Chapter Ten

Tall, Dark, and At My Front Door

I move around my new apartment–bigger and brighter than I expected and already filled with a few furnishings courtesy of Brianna and Zack–organizing boxes in little stacks, trying not to freak out but failing miserably.

I did it.

I left home and moved hours away from Silver Valley. Not for school. Not temporarily. But with a goal, a plan for the future. And a job that might actually be the best thing to ever happen to me.

I’m working from home, keeping the finances of future rock stars in check, while also making my childhood dream come true.

Publishing my first novel.

It might go nowhere, but I’m making it happen.

“I can’t thank you guys enough,” I say as I move another box from the table to a stack on the floor. “The furniture is perfect, but you didn’t need to do that.”

“Of course I did!” Brianna’s voice rings through the speaker of my phone. “I talked you into this. I wanted to make it a smooth transition. Besides, I had the table and couch in the guest suite downstairs which no one ever used. Now I’m building a home recording studio so it’s a win, win.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’m just sorry we couldn’t be there to welcome you and carry boxes.”

As if I’d let America’s favorite pop star carry my grungy cardboard boxes. The thing is, Brianna is so down to earth she’d do it with a smile on her face. The diva reputation she’s got is nothing close to the truth of who she is.

“You have plenty on your plate with the Salt Creek debacle.” It’s all over the tabloids. Her performance at the mountain resort last weekend ended with her opening act caught up in drama that threatened to derail her tour. “How’s everything going with that?”

“It could be worse. But we’re dealing.” Her voice trails off, the implication clear. She can’t really say more without risking confidentiality. 

“Understood.” I’m not privy, which is fine. I just keep the books in line. I don’t need the band’s tea.

“Clinton is so stressed about it, what with the increased security needed on tour, now.” Her exhausted sigh echoes through the speaker. “Has he stopped by since you got there?”

I arrived to find the key to my new home under the mat this afternoon, but no sign of my landlord slash neighbor.

“No, not yet.” Now that I’m living right next door, I’m sure we’ll see each other often. We had a little flirty friendship over text and maybe if he wasn’t the landlord it could’ve developed into more. I mean, worse things have happened, right? He’s not my boss, or something truly forbidden, like my teacher.

Although Clinton is older than me by a few years, almost nine I think, which has its own level of hot. And makes me wonder if he sees me as a woman or as a kid. 

Looking down at my outfit–purple yoga pants and a kitten t-shirt that says “purrrfect princess,” admittedly more girlish than femme fatale–I consider what the chances are he’s attracted to me. From the flirty texts we’ve exchanged all summer, maybe not zero.

Considering he isn’t here to greet me, I can’t be sure. Once I see him in person again, we’ll see if there’s a spark.

“I should let you go so you can focus on settling in. We’ve got a meeting with the C1 guys in an hour. Ryan will probably be getting back to you with updated info afterwards.” 

“In other words, I’ve got my work cut out for me with those guys.” I shake my head at the thought. 

“You sure do.”

Brianna’s opening act, Citizen One, has been a topic of conversation with her all summer long. And now they’re one of my financial clients, but the band drama is hitting them harder than it has Bree.

“Anyway.” She adds. “Congrats on the move, welcome to the neighborhood, and you’ll have to come over before we leave on tour next week. You missed our last barbeque but I’m always up for a cook out. Just tell me when you’re available.”

“Literally always. Now that I work from home, I make my own hours, remember?” 

We both laugh before saying goodbye with plans to get together later in the week. It isn’t long before I hear noises next door. Clinton must be home now. He still hasn’t stopped by to say hello. I wonder about hopping over to greet him, but my nerves tell me otherwise. I decide to stay the course, keep unpacking and dreaming about the possibilities now open to me.

Because I did the scariest thing possible: leaving what I know for the adventure of the unknown. 

I drove away from my home early yesterday morning after dropping the news on my parents at the last possible second. I couldn’t tell them ahead of time. I didn’t want my mom to try talking me out of my plans. And I absolutely could not have them telling Ross at all.

Of course he found out only a couple of hours after I hit the road. My dad texted me a heads up that Ross had stopped by again, my mom telling him I’d packed up and left town for good as she wiped tears from her eyes.

I blocked him weeks ago, but if I hadn’t I have no doubt he’d be blowing up my phone right now. Dad mentioned Ross sounded irritated that I left without telling him and giving him the chance to wish me well in my new life.

I fume just thinking about it.

He’s irritated he couldn’t wish me well? Right. I'll believe his well-wishes when pigs fly. He doesn’t wish me well; he just hates that his favorite piece of livestock slipped through the fence.

I can’t shut down my irritation as I continue adding personal touches to my place. Even without him here, he’s ruining my joy over setting up my own place. My jaw clenches as I add books and photo frames to the built in bookshelves in the living room. I take cleansing breaths as I toss pillows on the couch. I stomp into my bedroom to do the same to the bed after fitting it with the new sage green and white gingham sheet set Brianna left for me.

My anger fuels me as I reach the final touches of setting up my home. If I didn’t hate him so much, I’d be thanking Ross for spurring on enough energy to get everything done in one setting. I thought I’d be unpacking for weeks, but here I am nearly done.

