The Man Next Door: Orchard Heights Book 2 - standalone Read online

  There’s no use moping around waiting for a reply. I’ve even been checking other positions, but none are as perfect as this one. Today’s been a good day; a few hours spent at the library, flipping through magazines and checking out a few books, and grocery shopping for dinner tonight. I’m going all out and making Asian lettuce beef wraps (Mischa’s recipe) and fried rice and mango salad. It should be good. Too bad I’ll be the only one eating it.

  I sigh at the thought as I walk into Orchard Heights, pushing a personal folding shopping cart, a gift from Daniel. It’s a Burberry knock-off. With my suede flat knee high boots, a Nine West handbag, and grungy poncho, I look like a mix between a socialite and a homeless woman. And the funny thing is, I don’t care.

  My heart skips a beat when I spot Noah leaning against the wall by the elevator. The man is looking fine. I really shouldn’t be looking, but there’s not much excitement in my life these days, so I’m going to ogle if I want to. He’s wearing slim fitting grey pants and a blue button shirt. A box of books sits by his feet. He’s on his cell and smiling, and I wonder if he’s talking to a woman. It embarrasses me to admit, but the thought makes me sour. Well, whoever she is, she’s a lucky woman.

  I walk right past him and I’m impossible to miss as I press the elevator button. He glances up and smiles. “Hey, listen, Joe. I gotta go. Something just came up. Okay, bye.” And just like that, he ends his phone call and turns his attention to me.

  I’m flattered.

  “Hey, Abby,” he says. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” I reply with a friendly grin. “And you?”

  The elevator doors ding open and he picks up his box of books. I hold the doors-open button for him. I stare at the strain of his shirt against his biceps as he struggles with the huge heavy box. That song, Time of my Life, from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack is playing softly in the background. He holds the box askew, and two huge books fall to the floor with a loud thump.

  “Oh shit,” he curses.

  “Here, I got them.” I bend down to retrieve the books. Daniel Brown’s The Davinci Code and Angel & Demons, illustrated. “Cool books. I loved those books.”

  “Yeah, they’re classics. Thanks.”

  The books are crazy heavy. “Here, I’ll put them in my bag.” I slip them on top of my groceries, careful to keep my loaf of bread on top.

  “Thanks,” he says, all smiles. “I’m still moving my stuff in.”

  “I can see that.”

  The elevator doors ping open on our floor, and I follow him out to his loft. I enjoy the view as we walk down the hall. The man has a great behind. I’m such a dirty old woman.

  When we finally get to his place, he blows out a long breath as he sets the box of books on the floor. He fiddles with the door a second. Unfortunately, we still use old fashioned keys here, in keeping with the whole vintage feel of the building. Or perhaps the management just doesn’t have the funds to upgrade.

  I’m reaching for his books when he asks me if I’d like to come in. My brain processes the situation quickly. Yes, he is essentially a stranger, and he could be a deranged serial killer. But with that smile, I highly doubt it. I already feel like I’ve known him forever. “Sure, I’d love that,” I reply, perhaps a little too eagerly. What can I say? I’ve always been curious.

  His place is very similar to mine; high coffered ceilings, dark posts and beams, lots of light, floor to ceiling windows, and a modern urban kitchen. There is a contemporary grey sectional and boxes everywhere. Honestly, the place feels cold, all whites and greys. My space is full of color and books and knick knacks I’ve collected over the years. But he’s still settling in, I tell myself. Give the boy a break.

  I fish out his books out of my cart. “Where would you like these?”

  “Anywhere. As you can see, the place is kind of a mess.”

  “I see that.” I set the books on the wood floor, right next to a small sculpture of a bear. “Do you need help unpacking?” I’m not quite sure where those words just came from, but if I had to guess, I’d say pure boredom.

  His whole face lights up at my offer. “Really? You’d be willing to help me out?”

  I nod, wondering what I’ve just got myself into. “Oh yeah, I love that stuff. I’m kind of… between jobs at the moment.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “I could use the help. I’ve been pretty busy lately.”

