Okay, fine, that’s unfair.
Yes, Levi probably could knock the door down, but there isn’t any part of me that’s worried he’ll invade my privacy to get a lookie-loo or for any other reason. Even if I was in danger and he had to barge in to save me, he’d likely do it with his eyes sealed shut, his jaw locked in place, and an air of annoyance about him thicker than his facial hair.
Is he always like this, or do I bring a special brand of curmudgeon out of him?
Ugh. Fine. Still being unfair.
Yes, it’s harder to pull words out of him than winning a tug-of-war competition with a herd of elephants, a person needs sunglasses to protect themselves from his constant glares, and I’m more than half suspicious that he wishes he’d left me on the side of the road. But he didn’t. Even though he gives every indication of loathing my presence—loathingme—he’s technically been nothing but considerate, generous, and hospitable.
Technically.
The shower didn’t work. I need another way to clear my head.
I’d caught Levi taking long, deep breaths, which I assume he does because he finds my personality irksome and he’s collecting all his patience to deal with me.
Maybe I should try that.
I take a deep inhale of hot, steamy air.
And immediately regret my life choices.
Instead of clearing my head, Levi Redding fills my senses. I lift my arm and sniff the crook of my elbow. The soap I usually use is a subtle blend of green tea and lime that I buy at the local farmer’s market. Now, instead of that familiar fragrance that has become a sensory part of my identity, I smell like a very specific mountain man in mechanic coveralls and a surly demeanor.
The container of bodywash in the shower claimed to be unscented, but there are faint whiffs of something I can’t quite find the right adjective to describe. Fresh. Clean. A man who can command a space without speaking a word.
That last one might be closest to the bull’s-eye of all three of them.
In the grand scheme of things, having the scent of a man who makes me feel off-kilter just by resting his expressionless, lion-like gaze on me for longer than a second shouldn’t be that big of a deal. So I smell like we’ve been very close and very intimate and that he’s imprinted himself on me or markedme as his in some similar way that species from the animal kingdom do. No big whoop. At least I was able to take a hot shower, right? At least I’ll have a roof over my head and food in my belly and won’t have to sleep in the bookmobile or try out my nonexistent survival skills in the Cherokee National Forest.
Perspective, right?
I’m going to keep telling myself that until I’m one-hundred-percent convinced.
I rifle through the laundry basket by my feet. I’ve decided I’m not going to feel weird about borrowing his sister’s clothes without her permission. If the tables were turned and a woman was in need of something to wear and had access to my wardrobe, I’d want her to help herself.
Besides, I don’t really have any other options.
My fingers brush against soft flannel, and I pull out a cute autumn-toned plaid dress of sienna browns, tans, and navy blues. It’s still about a month away before the temperatures start dropping in earnest and the leaves begin to change colors, but Levi keeps his house so cold that I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he stored blocks of ice in his living room for an annual igloo building competition. Seriously, his energy bill must be astronomical. Either way, this flannel will keep me warm.
I’m in no way shocked when I hold the dress up to my shoulders and notice that it’s probably a little bit big for me. It makes sense that Levi’s sisters would be tall as well. Genetics is a beautiful thing. There’s probably a belt somewhere that’s supposed to cinch the waist in, but accessories are the least of my worries, and the material is so soft that I don’t even care if I’ve done a disservice to whoever designed the dress by turning it into a shift style.
Once I get all the buttons done up and roll the extra-long sleeves to my wrists, I finger-comb the tangles out of my hair, happy again for my decision to cut off twelve inches to donate after finding out about Evangeline’s alopecia. The shoulder-lengthstrands are giving me enough trouble as it is; waist-length hair would have been impossible without a real brush.
With the toilet seat lid down, I perch precariously on the edge and set my purse on my lap. Everything I have with me is in this bag. If only I could MacGyver the contents and build some sort of tool or contraption that would solve all my problems. But, alas, I’m left with...
My wallet, a tube of lip balm, three pens, the refill prescription of immunosuppressants I’d picked up on my way to work this morning—thank you, Jesus—some gum, my phone charger, and my little journal of good deeds.
I put everything back inside the purse except the journal, opening the notebook to the next blank page. Goodness gracious, what am I going to put for today’s entry?
I didn’t kill Mayor Breckenbridgedoesn’t quite fit the bill. Mostly because I’d made the rule when I first started these journals that an act of omission doesn’t count. I had to actuallydosomething. And even if wringing the mayor’s thick neck was technically doing something, he was back in Little Creek and I was stuck here, way more than an arm’s length away.
Here with Levi.
Just the two of us.
I guess that narrows down my options on who to bless today pretty considerably.
I pull out one of the three pens in my purse and uncap the lid, getting my hand in position to jot down a stroke of brilliance on how I can make Levi’s life better within the last few hours this day holds.
