Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I step outside Nick’s office flush with triumph and excitement. One, I have a divorce attorney. Two, I have a job. And three, Nick agreed to help me out around the house a few hours a week. With the extra body and strong arms, I might actually get everything organized and livable in half the time.
As I climb into Jimi, though, I’m not thinking about my new job or redecorating plans. Instead, I am laser-focused on the white-hot fury I’ve been holding at bay for the past hour. Any doubts I had about fighting Karl in the divorce crumbled like ashes as Gina continued to explain exactly how much money Karl has been robbing me of over the years.
I totally understood getting paid so little in the beginning, when we were trying to get the firm off the ground. But to have kept me there for years even when the firm was making money hand over fist and there was no reason for it? It made me want to tell Karl off all over again—and myself for never following up or taking the time to look at comparable salaries. Then again, who expects your husband, the man you love, to screw you over so incredibly?
I vow right then and there that I will never give another man power over me again. I might be a lone boat in the ocean, but at least it’s my choice if I sink again.
By the time I get home, I have to force myself to stop thinking about how pissed off I am. I pour myself a well-deserved glass of wine, then wander up to my bedroom to take off my makeup and change into yet another pair of leggings.
I consider taking a nap—the bed looks so inviting after a night of tossing and turning—but I am supposed to report to work bright and early Monday morning. That means I only have the rest of today, Friday, and the weekend to make serious inroads with my cleaning plans.
I still have the remainder of the dining room, living room, and Aunt Maggie’s office to do downstairs, but since I’m up here, I decide to take the day off from the main floor. Seriously, it will be really nice to wake up in the morning and not nearly die if I step an inch off the path I’ve managed to carve to the bathroom on my first day here. Which means it’s time to start cleaning out Aunt Maggie’s room.
Just the thought makes me a little sad, because clearing out in here means clearing out everything that made Aunt Maggie who she was. Her feathered boas, her sparkly shoes, her magnificent clothes, and the boxes upon boxes of costume jewelry she had forever.
When I was a kid, she’d bring me up here before our tea parties and let me pick out whatever jewelry I wanted to wear. Inevitably, I would drape myself in faux diamond bracelets and colorful necklaces and earrings—anything that made me feel beautiful. It seems sacrilegious to just throw it all away now.
Still, I can’t keep living out of suitcases. I’m starting a new job in three days. I have to get my own stuff unpacked and my own space under some kind of control if I have any chance of getting—and keeping—my life together.
I decide to start in Aunt Maggie’s closet. Besides all her clothes that are hanging in there—and there are a ton—there are also hats, scarves, purses, and dozens upon dozens of pairs of shoes. And that doesn’t include the boxes full of items she has lining the top shelf that go all the way around the closet.
I start with the shoes, partly because there are so many of them and partly because they’re fun to look through. And we’re pretty close to the same size…
I’m in the middle of trying on a pair of thigh-high boots that I’m pretty sure date back to the 1970s—because why not—when my phone buzzes with a series of texts.
Yanking it out of my hoodie pocket, I glance down at the caller ID and can’t help grinning.
Nick is texting me. He asked for my number before I left the office, and I assumed it was so he could reach me about work.
Nick: Are you busy?
Nick: I’m downstairs. Can you come let me in?
My smile slides off my face. Downstairs? What is he doing here?
After unzipping the boots and pulling them off as fast as I can, I hurry down the stairs to the family room—and the back door that he has been showing up at more and more lately.
The fact that I’ve started looking forward to his impromptu visits has not eluded me. But just because I recognize the feeling doesn’t mean I actually have to deal with it. Denial isn’t only a river in Egypt, after all.
“Hi!” I slide open the back door and nearly swallow my tongue. While he definitely looks amazing in dress pants or a suit, he looks AMAZING with all the exclamation points in ripped jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. “What are you doing here?”
And why is he dressed like that? Not that I’m complaining, but still. It’s definitely a different look.
He lifts a brow. “I was under the impression that I was being pressed into service. I’m here to help you clean.”
