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“Totally relate but actually, I helped my mom hang like five huge family portraits not that long ago so I’m kind of a pro.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, so ya know, give me a call if you want help. Seriously. I’ll just be in the park playing sand volleyball with the guys or maybe down at North Ave Beach trying to soak up the last few warm days of summer. Speaking of which, you’re more than welcome to come if you want.”
“That’s super nice. Thanks so much for the invite.” I try to give as noncommittal of an answer as possible. Not because I don’t want to go, but I don’t want to give Preston the wrong idea. He’s sweet and definitely attractive, but I’m just not interested in him like that.
“So, I should probably get your number in case you want help with that picture?” He gives me a coy grin.
“Oh, yeah, for sure.” Shit, now I’m really giving him the wrong idea.
“Great, here’s my phone; you can just type it in.”
I type my name and number, hit save, and hand it back to him.
“Cool, see you this weekend maybe.” He waves and backs out of the room.
When I turn my attention back to the classroom, Daisy and her father are nowhere to be seen.
I spend my Friday night on the couch… like every other weekend. I’m usually too exhausted by the end of the week to go out anyway and being that Xana and Ryan are homebodies, I don’t really have anyone to go out with.
Partying was never my scene for very long. I went to my fair share of frat and house parties in college but after, I was happier staying home with Carson or hosting game nights with our friends.
I roll from my side to my back, staring up at the ceiling as another episode of Law and Order: SVU starts up, the theme music a permanent fixture in my brain as I think it is in probably most of us.
I lift my foot to stare at my socks. “What’s wrong with my fuzzy socks?” I mutter, thinking about Weston’s comment. These ones are pale pink with little bunches of kale on them and the phrase I don’t kale at all written in yellow across the top. “I happen to think they’re cu—” A knock on my door startles me and I turn to look at it as if that will explain who it is. I drop my leg, sitting up as the person knocks again.
“Who is it?” I say timidly as I tiptoe toward the door, worried it’s my odd neighbor, Steve. There’s no answer. I stand on my tiptoes, peering through the peephole but the person is blocking it with their thumb. I hesitate for a moment, one hand on the handle, the other on the deadbolt. I unlock it, slowly turning the handle and opening the door a few inches to see Weston Vaughn with a scowl on his face.
“Why the fuck are you opening the door when you can’t see who it is?”
Chapter 8
Weston
Her eyes are big, surprise written all over her face, but in an instant it’s replaced with a scowl.
“What are you doing here—again?”
“You didn’t answer my question. Do you always just open the door to strangers, completely unaware?” I step into her apartment, causing her to back up. I close the door and lock it again.
“No, it’s not like I get a lot of strangers knocking on my door. I thought it might have just been my neighbor asking me to hang out again.”
“Hang out?”
“Yeah, like to watch a movie or play video games with him,” she says casually.
“Him?” I crook an eyebrow, trying to keep that jealous feeling at bay.
“He’s harmless, trust me. He’s just awkward and probably lonely. I don’t think he has any friends. Now, I answered a lot of your questions so back to mine. What are you doing here—I don’t see Daisy with you this time.”
I look down at her outfit, noticing she’s wearing the fuzzy socks again and it makes me smile. Her shorts are almost nonexistent beneath her oversized t-shirt. Her hair is in two braids hanging down over her shoulders.
“I heard you needed a picture hung.”
“Eavesdropping again, Mr. Vaughn?” She cocks her head, a smirk on her face. It’s funny to see how she slips between that nervous, bubbly woman I met in Paris and this feisty, combative woman standing before me.
“Do you always have to be argumentative?” I snap, instantly feeling bad. I hate that I can’t control my tone with her. It’s childish. I want her to want me just as badly but I can’t figure out if she truly does hate me or if this is just a game of playing hard to get. “No,” I soften my tone, “it’s not eavesdropping when you were having the conversation loud enough that I could clearly hear you from where I was standing.” We both stand there in silence for a moment. “So,” I say as I remove my suit jacket and place it neatly on the back of one of her barstools, “do you want to show me where the picture needs to be hung?”
