Soaring (Magdalene #2)(3)

Although I agreed, it was then I rather tardily became embarrassed by that scene. So much so, for the first time in years, I felt heat in my cheeks.

I looked to his shoulder and murmured, “This is true. However, I’ll do my best to make certain you don’t have to do that again.”

“Amelia.”

Startled by the gentle way the rough velvet of his deep voice enveloped my name, and my extreme reaction to it, my gaze darted to his.

“I’m divorced,” he declared bluntly. “Shit happens. Sometimes it isn’t pretty. I get it. I hope I don’t have to do that again too, just because I don’t want it to happen to you again. But if it does, and you can’t handle it, I’m right across the way. That isn’t an offer I’m makin’ just to make it. I mean it. Whatever happened between you and that guy happened. Now this is your home and a home should be a safe place. Even if you weren’t at your home, he should respect you. You demand that, and he doesn’t agree, I’ll be there to make him agree or make it stop. And I mean that.”

He wasn’t lying. He meant it. I could tell by looking in his eyes. He was a nice man. He was a good neighbor. He believed women should be shown respect. He was the kind of man who would step in and do what he could to make that so if need be.

He also didn’t know me. If he did, if he knew what I’d done, he might no longer believe in that so thoroughly.

And that was when I knew he wouldn’t know me.

I’d be a nice neighbor. A good one. If he had a dog and went on vacation, I’d watch it. I’d do my best to keep my ex-husband from shouting obscenities at me in my front door, disturbing the neighborhood. I’d keep my yard nice. I’d put attractive, but not outlandish or overwhelming, holiday decorations out. I wouldn’t play loud music. I’d wave if I saw him driving by or mowing his lawn. And if he needed a cup of sugar, I would be his go-to girl.

But other than that, he would not know me.

He didn’t need me in his life.

I didn’t even like me in my life.

Alas, I couldn’t escape me.

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him. “Except to thank you again.”

He gave me another grin, which also gave me another stomach curl, then he looked beyond me into the house.

“You need help with anything?” he offered.

I did. Absolutely. I had hours of unpacking, cleaning, arranging, organizing, hanging, shoving furniture around. All of this and I was not handy in any way. I might be relatively adept with a screwdriver, but I’d had several go-arounds with a drill and not a one of them was pretty.

Back in La Jolla, after Conrad left me, I’d had a handyman. I’d also had landscape and cleaning services. I’d even had a young woman who made extra cash for college by running errands for me, like getting my groceries and picking up dry cleaning. The only thing I did was pay my bills.

Now I had none of that.

This was me starting anew.

This was me creating a new me.

I didn’t think Mickey wanted to hear any of this and he’d already been kind enough to come over and intervene when Conrad was shouting at me, so I decided not to ask him to help me unpack boxes and hang pictures.

“I’m good,” I told him.

He clearly didn’t believe me and he didn’t hide the fact he didn’t. It was not only written on his face but right there in his eyes.

He wasn’t wrong.

I kept silent and didn’t amend my statement. That was part of me keeping myself to me. Being a nice guy who would intervene when a man was shouting at a woman, he didn’t need the mess I’d made of my life to touch his in any way. And I was going to see that didn’t happen.

“You do, you know where I live,” he replied.

I nodded. “Thanks. That’s very kind.”

And again I got his grin. Seeing it, feeling it, I wondered how it would affect me if he actually smiled.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Amelia,” he said quietly.

I forced my lips to smile. “Thanks, Mickey.”

When I said that, he gave me more. His eyes warmed and that did things to me I’d never experienced. I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the genuineness I saw there. The friendliness that was just real and nothing else.

Whatever it was, it did a number on me and I wanted to crawl into it, into him, burrowing deep, wrapping myself in that warmth and doing it so tight it would seep into my bones and force out the cold that lay in my marrow since I was able to understand how to feel.

He lifted a hand in a casual way and dropped it. “See you around.”

“Yes,” I replied, my voice strange, husky, like I was about to start crying. “Yeah. See you around.”

He studied me for another second before he did a short nod, turned and walked down my front walk that was also jagged, inlaid here and there with interesting pieces of glass, edged in a thick line of travertine.

I stood and took in the way he walked, how comfortable he was with his bulky frame. I also fully took in his clothing.

He was a firefighter.

That was not surprising.

Then it struck me that I was standing in my doorway watching him, and if he caught me, what that might say, so I quickly jumped back and closed the door.

I turned to my living room.

Upon arriving in Magdalene the day before, I’d picked up the keys and the garage door openers and done the first walk-through of my house.