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When I knock the wobbly ladder, the plastic tray flips into the air. Paint rains down, hitting me in the face. There’s a blinding, burning pain in my eyes. The world is a blurry, blobby mess, and my eyes are streaming.
Cursing a blue streak, I tug off my soaked shirt and swipe desperately at my face. It’s no use. I’m damn near blind. With a growl, I step into the shower and yank on the spigot. Fortunately, the shower is still working, and water hits my face.
I turn toward it, letting it rinse my eyes just as someone demands in an angry voice, “Who are you?”
Chapter4
Evie
Excitement thrums through my veins as I clutch the key tightly in my palm. I signed the paperwork with Martha this morning. I’m officially the first tenant in the apartment above her garage.
She ran to the hardware store and cut me a key as soon as it was done. Now it’s my lunch break and I’m taking a peek at the place. I can’t wait to show Chase and Parker the place. They’ll see that life can get better. Good things can happen to us.
Jogging up the steps, I have to pause at the top and wait to catch my breath. Exercise is a trigger for my asthma. It’s getting worse since I started halving the dose of my preventative inhaler. But it’ll be worth it once I’m settled. All I have to do is make it another two weeks then I can get my prescriptions filled again.
I do that visualization I’ve been doing since I was a kid. I imagine my lungs expanding and filling with oxygen. I know it doesn’t make it easier to breathe, but it’s a way of managing the desperate panic that invades my thoughts when it feels like I can’t breathe.
When my vision returns and I can draw in a breath a little easier, I slip the key into the lock. The first thing that greets me is the sight of plastic tarps on the floor. I slip off my shoes and glide into the room on my socked feet. This place is mine.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes. I’ve never had a place that truly felt like mine. I feel a rush of pride that I’m finally able to provide a decent living situation for my brother. Yep, life is getting so much better.
I stop in the middle of the living room when I hear the sound of running water. It sounds like it’s coming from the bathroom. Martha didn’t mention anyone being in the apartment, and this is my place now. I need to be a grownup and confront the noise.
I look around for a weapon but the only thing I have is a paint roller. Grabbing it, I square my shoulders and move down the hall. I’ll be strong and confident. I’ll confront the intruder like the independent woman I am.
With a deep breath, I slowly turn the bathroom doorknob. At least, I can have the element of surprise.
Pushing the door open, I glance around the bathroom. It’s covered in paint, a spray of droplets in the ceiling with some of it dripping from the walls.
I push in further and glance at the tub. The frosty curtain obscures most of my view, but my heart skips a beat when I realize there’s a man in the shower. A big, shirtless man. Why is he wearing blue jeans? Why is he showering here?
I use the handle of the paint roller to bang on the bathroom counter. In the deepest, angriest voice I can muster, I demand, “Who are you?”
“Evie?” The stranger calls my name.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. This man knows my name. He knows who I am. For one wild second, I fear it’s Spencer. Then I remind myself that Spencer wasn’t nearly that big. He was scrawny compared to this fearsome warrior in my shower.
He yanks back the curtain, and I automatically take a step back, prepared to flee from the intruder. Forget being a strong, independent woman. I want a man here with me. A man with a really big gun.
My fear quickly dissolves when I realize the man is no stranger. It’s Greer. He’s here. In my shower. Squinting at me. His eyes are rimmed in red.
“What are you doing? Why are you in my shower?” I ask with a shaky breath, the adrenaline of the moment finally catching up with me.
Greer is shirtless. The water is running down his torso, highlighting his six-pack and the happy trail of hair that disappears into his blue jeans.
Before I can ask any questions, Greer swipes at his face again. He’s still squinting. He shakes his head like that might magically clear his vision. “I have paint in my eyes. I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.”
* * *
“Do your eyes feel better?” I ask nervously as Greer leaves Cash’s clinic. He has an eye patch on his right eye and a pair of sunglasses on top.
He stumbles on the step, and I instinctively reach out to help him. I put my hand on his arm and guide him toward his truck.
After finding Greer in the bathroom, I called Martha. She recommended that he keep rinsing his eyes for another twenty minutes then come to the office to get checked out.
I drove him here in his truck, and I’ll drive him back to his family’s farm.
“Still burning,” he says weakly. He gropes for the door handle.
