Pen Pal(10)

“Ten minutes. And for the fourth time, it’s Aidan.”

Didn’t I just look at the clock in the kitchen? It said eight on the nose. Flustered, I say, “Sorry. My clocks must be off.”

“Is your hearing off, too?”

Because it seems to be our thing, we stand there and stare at each other in silence.

Until he demands, “Look, are you letting me in or not?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, decide. I’m not getting any younger.”

How old is he? Thirty? Thirty-five? Hard to tell. He’s in great shape, whatever his age. God, those biceps are huge. And those thighs could crush a Volkswagen.

“Yes, come in,” I say too loudly, trying to drown out the idiotic voice in my head simpering over his big stupid muscles.

Avoiding his eyes, I leave the door open and turn and walk into the kitchen. I sit down at the table, then stand up again because I don’t know what to do with myself.

The front door closes. Heavy footsteps cross through the foyer. He lumbers into the kitchen and stands a few feet away from me.

We commence our silent staring game of Who Will Say Something Strange First.

I break under the strain before he does. “I have your money.”

He looks at my empty hands. “Do I have to dig around in your backyard for it, or are you gonna give it to me?”

“You know, I think you lied when you said you don’t have a sense of humor. I think you’re a big frickin’ comedian.”

“You can curse in front of me if you want. I won’t get offended.”

I take a moment to massage my pounding forehead before sighing. “That’s very generous. Thank you. I was up all night worrying about how not to upset your delicacy.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, my delicacy is as solid as my humor.”

Either he’s trying not to smile, or he’s having painful stomach cramps. It’s hard to tell. The man has a face like a brick wall.

“You said a check was okay, right?”

He inclines his head.

Today he’s wearing another version of lumberjack chic, with an untucked, faded black-and-red plaid flannel to go along with the faded jeans. His boots are—

“Oh no.”

Following my gaze, he looks down at his feet. “What?”

“You tracked mud all over my floor.”

He glances back up at me. “You don’t have a doormat. And it’s raining outside.”

“You make a good point.”

“Plus, this floor is pretty dirty anyway.”

“Excuse me, but I just mopped it.”

“When? A hundred years ago?”

My neck starts to burn with anger. Man, this guy gets under my skin!

Glaring at him, I say flatly, “Yes, Mr. Leighrite. A hundred years ago. I’m going to go get my checkbook. Do I make the check to Godzilla or should I just leave it blank?”

“Godzilla’s fine,” he replies, gazing steadily at me. “What should I put on your receipt? Dragon Lady With the Sad Eyes?”

I can’t argue with the first thing. But the second one annoys me. “I don’t have sad eyes.”

He takes a beat to consider me before saying, “It’s none of my business, but if you need some help—”

“I don’t need any help,” I interrupt hotly. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Didn’t say there was,” Aidan replies softly.

But his gaze isn’t as tranquil as his voice. His eyes are like his fist pounding on my front door, loudly demanding an answer.

With my heart racing, I say, “You know what? I don’t think this is going to work. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m going to ask you to leave now.”

Rain thrums against the roof. A gust of wind rattles the windows. Somewhere upstairs, a loose shutter bangs back and forth, rusty hinges groaning.

After a long, tense moment, Aidan says, “Okay.” He turns and walks to the front door.

I’m relieved until he turns back and gazes at me. His eyes are dark and penetrating. It feels as if they can see straight down to the bottom of my soul.

“But if you change your mind, Kayla, you’ve got my number.”

I don’t know if he means changing my mind about needing help with my roof or something else.

He walks out, closing the front door behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull the scarf from around my burning neck and go to the powder room down the hall. I switch on the light, then stand in front of the mirror and look at myself, trying to determine what’s so wrong with my eyes.

I gasp in shock when I see the ugly purple splotches encircling my neck.

The one just beneath my left earlobe looks like it was made by a thumb.





Five days later, the marks on my neck have completely faded. I searched the internet for causes of unexplained bruising and found everything from diabetes to vitamin deficiencies.

Considering my poor diet and the amount of stress I’ve been under lately, I’m betting it has to do with that. I’m probably anemic, which would also explain the fatigue.

The marks could also have been caused by the accident.

But I don’t want to think about that. Because thinking about it would mean remembering it, reliving it, and I’m not prepared for that yet. I doubt I’ll ever be. I’ve put that horrible day into a box and put the box up on a high shelf in the back of my mind for safekeeping.