Chapter Ten
“I
don’t know.” Mrs. Gibson turned from the kitchen in the rental apartment to face Cherry and Mr. Gibson. “Anthony, baby, what do you think? Isn’t the kitchen a bit too small? How will we entertain in there?” She flipped her finger over her shoulder, pointing to the miniscule cooking space.
Mr. Anthony Gibson leaned closer to Cherry, dropped his voice, and asked, “The bar?”
“There’s two, one a block to the north and another just around the corner. Want to split up and check them out?” Right about then if she made a personal inspection of either establishment, she’d sample every bottle they had behind the counter and never report back her findings.
One of the Realtors had foisted these two off on her three days ago when he couldn’t find them the “perfect love nest” to buy. Three long days of listening to honey, baby, pookey, snooky-bear, sugarlips . . . the list went on. She was about to go into insulin shock.
“Sweetie, this will do for now,” Gibson told his wife.
The woman stared at her husband as if he had three heads and a tail. “Ms. Ryan, surely you understand what I’m looking for? I need a kitchen like you had in that house you lived in on the show. If you could find me a home like that, it would be perfect.”
Seriously? The mansion from the show was eight thousand square feet, had six bedrooms and nine bathrooms—not nearly enough for twenty-five women—still the kitchen alone must have been a good four hundred square feet, at least half the size of the apartments in the Gibsons’ budget.
“I’ll take the bar around the corner.”
Cherry grabbed Mr. Gibson’s arm, nailing him in place with a don’t-you-dare-leave-me-with-your-crazy-wife look. “I’ll be happy to pass the information on to your Realtor, Mrs. Gibson. I have heard through the grapevine that the villa is up for rent for a mere thirty-five thousand a month.” Call her evil, but a small thread of warmth spread through her as Mrs. Gibson paled at the mention of the outrageous rent.
Maybe reality would finally set in and they could settle on a not-so-perfect temporary apartment until they found the perfect home. Something had to penetrate the woman’s brain and bring her out of the land of denial. With every place there had been some feature to set her off.
“I can’t see the river.”
Then at the next one: “Oh, dear gawd, what is that smell?”
Uh, the river.
And the next: “Such a lovely place, but I’ll never be able to sleep with children playing upstairs/next door/downstairs.” And in the next breath, she’d utter, “Oh, Pookey, I hope our kids have your eyes.”
Please, someone kill me now.
“I don’t like yellow houses.”
“It’s too close to the university.” Puh-lease.
Providence is home to ten colleges and universities. A person can’t move without bumping into a school here.
The woman sucked Cherry’s patience, energy, and life force away. Mrs. Anthony Gibson was living proof emo-vamps existed.
Mr. Gibson, the lush, guided his wife to the door with promises of tomorrow being the day they’d find “the one.”
Yeah, don’t hold your breath, buddy.
Anthony Gibson had three things going against him, in Cherry’s opinion: his love for alcohol, his tight grasp on his wallet, and Mrs. Gibson. In order to find the apartment of their dreams, he’d need to give up one of those three.
Ditching the idea of going back to the office, Cherry headed straight for home, to her own slice of heaven.
“Tucker,” she called out at she stripped off her work clothes and slipped on comfy wear. “I’ve decided two things today. First, I don’t care that it’s only Wednesday and not my weekly cheat day. Diet be damned, I’m eating what I want. More importantly, I need a new job.”
Too anxious to get started, she cut their nightly walk short, dished up Tucker’s dinner—one cup all organic dog food plus a little ground chicken as a treat—and then grabbed the tub of cookie dough ice cream and headed for the couch. She powered up her laptop and started searching graduate programs. The plan had always been to push on past her bachelor’s degree, and today was a good reminder tomorrow would soon be here and she still hadn’t moved toward her dreams.
In the midst of making a list of what she’d need to apply for the program, her phone rang. She eyed it like a two-headed snake or, even worse, the Gibsons calling. A glance at caller ID didn’t make her feel any better because she couldn’t think of one good reason why Jason would be calling her. Then it hit her, Jason was calling and she really wanted to hear his voice right now.
