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“I’m sorry you were so worried, Dolly,” Paige apologized. “I didn’t realize my keys were still in the lock.”
“I’m glad you’re all right. My goodness, I almost had a heart attack.”
“I … when I got home a little while ago … you know what happened? I heard my phone ringing inside and must have accidentally left my keys in the door. You know, in my haste to answer the phone.”
David shook his head at the terrible lie. Paige didn’t even have a landline inside her apartment, which was hopefully something Mrs. Harte didn’t know.
“You do seem a little out of breath,” the older woman said.
At that innocent observation, David had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
“I know,” Paige replied. “I probably shouldn’t have bothered to answer it.”
“Was it one of those awful telemarketers calling you?”
“It was, actually. Someone wanting to sell me life insurance.”
David rolled his eyes, wondering what Paige looked like when she was laying out bald-faced lies.
“I get those calls all the time,” Mrs. Harte continued. “And those robot calls, or whatever they’re called, are even worse. That’s all I seem to get during election year—sometimes in the middle of the night. I’ve been unplugging my phone just so I can sleep.”
“Oh, me, too.”
David rubbed a hand through his hair, then over his beard. “Come on, Paige,” he murmured. What was she doing out there? Now was not the time for a long conversation with her neighbor.
“And then there’s the junk emails. It’s not as bad as real junk mail, but it’s close.” Mrs. Harte made a sound of disgust.
“Do you have any filters set up on your email account?” Paige asked.
“Filters? I’m sure I don’t.”
“I could come over and help you with that, if you’d like. Maybe this weekend? Then you wouldn’t get so much spam.”
David began pacing. What part of getting rid of the old woman quickly did Paige not understand? He thought he’d been very clear on that, but apparently he hadn’t.
“Spam?” Mrs. Harte asked.
“That’s what junk emails are called.”
“Oh, I see. Well, that would be wonderful if you could help me get rid of all my spam.”
“How about Sunday? Late afternoon?”
“That’s perfect. I’ll make us dinner,” Mrs. Harte offered. “How does that sound?”
“Are you sure? I hate to have you go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. You’re the one going to the trouble of helping me, so it’s the least I can do. I’ll make some of my chicken noodle soup that you like so much.”
David stopped by the door, positive this was where Paige was finally going to bring the conversation to a close. His hard-on had long since bid him adios, but it wouldn’t take much to bring it back—
“That sounds good,” Paige said. “And I’ll bring something for dessert.”
“Maybe some of those delicious lemon squares?”
Paige laughed. “Sure.”
David threw his hands up in the air. Paige was supposed to be getting rid of the woman, not laughing and making plans for dinner, for Christ’s sake. Not knowing who he was more aggravated with—Paige or Mrs. Harte—he turned to start pacing again, only to be surprised by Sputnik standing right behind him.