“Oh, right!” I step back to let him in. “I didn’t mean you had to come by tonight. It’s Thursday.”
“Do you have other plans?” he asks, his eyes suddenly intent on mine.
“No, of course not.” Heat blooms in my cheeks. “I guess I just assumed that you did.”
“Nope,” he says with a grin. “I’m free all night. So where do you want to start?”
“I’ve been working in the bed…room…” My voice trails off at the end as I realize what room I just invited him into. And what people normally do there. In half a heartbeat, my bra feels too tight as warm desire winds through me. I clear my throat and will my suddenly out-of-control libido to settle down. “I got started on the master closet a few hours ago, but there’s just so much to get through.”
“Well, then I guess we’d better get back to it, right?” He takes off up the staircase, expertly dodging the piles stacked on every step.
“Yeah, of course.” I start up behind him. “But I feel like I should warn you. Things upstairs are a lot worse than they are downstairs.”
He glances back at me while I talk—which I appreciate, considering it used to take a full tap routine and long periods of nudity to even get Karl to focus on me, let alone with such concern and intensity.
“You okay?” The caring is implicit in the question—and his tone.
It has me ducking my head so he can’t see how much a simple question like that means to me. How long has it been since someone asked me that question? And how much longer since someone paid attention to the answer?
“I’m good, actually. A little sad, sure, but as I’m sorting through all of Aunt Maggie’s things, it’s hard to ignore the fact that she had a good life.”
He smiles. “That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” We get to the top of the stairs, and I lead him toward the master bedroom. “I think it is.”
Aunt Maggie was a hell of a woman. Hoarding, no hoarding, it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of her life. She was the type of woman who wore thigh-high go-go boots for fun.
The type of woman who dyed her hair bright red just because it was August.
The type of woman who glued sparkly glitter all over her face to prove to a little girl that magic existed.
The type of woman who lived her life with complete abandon.
As I lead Nick into her bedroom, I can’t help dwelling on how much I want to be that kind of woman. The no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners, do-and-say-and-wear-what-I-want kind of woman.
Somewhere along the way, I lost that dream. I lost all my dreams, actually. Whether I had them stolen by Karl or gave them away myself because it was the easier path, it doesn’t really matter now. What matters is that I’m beginning to reclaim them, one small step at a time.
And if those steps happen to be in thigh-high go-go boots, who the hell is anyone else to judge me anyway? Besides, life is always more interesting in stilettos.
An hour later, the bedroom that seemed plenty big earlier feels like a shoebox. There’s room for a king-size bed, a six-drawer dresser, and piles upon piles of books and bric-a-brac. But after spending sixty minutes, 3,600 very long, very slow seconds with Nick in a room dominated by a giant bed, it’s become teeny tiny.
Every time I pick up a pile of Sherlock Holmes mysteries and turn so I can put them in the box on the bed, I have to slide by Nick.
My arm brushes against his firm chest as we pass each other in the skinny path between the window and the door. Over and over.
My ass grazes his hard thighs as I carry a tower of adult coloring books that go up to my chin over to a donation box.
My gaze snags on his at least forty-five times a minute as we work in companionable silence—except of course I’m not feeling very companionable about Nick. No, the more matchbooks for lighting candles that I pick up, the more naughty thoughts I deposit in my spank bank.
Seriously, a woman can only see a T-shirt stretch across that man’s broad shoulders or see the way his jeans cling to his ass when he squats down, lowering a heavy box of books to the ground, so many times before having thoughts. Does that make me a bad person for ogling my neighbor who is just helping me out? Yes. Does that fact stop me? Nope.
New Mallory has gotten her hormones back. My stomach growls. I’ve also seen the return of my appetite.
I take out my phone and pull up a food delivery app. “How do you feel about Thai? Or are you more of an Indian guy?”
He takes a trash bag filled with two decades of holiday cards and ties it off. “I like it all.”
Yeah, we both know that isn’t the case. “Mr. Easy? You? No way. You, sir, are a stickler.”
“Then Indian,” he says. “How about some pav bhaji from Chowpatty in Iselin?”