“Hi, you’ve reached Cherry’s voice mail. If this call is in regard to a problem, please push one at the sound of the beep and she’ll call you back tomorrow. Beeep,” Cherry said.
“Hi, Cherry’s voice mail. What button do I push if I want the woman herself?” Jason asked in that smooth as melted chocolate voice of his.
Sixty-nine. For a moment the dead air made her think she’d actually replied out loud, then she realized Jason was waiting for her reply.
“How about seven? They say it brings good luck.”
“I always heard it was multiples of three. You know, like third time’s the charm. So wouldn’t three or even six or nine be better?”
Cherry choked on her ice cream. Did the man read minds? “Today proved three is not a lucky number.”
“Been one of those days, has it?” Jason replied.
“Put it this way, I’m afraid to get out of bed tomorrow.”
“Too bad tomorrow’s not Friday. Could have made for an interesting meeting.”
It took her a minute for what he said and meant to register. Heat stole over her body as the mental picture he painted took shape. Thank goodness they were on the phone and not in person or video chatting.
“Um, yes, well . . . sorry about missing our meeting last Friday.”
“Actually, I was calling to confirm we’re still on for this Friday and to brighten your day by telling you everything is moving along smoothly.”
“Yes, I’ll definitely be at the center at three for my walk-through.”
“Is there anything I can do to make your day better?” His voice held a touch of sympathy and a hint of something else.
“You already did. You don’t happen to have a personal connection with Mother Nature, do you? Maybe have her private number and can call her up and ask her to hurry up and send us a bout of sunny days to chase away the winter blues?”
He laughed in response. “Afraid she’s not in my little black book, but I get what you mean. Even Dave, who is the easiest-going guy I know, has been cranky lately. I thought about having some fun with duct tape today just to have five minutes of silence.”
“I’ve got you beat. One of the Realtors shoved Mr. and Mrs. Bridezilla off on me to find a temporary place while they decide what they really want in a permanent home.” Cherry sat the computer down next to her on the couch, grabbed a throw pillow, and snuggled in.
“Let me guess. Everything is either too small, too big, too old, too new, and nothing is just right?”
“Oh, I see you’ve met them.” Cherry laughed, the stress from the past three days melting away as she talked to Jason.
“I’m pretty sure I did a master bedroom rehab for them last year. The wife wanted floor-to-ceiling windows to let the natural light in the room. The husband didn’t because he worked nights. And I won’t even go into the discussion about what each wanted for the bathroom.”
“Yep, definitely their doppelgängers—personality-wise, at least. I really don’t get some people. Lucky me, I get to spend the day with them again tomorrow. I’m thinking between now and nine in the morning I’m going to come down with the bubonic plague.”
“Seems a bit drastic, but I think it will work. Maybe you should wait until you are in the middle of showing them the first place for the day and then have the symptoms appear. You know, some chills, a little muscle cramping, and throw in a seizure for good measure. Then promise them it won’t get in the way of finding them the perfect place. Don’t forget to mention you read it wasn’t really contagious. Bet you they suddenly fall in love with the place they’re looking at.”
He made her laugh, something she had noticed that he had a talent for. They talked for a couple more minutes before hanging up. Cherry looked down at the half-melted ice cream and decided she didn’t feel like drowning her emotions in sugar anymore. Actually, her mood had taken a one-eighty during the call and she didn’t mind that tomorrow would soon be here, because the day after would be Friday. Not that she was on the market. Nope, she was still on a hiatus from men. No matter if the guy in question was smoking hot and made her laugh.
Jason didn’t know why he was here. It was Friday night. He knew two things though. He’d been disappointed today when Tawny had showed up for the weekly inspection instead of Cherry. He’d had his fair share of craptastic days and understood what it felt like to come home to an empty house with no one to vent to. He had coaxed Cherry’s address out of Tawny with no idea of what he planned to do with it. So here he stood outside of apartment two, listening to the beagle howl in response to his knock. If he’d thought his plan out better he’d have brought Bam with him to keep Tucker occupied. Hell, if he’d thought about his plan for more than three seconds he’d be home sipping on a beer, minding his own freaking business.