  I nod awkwardly. “So… about you? What do you do?”

  He smiles. “I’m a composer / songwriter.”

  “Anything I’ve heard?”

  He frowns. “Probably not. I write jingles mostly. My most popular one was the one for the Cooper’s shampoo commercial.”

  “Oh yeah, I like that one.” I don’t tell him that I usually flip the channel when a commercial comes on, but I do remember that particular one, catchy and not too annoying.

  “Well, it’s work, right? Gotta pay the bills. I get paid every time it plays. Not much, but it all adds up.”

  I nod again. “That’s great,” I tell him, not quite knowing what else to say. “Well, I should go. I have milk in here. Thankfully, no ice cream,” I joke.

  “Sure, yes… you go and put away your groceries.”

  I turn to leave, and when I reach the door, he calls out. “Will you come back soon?” he asks. “To help me out?”

  Those intoxicating blue eyes, that amazing smile. How could I not? “For sure. Back in a jiffy.”

  I was planning to read until supper time, but I’m sure this will be just as entertaining. As I busy myself stocking my cupboards and refrigerator, I think back to the day Daniel and I moved into this apartment, about seven years ago. Our place looked very much like Noah’s does now, save for the walls, painted burnt orange and mustard yellow and navy blue. We ate Chinese take-out on a blanket, surrounded by moving boxes. I remember that feeling of barely contained excitement. We had our whole life ahead of us. I thought of our lives as one back then, him and I, together forever. I’ve never been madly in love with Daniel, but he was a nice guy, stable and reliable, and not bad in bed. I told myself that I didn’t need all the sparks and fireworks. All they led to was heartache, as I had painfully learned with Gavin. Daniel was perfect husband material, and I just wanted to be taken care of, for the first time in my life.

  “Are you as excited as I am?” Daniel asked as he dug into his chicken chow mein.

  I stretched my legs and my eyes darted across the space. “More!”

  He frowned. “We’re going to have to do something about these wall colors.”

  “No!” I was quick to say. “I love it.”

  He cocked a brow. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, I guess it is what it is.”

  That was Daniel in a nut shell, easy-going and always eager to please me. That is, until the day he ran off with his secretary.

  My stomach dips at the thought of Daniel. It always does. Unfortunately, he’s left a sour taste in my mouth, and I hate that.

  I shake my head as I stack my library books on the coffee table, hours of entertainment right there. Do I even want a job? The problem is… I need the money. Yes, I get money from Daniel every month but it’s barely enough. I got the condo in the divorce since Daniel wanted to move in with Ella (the secretary) but the condo fees are pretty high.

  I’ve moved many times over the years. I was only four years old when I first moved to the mobile park, and that day is my first ever memory. I thought the place was great, and I was particularly happy to have my own room. I asked my mom if we could paint it pink.

  “We can paint it whatever color you wish, sweetie,” she told me. “This place is ours, not like our old apartment. We can do whatever we want.” My parents’ and my brothers’ faces were bright with joy. I have no recollection of where we lived before that, but it must have been a real dump. We were happy then. I’ll never know what happened to change that. Alcoholism… I suppose.

  I moved to Chicago for college, and never looke
d back. I hopped from boarding room to dorm room, shared a small cramped apartment with friends, moved into a shoebox with Daniel, and eventually… Orchard Heights when Daniel finally got his high paying dream job. He was moving up in the world, and I was more than happy to follow him, finally having the things I’d only dreamed of as a kid; a nice home, a working car, and clothes that weren’t from a thrift store.

  It’s funny what you remember. I was only four years old, and it was ages ago, but certain things will always stick with me. The smile on my mother’s face, the soapy smell of the freshly cleaned bathroom, the ladybug I found in my room, but most of all, Izzie.

  I was tracing circles in the sand with a stick, drawing happy faces, when she walked up to me. As soon as I glanced up at her, I was mesmerized. She was a real-life doll; shiny golden hair, bright blue eyes, pretty red lips and a friendly smile. “Are you moving here?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. I was not much of a talker back then.

