Second First Impressions(18)

“Sorry to bother you,” Teddy says when I open my door.

I’m still holding the button in a half in/half out purgatory and it’s pretty obvious I was about to undress. For a moment, my heart is in my throat. I don’t know him, and in this low light he’s positively vampiric, with sharp-looking teeth and an interested gleam in his eye.

He reads me and steps back, facing away. “I can come back.”

“No, it’s fine. What’s up?” I redo the button. And the one above it for good measure. I’m tortoising.

“Where’s the hot-water unit?”

“We share one. Sorry, I didn’t think.” I walk a few yards inside and he isn’t following me. It occurs to me that vampires need to be invited in. “Uh, enter.”

He comes in and looks around slowly. “I love your wallpaper. It’s a repro Morris pattern, right?”

He really is into design. “Yes, it’s called Blackthorn. I hung it myself.” I bought one roll per paycheck for an entire year. Sylvia cackled at my folly, decorating something that isn’t even mine. I’ve enclosed myself in this dark, flowered forest and I’m glad I did. Especially right now.

Teddy takes out his phone and begins to pick out details and sections to photograph. “It reminds me of the endpapers of a fairy-tale book.” Now he strokes down the wall, and I swear, I feel his palm down my back. “You did a perfect job, Ruthie. The pattern’s lined up so well.”

His fingers marked GIVE find the line between the sheets and slide up. Forgotten parts of my body tighten in response.

Wallpaper gets more action than me. “Thanks. Do you like flowers?”

“The guys at the studio give me shit, but I’ve got a real thing for flowers. I love doing them on clients.” He exhales, dramatic and shivery. “Can I put your walls all over me?”

I wonder what it’s like to just say whatever outrageous thing is in your head. My voice is tight with frustration at myself when all I manage to parry back is, “Go right ahead.”

He mistakes my tone for censure. “Sorry. I always seem to say the stupidest stuff to you.” Now the moment is over and he’s in my linen closet. “I knew you’d have a label maker. So what am I looking for here? I can’t see it.”

“The hot-water unit.”

“Where?”

It is an ancient metal drum, it takes up half the space, and is taller than me. I’m looking up to check if he’s a very unobservant person when I see his eyes are sparkling with fun. He says, “Oh, there it is. Ruthie, why didn’t you label it?”

A joke where I’m the punch line. My favorite kind. “There’s a big lever on the back of it. I’ll get it— ”

I haven’t finished my sentence when he’s knelt down, reached back, and said, “There.”

“Oh. Wasn’t it hard?”

“Nah,” he says, back on his feet, wiping his palm on his knee. Having biceps and strong hands must be nice.

“Now you can have a hot bath.”

“A bath,” he repeats, eyes sideways to my bathroom, where the tap is pouring gallons of our now-shared water. What a dumb suggestion. Do men even have baths? But then he says, “I never thought of that. Maybe I will.”

I walk in and turn off the faucet. “I’ll try to not use all the water.”

To my back he says, “Don’t change your routine on my account.” Funny, that was just what I was telling myself, right before he appeared and interrupted it. He leans on the bathroom doorframe, rubbing his face. “I would kill to have a routine.”

“I take it your life has been a little unstructured lately.”

“That’s an elegant way to describe it. Unstructured.” He hesitates, then apparently decides to confide in me. “When you were a kid, did you have a bedtime? Strict parents?” I nod. “I want a label maker, but I think it’s too late for me.”

“It’s not too late.” I want his smile to come back. “I can give you a bedtime if that’s helpful.”

He’s looking at me, then away, cataloging the room.

Now back to me.

Is seeing me out of an office context weird for him? The candles glow in his eyes, his dark hair is cloaking him, and I think of old-fashioned illustrations of the devil. What would my parents say if they knew I was in the same room as this man? They would say a prayer.

I should feel unsafe and scared. I don’t. “So you got the job for the Parlonis.”

“I did.”

“What shirt did you buy?”

“I went to the thrift store on Martin Street and found a vintage blouse. I think it was a kid’s shirt. Seemed about her size. It was a cream color, so I wasn’t sure if it counted. I wanted to call you and cheat.” He grins and I swear, the candles all flare. In a voice like velvet he adds, “Can I have your number?”

It’s a rookie error to give your number to a Parloni assistant. “That’s actually my favorite store. Who was working? A young guy?”

Eyebrows down. “Yeah. Does he have your number?”

“No, that’s Kurt. He puts aside things in my size he thinks I’ll like, but he’s usually so off base. He picks out some really short skirts.” My current hemline is more on the ankle end of the scale.