Pen Pal(9)

“It’s Aidan. And how are you living in a house this size if you don’t have any money?”

“That’s a very personal question that I’m not going to answer. And I never said I didn’t have any money. I said I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

He leans over, rests those big tattooed forearms on the table, and threads his fingers together. “So we’re negotiating.”

His intensity is formidable, but I don’t want him to think he’s intimidating me. I sit up straighter in the chair and lift my chin. “You say that like negotiating is your favorite thing.”

“It is.”

“Hmm. I would’ve guessed charming potential clients with your dazzling sense of humor.”

“No. That’s my second favorite thing.”

We’re staring at each other again. Once again, neither of us is smiling.

Finally, I say, “Four thousand.”

His snort indicates what he thinks of my opening bid.

“It’s double your materials cost.”

“I’m able to do basic math, thank you. Ten thousand.”

“I thought we were negotiating.”

“We are.”

“Then you can’t just keep saying the same number.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Lucky for me you’re not the one with the upper hand here.”

I stare at him in outrage with my mouth hanging open. Then a strange thing happens: he smiles.

“I just wanted to see what you’d do when I said that.”

I’d like to run him over with my car. I say firmly, “Forty-five hundred.”

“Ninety-nine-ninety-nine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We’ve already established I don’t have a sense of humor.”

“If you’re going to come down by one dollar every time we go back and forth, we’ll be here until next year.”

His gaze is level and his voice is cool. “You got somewhere else to be, Kayla?”

Is he screwing with me? What exactly is going on?

Another rumble of thunder makes the kitchen windows shiver in their frames. The rain starts to fall harder, pattering against the roof. The drips falling into the buckets on the floor pick up speed, little ploop ploop ploops that seem to mock me.

Like Mr. Personality here is.

“I can’t afford ten thousand dollars to fix my roof. Or ninety-nine-ninety-nine, either. So thank you for your time.” I leave the quote on the table, stand, and gaze down my nose at him. “I appreciate you coming out.”

He looks up at me. His dark eyes are calculating. “What if I throw in the electrical?”

“That’s generous, but it won’t make money magically appear in my bank account. Nice to meet you. I’ll show you out.”

I walk away, expecting him to rise and follow me. When he doesn’t, I stop and turn around.

He’s still sitting there at my kitchen table. He isn’t even looking at me, he’s just watching the water drip into the buckets on the floor.

“Mr. Leighrite.”

Without turning his head, he says, “It’s Aidan. And if you can afford five grand, I know a guy who can help you out.”

I think about that. “Is he licensed?”

He makes a small motion of his head, a shake that seems to indicate his amazement at my stupidity.

I say crossly, “I’m not letting anybody work on my property who isn’t licensed and insured. I’m sure I don’t have to go over all the reasons why.”

His shoulders rise and fall as he inhales and exhales. He runs a hand through his thick dark hair. Then he shakes his head again and rises.

He walks to where I’m standing and gazes down at me. “It’s me. I’m the guy. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Cash or check, I don’t take credit cards.”

Then he brushes past me and leaves without asking if we have a deal.

He already knows we have a deal because I’m desperate.

The son of a bitch just checkmated me.





7





At eight o’clock sharp the next morning, Mr. Personality knocks on my door.

Pounds on it actually, with brutal force. As if he’s the leader of a SWAT team, and he’s been tasked with taking down a group of crazed hostage-takers to save a hundred people’s lives.

I open the door and stare at him. “Good morning, Mr. Leighrite. What’s the emergency?”

Frowning, he looks me up and down.

Because the house is freezing, I’m wearing a bulky sweater with a down vest over it along with sweatpants and a scarf, but the man looks at me like I’m wearing a beehive on top of my head paired with assless leather chaps.

He asks, “You okay?”

“Do I look as if I’m not okay? No, don’t answer that. Why were you trying to break down my door?”

“I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.”

“I see your sense of time is as good as your sense of humor.”

He holds up his arm. Wrapped around his thick wrist is a chunky black watch. Some kind of sports thing that tracks your steps and spies on you while you sleep. He taps the crystal. The readout shows ten after eight.