  She shuffled her feet, staring down at my happy faces in the sand. “What’s your name?”

  “Abigail,” I told her, “but my family calls me Abby.”

  “My name is Elizabeth,” she told me, “but my family calls me Izzie.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Four,” I told her.

  “Me too!”

  “You want to be friends?” she asked. I was new. I didn’t know anyone, and she was adorable. Of course I wanted to be friends.

  “Yeah… I guess…” I replied shyly.

  And that was that. We were inseparable from that moment on.

  Abby and Izzie. Best friends forever.

  5

  I’ve taken off the poncho, and slipped on my sexiest jeans, the ones that make my ass look great. Why? Just because.

  Noah is holding a bottle of beer when he swings the door open. He’s all smiles when he invites me in. “Thanks so much,” he says. “I was just taking a little break. Come in. Make yourself comfortable,” he urges. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Uh… I’m okay for now. Maybe later.”

  I take in the space again as I follow him around the corner. I’m awestruck at the sight of his grand piano in the living room, bathed in the light from the windows. It’s magnificent, all sleek and shiny black.

  “That’s my pride and joy right there,” he tells me.

  I smile. I don’t have a pride and joy, my collection of travel souvenirs and books, I suppose.

  “So what are we starting with?” I ask.

  He points towards the empty bookcases next to the piano. “These are all empty and ready to go,” he tells me. “Now we just need to dig into those boxes and fill them.”

  I can barely contain my excitement. Bookshelf stacking. What could be more fun? I eagerly open the boxes of books. “Any special way you need these stacked?”

  He scratches the stubble on his jaw. “Uh… by genre or author I guess. Whatever you think.”

  “Okay.” I reach for a box labeled OFFICE/DEN and start to pry it open. Noah lunges at me and rips the box from my hands. “Not this one,” he barks. “Don’t touch this one.”

  My breath hitches. I’m spooked by his reaction. “I’m… sorry. I just…”

  “No worries.” With much effort, he grabs the box and heads toward the den.

  I’m left there, frozen, wondering what the hell just happened. Did I do something wrong?

  When he comes back, he’s smiling again. He points to the boxes labeled BOOKS. “Those ones.”

  I smile and plough into one of them. It’s full of James Patterson novels, and I eagerly dig them out. “So where are you from, Noah?”

  “Uh…” He’s speechless for a second or two. I seem to have caught him off guard. Just making conversation, buddy.

  “Uh… sorry. Chicago. I’ve always lived around here.” He stacks a bunch of books half haphazardly. He obviously doesn’t care about his bookshelves as much as I do. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Originally from Michigan, but I’ve lived around here for about eighteen years.”

  He pauses and turns to me. “Do you miss it?”

  “Nope,” I say decidedly. I definitely don’t. I would rather forget the whole thing actually.

  “So, what do you do, Abby?” he asks politely. “Uh… when you’re working?”

  I smile up at him. “I’m a social worker. I love it.”

  He nods. “Yep, that seems about right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You strike me as a giving person, that’s all. I have a feel for these things, you know.”

  I laugh. “Oh, so are you a psychic?” I tease.

  “Kind of,” he jokes. “You better watch it, I can read your mind. And I know more about you than you might think, Miss Abby.”

  I laugh out loud. “Okay… I’ll bite. What am I thinking right now?”

  He cocks a brow in thought. “You’re thinking that you are very lucky to be stacking books on a Wednesday afternoon, right next to the most devilishly handsome man you’ve ever seen.”

  I laugh again, and I don’t admit that he’s spot-on.

  “Full of yourself much?” I joke.

  “Hey, what can I say. I have a mirror.”

  I shake my head. “Well, you’re right about the Wednesday afternoon thing. Unemployment does have its benefits. Maybe I don’t want that job after all.”

  “What job?”

  “Oh, I applied for a position at Warden Social Services. I’m waiting to hear back.”