All that’s left is to grocery shop and hang some wall art. I’m not in the mood to leave just yet and navigate a new city so I settle on hanging my diploma. It’s the first and most important thing I want on my wall because it’s a physical representation of my new life, my accomplishments. And the fact that I’ve worked for the opportunity to get out of my small town life. It doesn’t hurt that I picture the nail as Ross’s head while hammering it in. Which I admit is a dark thought, but I won’t be unpacking that right now. Instead, I’ll imagine his beady eyes as I slam the hammer against the nail once, twice, three tim-

“Ouch!”

And hit my finger on that third one instead. Stumbling into the kitchen, I grab some ice just as

I hear a solid knock on my door.

“You okay in there?” A deep voice booms from behind the solid wood.

Clinton must have heard me. I guess it’s as good a time as any to see him. 

With ice on my finger I pull the door open to see the tower of a man looking down at me. Dang it. He’s as hot as I remember even with the scowl on his face. He’s tall enough to have my head craning to look up at him. Dark eyes and tan skin greet me. His chestnut hair is cropped close with near military precision, but contrasts with the scruff of a few days' growth on his face. The strength in his muscular form is not reflected in his stature. He looks tired, weary. Worried. 

He parts his lips as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

At least ten awkward seconds of silence ensues because the sight of him has taken away my ability to speak. 

“Looks like you’re fine.” He finally says, breaking the strained sound of our breathing. “I should…” He points to his side of the duplex while taking a step back from the door.

He’s in gym clothes like he just got done working out. I swallow, a lame attempt to quench my sudden thirst.

“I hit my thumb with the stupid hammer.” I say, holding up my thumb in yet another lame attempt to fill the awkward.

“Well, um, I’ll leave you to unpack your stuff.” He glances at my crazy outfit, blinks, and turns away.

“Are you busy?” I blurt without thinking. For some self-destructive reason, I don’t want him to leave yet.

He rubs a hand over his mouth before answering, then proceeds to shock the hell out of me with his response.

“Just mentally listing all the ways I failed my kid since I couldn’t make things work with my ex and feeling like shit because of it.” 

I stare up at him, holding my jaw shut like a vice because I don’t want to share how much he just confided in me. He looks back at his door weakly, like he can’t believe he just dumped all that on me.

With all the texting he and I have done over the last few months, talking in person should be this brutal. I realize the man is in no place to flirt with me in any way, shape or form. But he could probably use a friend. Someone to support him when he needs to unleash. Something tells me he doesn’t have someone like that in his life.

Might as well be me. After all, he was the inspiration that knocked me out of my own way.

Maybe I can knock him out of his?

“Sounds like you’re living with regret.”

Clinton looks at his feet, chuffs then runs a hand over his face as he gives me a tight nod.

“You should be honest with her.”

“With my daughter?” He looks me in the eye skeptically.

“No, your ex. Say what you wish you’d said before. Lay it all out on the table so she knows you know where you went wrong. It’s better than living with regret.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. I almost lived a lifetime of regret because I was afraid to take a leap. But Brianna pushed me to give my dreams a try. Now here I am.” I wave a hand into my open doorway and the nearly put together living space I spent the day creating. I don’t mention that Clinton was the first one to help me push past my boundaries. I don’t think he’s ready to hear it.

“Do you want some help?” I ask quietly.

“Help?”

“Figuring out what to say. You could write it down.” She shrugs. “Remember, I am an aspiring writer. Maybe I could inspire you to speak from the heart.”

“From the heart, huh?” He glances into my side of the duplex and shrugs. “I was actually trying to write something like that to her.” He points back to his place.

It’s the look on his face that causes my heart to deflate a little. I realize I have been carrying hope that our flirty friendship would become more now that I’m living next to him. Why else would the thought of Clinton writing a love note to his ex break my heart a little?

“Go get it. A rough draft is a good place to start.”

If a friend is what he needs, that’s what I’ll be. I refuse to align myself with the likes of Ross who won’t take a hint.

Hint, you’ve been taken.

Clinton returns with a wad of paper seconds later. He follows me inside, stepping around the empty boxes and packing material strewn around. I glance back at him as he grabs the hammer from where I’d left it on top of a stack of said boxes. His menacing energy, paired with the hammer currently swinging in his grasp, is slightly unnerving. Then he slams the wad of paper on the table. My jaw drops and my eyebrows pop so hard they must practically hit my hairline.

Clinton eyes me quickly before gently placing the hammer on the table.

“Sorry. I’m a little keyed up.”

I huff. “I’ll say.” 

I reach out to pick up the paper, carefully opening it up. After a quick glance at what he’s written down I offer him a sympathetic smile. 

“I’m not good with words,” he says, more open and honest than I’d expect a guy like him to be. He must still love her.

If dealing with Ross taught me anything, it’s that a man with a pure heart is precious. I don’t want to taint Clinton’s with my unrequited crush. He and I have been linked by rumors and bumble bees and now close living quarters. Now we’ll be linked by friendship. 

“That’s okay. I am.” I give him a friendly wink before stuffing every ounce of attraction I have into a little box inside of me. “Let’s see what we can do.” 

This little project–showing his ex his true heart–serves to draw a line between us. Friends, neighbors, and nothing more.

---

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWcASV2sey0