Honestly, I’ve kind of been craving Thai all night, but my mouth starts watering immediately for all the Indian-prepared mixed vegetables simmered in spices. “Naan or rotli?”
He grins at me. “Both, definitely both.”
Finally, something we can agree on without a fight first. A few thumb clicks later and our order is in. We finish up the last corner of spiderwebs and old Christmas cards by the time the food arrives.
I randomly grab an ABBA album and have it queued up on Aunt Maggie’s record player by the time Nick has dinner spread out on the coffee table in the living room.
I can barely hear “Waterloo” over the sound of our mmmmmms and yummmms as we eat. Afterward, we both lay down on the floor, our stomachs way too full to do anything else. We’re almost cheek to cheek, staring up at the ceiling, happy, satisfied, relaxed.
“I have no regrets,” I say, my palm on my belly.
“In general, or when it comes to all the pav bhaji we inhaled?”
I chuckle. “All of the above.”
Nick rolls onto his side, facing me, and props his head up in his hand. “So do you want me to mow the grass tomorrow after work?”
Friday. Why does that sound familiar, like there’s something—oh yeah. “Nah, I have a date tomorrow.”
His jaw tightens as he notices a few crumbs on his shirt and swats them away. “The contractor?”
I nod. “What is it with you and things that are green? I mean, tell me about all your house plants.”
He rolls back so we’re both staring at the ceiling again. “That would be because of my mom.”
“You guys are close?” I try to picture what Nick’s parents would be like and get nothing. Every time I think I’ve figured him out, he does something like sing along to every word of “Fernando,” so no, I can’t imagine who raised this mysterious guy, but I strangely want to meet them.
“Yeah,” he says, a smile obvious in his tone. “She’s pretty awesome.”
“And she gives you plants?”
“For every birthday and Christmas.”
Now it’s my turn to roll onto my side so I can see his face when he answers my next question. “Why?”
He chuckles. “She seems to be under the impression that I need to take care of things to feel personally fulfilled.”
“Okay, in all fairness, I can see your mom’s point.” And I can. “Look at how you’ve been with me, how you were with Aunt Maggie, and even your grumpy client today. You excel at all the white-knight stuff, you just like to pretend you’re a big grouch.”
“Is that how you see me, as a big softy?” he asks as he rolls onto his side again.
Now we’re practically nose to nose, and it’s suddenly getting very hot in here. “‘Soft’ is not a word I associate with you.”
His eyes darken. “What is?”
I swallow. “Does ‘friend’ work?”
Wow, Mallory. You have Mr. Hot in a Suit and a T-Shirt flirting with you, and that’s what you come up with?
He drops his gaze for a second, and when he brings it back up, there’s an intensity shining in his eyes that takes my breath away.
“It will for now,” he says and then gets up and reaches down to help me stand. “I gotta get back home. The house plants are calling.”
I nod and walk him to the sliding glass patio door. We stand there, him on the outside of the open door and me on the inside, both leaning against the doorframe. Neither of us moves. The hint of chlorine from a nearby pool floats on the air, and somewhere a neighbor is barbecuing, sending the scent of mesquite into the atmosphere. All of it mixes with the feeling of promise and more than a little buzz of attraction, giving me thoughts I should not be having about my temporary boss and permanent neighbor.
“Mallory?” His gaze takes me in, from my usual messy topknot, to the stain on my shirt from dinner, to the dust clinging to the hem of my leggings. Instead of giving me a disapproving look like Karl would have, he gives me a look that could probably burn all my clothes off by sheer will if he wants. “Have fun on your date tomorrow night.”
Then he is gone, disappearing around the side of the house while I stand there blinking and wondering why in the hell a lingering disappointment has settled in my stomach. It has to be nerves. After all, Monday is my first day at my new job, which would make any woman feel a little off.
Yeah. That has to be it.
As I close the sliding glass door and lock it, I can’t help wondering what color suit and tie Nick will be wearing to work next. Good Lord. Am I developing a suit fetish?