  He smiles down at me. “Well, I really hope you get it. And if you don’t, come over and we’ll drown your sorrows in Sangria. I make an excellent Sangria.”

  I smile so hard, my face hurts. “Sounds like a plan. Either way, I win.”

  We’ve only spent a total of an hour or so together, and I already feel connected to him. I wonder if he has that effect on everyone. He probably does. Some people are just like that. Before I can think it through and stop myself, I say, “Listen… I’m making an Asian dinner tonight, and I was wondering if you’d like to come over. It’s kind of depressing eating by myself.”

  Could I have sounded any more pathetic? I desperately want a do-over. I’m sure I could have extended the invitation without sounding so desperate. Unfortunately, I don’t have a time-travel machine.

  A smile slowly curves his lips. “You mean… like a date?”

  “Uh… no,” I’m quick to clarify. “More like a friendly neighbors dinner.” I barely know you. You’re way too young for me. Not a date.

  “I’d love it. I love Asian food,” he says. “What time?”

  Something tells me this guy pretty much loves everything. “Six o’clock-ish?”

  “Sounds great.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Well, until then, we’ve got a lot of book stacking to do.”

  I’m chopping a mango when Izzie suddenly pops into my head, as she often does.

  Izzie was a little spitfire, always up to no good. Which was probably the reason I liked her so much. I enjoyed getting into trouble, and I could never feel too guilty because Izzie was always the brainchild behind our shenanigans.

  Every day with Izzie was a new adventure.

  And I loved spending time with her family. While mine was very dysfunctional; alcoholic dad, dead mom and deadbeat brothers, hers was more traditional. Her mom always had dinner on the table, and her dad always had a smile on his face. And they had a seat at the table specially for me. I often had dinner at Izzie’s because it certainly beat making myself my own; my specialty were canned soup, cereal and crackers and cheese. I really have no clue what my brothers and my dad ate. Sometimes, I’d offer to make them a little something while I was at it.

  Izzie’s family, on the other hand, all sat together at the kitchen table for dinner. Izzie beside her big brother Danny, her parents at the heads of the table, and me next to little Abe. The window looked onto the porch and I’d often gaze outside as we ate. We usually had spaghetti, or Shepard’s p
ie, fried steak and potatoes served with dill pickles and sandwich bread. In the summer, they’d have veggies and fruit from the garden. Sometimes though, her dad wouldn’t be there. He’d be away for weeks at a time in the bush on jobs. She’d grown up with the man of the house being frequently away, and her and her mom and brothers were used to it.

  Izzie’s mom, Adele, always told me I was like another daughter to her and that I was welcome at their house anytime. Truth be told, I wished I were hers. Every single day.

  My cell shrills, jolting me out of my reverie. I hastily wipe my hands on my apron, and pick it up.

  “Sorry, Claudia. Can’t really talk right now… making a big Asian dinner.”

  “Ooooh,” she coos. “Can Colton and I come over?”

  “Uh… not really,” I say apologetically. “I’m having someone over for dinner.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, don’t sound so surprised. I know I’m kind of a hermit but—”

  “Seriously, who?”

  I wince a bit before admitting the embarrassing truth. “The neighbor next door.”

  “Really?” She squeals. “The young hottie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cradle robber,” she teases. “No seriously though… you go, girl. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “You know me… I probably won’t.”

  “Oh, you’re no fun.”

  I laugh. “Okay, gotta go, Claudia.”

  I’m still smiling as I get back to my dinner preparations. The ground beef is cooking in an oversized pan, and the veggies for the fried rice are in the other. I’ve chopped the mango and the red pepper for the salad, and I pull out my favorite plates to set the table. I debate getting the candle holders. They would add a nice touch, but it might send the wrong message.

  This is not a date.

  6

  About fifteen minutes later, my doorbell buzzes, and my heart does a little dance. I quickly check myself in the hall mirror by the entry. Lipstick and hair in check… good.

  Noah is smiling widely when I swing the door open.