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Eventually, I make it to the Historic District. It may not be the most upscale area of Fallbank, but it has a certain rustic charm to it. Rent here, despite its name, is much more affordable compared to downtown. I saved what I could while living with Aunt Maeve. But without a college degree, it’s difficult to afford a high-end apartment in today’s economy. I pull over and park in front of a russet-colored brick building.
Taking a moment to settle my mind and quiet my growling stomach, I turn off the car but leave the radio on. I reach for a protein bar from the bag and sip my coffee. The scent of freshly mowed grass drifts in through the window. I watch as kids ride by on their bikes, their carefree laughter making me wish I could go back to a time when my parents were still together. Before being trapped with Patricia’s shitty boyfriend.
I’m about to tear open the bag of trail mix when a familiar woman taps on the passenger side window. My muscles tense instinctively as I pause the music before rolling down the window. “Hey, Mrs. Evans. How are you?” I say, trying to sound more relaxed than I feel.
“Please, no need for formalities. Just call me Nancy, dear.” She waves a dismissive hand and smiles. “And I’m doing fine. I’m just glad to see that my new tenant has made it here safe and sound.”
I can’t help but return her smile. Nancy Evans is my new landlord. She’s a bit of a flaky oddball, but she’s a kind soul. She reminds me of one of the older ladies I used to eat lunch with at the mall food court. “It’s been a long drive, that’s for sure.”
She leans into the car and hands me a manila envelope. “This has your keys to your apartment and the building itself. There’s also a copy of your lease and other important documents. Welcome to Grand Pointe Apartments, Ms. Underwood!”
“Thank you.” I chuckle. “Please, call me Mia, Nancy.”
“Alright, Mia,” she says, turning to walk away. “Happy to have you here.”
I slump against my seat as she leaves down the sidewalk. After taking another sip of coffee, I open the envelope and peek inside. Snatching the keys, I read the tag attached to the ring:#5, 2nd floor.
I hope I can settle here for more than seven months this time.
Finishing the trail mix, I drink the rest of my coffee, knowing I’ll need the energy to help haul my things inside. As if on cue, the moving truck appears down the road, right on time. I wipe my hands on my shorts, pocket my keys, and flag the movers down.
Between forking over the security deposit and travel expenses, I could only afford to pay the company enough to stick around for an hour. I frequently downsize my possessions when moving, so I’m prepared for situations like this. “I live on the second floor, apartment five. You guys can take care of the furniture,” I say to one of the movers. “I’ve got pretty much everything else.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with concern.
I shrug and grab a box from the truck. “Don’t worry, I can handle it. I’ve done this before.”
I lead the way, carrying the box up two flights of stairs. Because of the building’s age, there is no elevator. And a key is required to get in. I’ve never been wealthy enough to afford a place with a door entry code, unfortunately. I unlock my apartment and motion for the movers to drop things off.
After lugging up two more boxes, I feel sweat trickling down my neck. I let out a huff of annoyance and use the scrunchie around my wrist to tie my hair into a ponytail. It only serves as a reminder that I should give myself a haircut soon.And another dye job, I think, twirling a faded red strand around my finger. Leaving that problem for future me, I steel myself for another trip downstairs and start descending the steps—when I practically collide with a broad chest.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” comes an unexpectedly gentle voice.
“No, no. It’s my fault. I was … distracted,” I say, quickly regaining my composure. Whoever this man is, he’s cute. Tall, dark hair, strong jaw. He’s wearing a muted cardigan and dark khakis. He doesn’t seem much older than me.
My type, but also—not my type?
“Are you new here?” he asks, pushing the rim of his glasses up his nose, ignoring my gaze. “I mean, you’re the new tenant, right?”
God, I hope I don’t make this awkward.“Yep, that’s me.” I gesture toward my apartment. “Just getting my stuff moved in right now.”
He smiles warmly, revealing two deep dimples on his cheeks. “Looks like we’re gonna be neighbors then,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I’m Blake Sullivan. I live up on the third floor.”
Oh no, those dimples are adorable.I accept his offer. “I’m Mia Underwood,” I say, the lie easily rolling off my tongue.
No one can ever know who I really am.
He leans against the railing. “Lovely to meet you, Mia.” He cranes his neck, glimpsing the movers exiting my apartment. “Need any help, by the way? I’m on my lunch break, so …”
“Yes, please. I would appreciate the help.”
Blake accompanies me to the moving truck, where we carry the remaining boxes up the stairs. By the time we complete our task, an hour has passed. I profusely thank the movers before they depart and I turn, again nearly running straight into Blake.
I take a moment to compose myself and paste on a friendly smile. “Thank you so much for your help,” I say, genuinely grateful.
He chuckles. “You’re welcome,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch. “Unfortunately, my lunch break is over. Have to get back to work.”
I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that my interaction with the cute neighbor guy is ending. Just as he’s about to leave, I call out to him. “Hey, Blake, wait!”
