps.
He asks, “You okay?”
“Do I look as if I’m not okay? No, don’t answer that. Why were you trying to break down my door?”
“I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.”
“I see your sense of time is as good as your sense of humor.”
He holds up his arm. Wrapped around his thick wrist is a chunky black watch. Some kind of sports thing that tracks your steps and spies on you while you sleep. He taps the crystal. The readout shows ten after eight.
“Ten minutes. And for the fourth time, it’s Aidan.”
Didn’t I just look at the clock in the kitchen? It said eight on the nose. Flustered, I say, “Sorry. My clocks must be off.”
“Is your hearing off, too?”
Because it seems to be our thing, we stand there and stare at each other in silence.
Until he demands, “Look, are you letting me in or not?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, decide. I’m not getting any younger.”
How old is he? Thirty? Thirty-five? Hard to tell. He’s in great shape, whatever his age. God, those biceps are huge. And those thighs could crush a Volkswagen.
“Yes, come in,” I say too loudly, trying to drown out the idiotic voice in my head simpering over his big stupid muscles.
Avoiding his eyes, I leave the door open and turn and walk into the kitchen. I sit down at the table, then stand up again because I don’t know what to do with myself.
The front door closes. Heavy footsteps cross through the foyer. He lumbers into the kitchen and stands a few feet away from me.
We commence our silent staring game of Who Will Say Something Strange First.
I break under the strain before he does. “I have your money.”
He looks at my empty hands. “Do I have to dig around in your backyard for it, or are you gonna give it to me?”
“You know, I think you lied when you said you don’t have a sense of humor. I think you’re a big frickin’ comedian.”
“You can curse in front of me if you want. I won’t get offended.”
I take a moment to massage my pounding forehead before sighing. “That’s very generous. Thank you. I was up all night worrying about how not to upset your delicacy.”
“You’re welcome. And for the record, my delicacy is as solid as my humor.”
Either he’s trying not to smile, or he’s having painful stomach cramps. It’s hard to tell. The man has a face like a brick wall.
“You said a check was okay, right?”
He inclines his head.
Today he’s wearing another version of lumberjack chic, with an untucked, faded black-and-red plaid flannel to go along with the faded jeans. His boots are—
“Oh no.”
Following my gaze, he looks down at his feet. “What?”
“You tracked mud all over my floor.”
He glances back up at me. “You don’t have a doormat. And it’s raining outside.”
“You make a good point.”
“Plus, this floor is pretty dirty anyway.”
“Excuse me, but I just mopped it.”
“When? A hundred years ago?”
My neck starts to burn with anger. Man, this guy gets under my skin!
Glaring at him, I say flatly, “Yes, Mr. Leighrite. A hundred years ago. I’m going to go get my checkbook. Do I make the check to Godzilla or should I just leave it blank?”
“Godzilla’s fine,” he replies, gazing steadily at me. “What should I put on your receipt? Dragon Lady With the Sad Eyes?”