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If what Heather says is true, the dad wants to stay out of my way as much as possible. And he’s kind of weird. Cold, I think was the adjective she used. Which is fine. When he’s home during the season, I get a free place to live, and he resumes his dad duties. When he’s away, I get to make my teacher’s salary in a third of the time and probably a tenth of the effort.
To say that I’m excited to start this job is an understatement. As long as the house doesn’t smell like a locker room with used hockey gear, I’ll be a happy girl.
I pick one of the smaller boxes from the rental truck and carry it towards the ornate front door. This house is tucked away on a cul-de-sac with beautiful white oak trees that shade the sidewalk from the road, creating a little bit of privacy. The text I got from Sean, the dad, said I could start to move in anytime between eleven and one, that he’d be home to show me around and give me the keys I would need.
That’s all I know about this house that I’m staying in, which isn’t a lot, but it has to be better than where I was before. That was more than enough to get me to sign the contract and tell my apartment office to shove it. I was paying to live in a nice area, but the apartment itself was kind of awful. As long as I have my own room and bathroom here, I know I’ll be happy.
I knock on the door, not sure it’s polite to just walk right in on my first day.
No one answers. I knock again, my fist beating against the door a little more aggressively, when it opens.
“Oh, sorry,” I start to say, I don’t want to come off as rude. Maybe there was a doorbell I should have rung instead. I shift the box in my arms to better apologize, but my words dry up as I forget how to speak.
It’s him. Shit.
He’s unmistakable. The man from the other day. His large frame fills the doorway. His hair is more disheveled than I remember, the dark ends flopping in his eyes as the wind blows against my back. He runs a hand through the tussled ends. His long fingers combing through until he can look at me.
Oh no. I am fucked.
“Hi, uh,” I say. I shift the box to my other hip. It was the lightest box in my car, but it sure doesn’t feel that way now.
“What are you doing here,” he asks, accusatorily.
Great. I’m never rude to anyone. Never. My mom always said that being rude to someone had its consequences. I took it to heart. I’m actually known for being quite nice and upbeat. The other day was the first time in a while that I snapped at someone. I didn’t realize my first-time offense would carry such consequences.
“I’m Astrid.”
“You’re Astrid?” He repeats it like a question he doesn’t understand the answer too.
“Right, so…” I shift the box again. “Are you going to let me in or?”
He doesn’t step aside at first, and there is certainly no space to scoot around him. His shoulders nearly fill the open space and when he rests a hand against the top of the door frame, I give up hoping that he’ll step aside.
“Did you know it was me?” he asks.
“What?”
“Is that why you’re here? You’re stalking me?”
I blink, slowly realizing what he’s accusing me of. “Did I know the rude man lecturing me instead of helping me when I was hurt was going to become my boss? No. Can’t say that I knew that.” I give up on the box, letting it thud to the brick walkway in front of the house.
“I’m not your boss,” he says, still not moving.
I roll my eyes. “Are you going to invite me in, or did you forget the contract?” I made sure to get a contract. We both signed it electronically. I’m not about to risk being kicked out of another place. I’ve bought myself nine months, guaranteed, or he has to pay me out.
His lips flatten as he considers me, and for a moment, I think he’s really about to turn me away.
Asshole.
“You can come in,” he says, clearly reluctant.
I sigh. I should’ve done research before agreeing to this. I know better. Sean Daniels, it would’ve been super easy to search. I know what team he plays for, The New Jersey Devils, where he lives, the Glades. A quick look on the internet would’ve brought pictures up and told me that this man is the same one who lectured me on my run the other morning.
I bend down to get my box, but his hand grabs my wrist. “Don’t,” he says. “I’ll get it.” He scoops the box up and shifts it so that he can hold it with one arm wrapped around it.
Jesus. He’s tall tall.
“This is the living room,” he points to an open-concept space.