After a few minutes the dog’s howls quieted down, and when no one came to the door Jason turned to leave. Probably for the best. He’d tried to be the good guy and this was fate’s way of telling him to steer clear. The quiet click of the latch stopped him on the top step and he looked over to see Cherry peeking out through the open door.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asked.
“No.” She opened the door farther, holding on to the dog with one hand. “Come on in. Sorry I didn’t hear you at first. I was scrubbing the bathroom with the music blasting.” She had changed from her work clothes into an old T-shirt and really short shorts exposing miles of creamy flesh.
Not your standard French maid uniform, but he could work with it.
“No prob. If you’ve got some extra energy left, you’re welcome to come over to my place. I could put you to work.” He took in the neat apartment, noted the eclectic mix of vintage and modern furnishings. Every space was utilized in such a way as to make the apartment feel bigger than its actual square footage. Which would have worked except for the multitude of plants—they were everywhere; hanging from the ceiling, on stands, the coffee table, you name it—not yet Jurassic Park, but getting there. In one corner stood two six-foot-tall bookcases, the shelves bowed under the weight of books, pictures, and dust catchers. A sofa sat angled to view TV or look out the bay window over the backyard. Opening off the living room was the dining area, with a wood table for four. The place reminded him of the lady in front of him: compact, yet layers deep.
“Sorry to have canceled on you today.” She spun around from closing the door. “Oh, Tawny did show up in my place, didn’t she?”
“Yep. Said she’d submit the report to the board on Monday.”
Her features scrunched up in confusion as she looked at him, taking in the brown paper bag he carried. “Was there some kind of problem you needed to discuss with me?”
Jason walked over to the little dining table, opened the bag, and took out one plastic container after another. “Nope. Have you eaten yet?”
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, and took in the scents. “No, and that smells wonderful. You brought me dinner?”
“Based on the tone of your e-mail, you sounded beat. I take it Bridezilla didn’t take the hint with the bubonic plague?” He pulled out the bottle of wine and watched Cherry’s face light up.
“Bless you, you really are an angel sent from heaven, aren’t you? Wine and dinner. My nerves will forever be in your debt. And no, Mrs. Gibson, Bridezilla, whipped out a medical face mask and carried on. The good news is, as of five o’clock this evening they are the proud new residents of their own apartment and I am done with them.” Cherry sank into the chair, eyeing the bottle he held in his hand.
He held it up, looking around for a corkscrew.
“Oh, top drawer, left hand side, third slot over. Is this pad thai?”
He found the corkscrew exactly where she said it would be. No digging around, everything was laid out precisely and neatly in the drawer. A slight touch of OCD or neat freak, he thought, not for the first time. Glasses hung upside down under the cabinet—as expected—and he grabbed two of them before heading back to the table. “Shrimp or chicken, lady’s choice.”
She pointed to the shrimp and he passed it over.
“How did you finally convince her to settle on a place?” He poured the wine and passed her a glass.
She took a sip of wine before answering him. One sip turned into another and another and another. Reaching out, he stopped her before she could drink any more.
“Slow down, tiger. That’s my homebrew, and it’s a bit more potent than store bought. Wouldn’t want you passing out in your noodles, would we?”
She sat her glass down and picked up her fork. “It’s an excellent vintage.”
Together they dug into their respective bowls, neither speaking as they ate. The silence should have felt odd—they didn’t really know each other that well—yet it was comforting. He watched the tension leave her shoulders as the wine and food hit her system, saw the stress lines between her brows diminish as the week’s events became a forgotten memory.
He needed to talk to her about the break-in they’d had last week, which was the other reason he’d come over tonight, to give her the new keys to the center. She looked up at him and smiled. It was a tired, content smile. Now wasn’t the time to bring up what was probably just bored kids blowing off steam. If he did, she’d spend the weekend worrying about something she’d have no control over, which she didn’t need to since the issue was resolved. It wasn’t fair to ruin her weekend. Even he wasn’t that much of an ass.