work.” She pulled her car fob from her pocket, pressed the button, and a few yards away her BMW roared to life. She hopped into her car, turned on her wipers and waved goodbye, leaving me blowing warm air into my frozen hands. I must admit, once in a while I did envy Toni her money. Today, standing in the cold and watching her leave in her big warm car, was one of those times.
*
Thirty minutes later, I pulled to a stop on the now snow-covered pad behind my house, relieved that my golf cart—as Toni referred to my car—had made it home safely on the ice-covered streets.
I sludged around the side of the house through the ankle-deep snow to let myself in by the front entrance. That way, if Mitchell happened to be looking out I could casually wave him over. I kept my fingers crossed that he might catch a glimpse of me today. It wasn’t every day I was made up by a professional and looked amazing.
Having my boyfriend living right next door should have been great. At least that was what I thought when we first started dating. A smile as I came up my walk, the whiff of something delicious I was cooking, or simply a quick phone call should be all it took for him to hop over the wrought iron fence that divided our front stoops and come knocking at my door. In reality, living in such close proximity—one thin, sound-carrying common wall apart—was not always wonderful. Every time I waved at him, I was afraid he’d feel obligated to come over. Then, if I didn’t wave, I worried he’d think I was ignoring him. And of course there was the uncontrollable desire to put my ear to the wall when I heard the phone ring in his house, and spy on his comings and goings when his door slammed. Whenever he left looking scrumptious, I’d wonder where he was going, who he was meeting.
Toni was right. I did have to stop myself from following him. I wondered if he felt claustrophobic, having me just next door. Would it be better for both of us if we lived farther apart? I’d been wondering a lot about that lately.
Last summer, after my ex-boyfriend’s untimely death, the last thing in the world I was looking for was another relationship. But Mitchell moved in next door, and he was cute. At first, I didn’t know what to make of him. Here was a mid-thirties man who spent all his time sitting by the window instead of going to work like a normal person. Until I learned that he was a writer, and that his desk sat in front of the living room window, I thought he might be a peeping Tom, or maybe under house arrest. We became friends, and then gradually the friendship ignited into a romance.
After making sure the puppies’ crate was clean, that the water bowls were full and they were all comfortable, I checked the phone for messages—still nothing. I ignored my disappointment and headed back out to my car, using the front entrance again, just in case he happened to be looking out the window. I was halfway down the walk when I heard a door open and my named called out.
Mitchell . I swung around, hoping I didn’t look too overjoyed. It was just my paranoia at work, but I couldn’t shake the worry that showing too much enthusiasm for a man would only send him running in the opposite direction.
I gave him a casual wave. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey, yourself. Got time for coffee?”
I glanced at my watch, my heart dancing with joy, and gave him a teasing smile. “I guess I can spare a few minutes.”
He held the door open for me and took my coat, his dark eyes holding mine. No wonder I’d fallen for him. He was tall—just under six feet—and just so happened to have a really nice butt, which I eyed appreciatively as I followed him.
Considering his kitchen was a mirror copy of mine, it couldn’t have looked any more different. Let me start by saying that mine wouldn’t appeal to just anyone. One would need to be a lover of all things old to like it, starting with my 1927 Beach gas stove. It was butter-yellow with black trim, and
*
Thirty minutes later, I pulled to a stop on the now snow-covered pad behind my house, relieved that my golf cart—as Toni referred to my car—had made it home safely on the ice-covered streets.
I sludged around the side of the house through the ankle-deep snow to let myself in by the front entrance. That way, if Mitchell happened to be looking out I could casually wave him over. I kept my fingers crossed that he might catch a glimpse of me today. It wasn’t every day I was made up by a professional and looked amazing.
Having my boyfriend living right next door should have been great. At least that was what I thought when we first started dating. A smile as I came up my walk, the whiff of something delicious I was cooking, or simply a quick phone call should be all it took for him to hop over the wrought iron fence that divided our front stoops and come knocking at my door. In reality, living in such close proximity—one thin, sound-carrying common wall apart—was not always wonderful. Every time I waved at him, I was afraid he’d feel obligated to come over. Then, if I didn’t wave, I worried he’d think I was ignoring him. And of course there was the uncontrollable desire to put my ear to the wall when I heard the phone ring in his house, and spy on his comings and goings when his door slammed. Whenever he left looking scrumptious, I’d wonder where he was going, who he was meeting.
Toni was right. I did have to stop myself from following him. I wondered if he felt claustrophobic, having me just next door. Would it be better for both of us if we lived farther apart? I’d been wondering a lot about that lately.
Last summer, after my ex-boyfriend’s untimely death, the last thing in the world I was looking for was another relationship. But Mitchell moved in next door, and he was cute. At first, I didn’t know what to make of him. Here was a mid-thirties man who spent all his time sitting by the window instead of going to work like a normal person. Until I learned that he was a writer, and that his desk sat in front of the living room window, I thought he might be a peeping Tom, or maybe under house arrest. We became friends, and then gradually the friendship ignited into a romance.
After making sure the puppies’ crate was clean, that the water bowls were full and they were all comfortable, I checked the phone for messages—still nothing. I ignored my disappointment and headed back out to my car, using the front entrance again, just in case he happened to be looking out the window. I was halfway down the walk when I heard a door open and my named called out.
Mitchell . I swung around, hoping I didn’t look too overjoyed. It was just my paranoia at work, but I couldn’t shake the worry that showing too much enthusiasm for a man would only send him running in the opposite direction.
I gave him a casual wave. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey, yourself. Got time for coffee?”
I glanced at my watch, my heart dancing with joy, and gave him a teasing smile. “I guess I can spare a few minutes.”
He held the door open for me and took my coat, his dark eyes holding mine. No wonder I’d fallen for him. He was tall—just under six feet—and just so happened to have a really nice butt, which I eyed appreciatively as I followed him.
Considering his kitchen was a mirror copy of mine, it couldn’t have looked any more different. Let me start by saying that mine wouldn’t appeal to just anyone. One would need to be a lover of all things old to like it, starting with my 1927 Beach gas stove. It was butter-yellow with black trim, and
Similar Books
