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“I’m fine. Sorry if I woke you.” She moved to shut the door, and he caught it with his hand.
“Wait. You should really have lights out here. I almost broke my neck coming up your steps.” He noted her short height. “Do you have a bulb? I could replace it in thirty seconds.”
All the color bleached from her face, and she gaped at him, as if he’d said something horrible like he ate puppies. They stared at each other for a solid minute. He would have laughed at the awkwardness, if she didn’t look so distraught.
He was really screwing this up—and he wasn’t sure how. He figured at this point he had no game with women, but game aside, he still had to live next to this chick.
“Uh, did I say something wrong?”
Her head shook but barely. He wasn’t buying it. This girl did not like him, and he’d been nothing but nice.
“If we somehow started off on the wrong foot, Maggie, I’m sorry. I’m not some sort of neighbor from hell, so if I gave you that impression…” She was just staring at him. He sighed. “Can we start over?” When she said nothing, he held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Ryan Clooney.”
Her brow crimped and she blinked, her gaze turning to the side and dropping to the floor. He definitely wasn’t coming off the way he’d hoped.
His hand dropped once it was clear she didn’t plan to shake it. “Look, I’m sorry if I somehow offended you—”
“You didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m just not used to anyone living next-door.”
He didn’t buy her excuse. Someone lived there before him. There was something weird between them, and he couldn’t figure it out.
“It’s cold,” she announced, drawing his gaze to her exposed arms and her barely covered chest. She abruptly crossed her arms, restricting his view.
“Sorry.”
“I have to go.”
“Sure. Goodnight.” He was more confused then he’d been a few minutes ago.
This time when she shut the door, he didn’t try to stop her. He turned and blindly guessed his way down her dark steps. He should write a letter to the township about getting some street lights out here.
When he returned to his bed, he made a decision. He’d be polite to his neighbor, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to be friendly.
It actually made perfect sense. He thought she was cute, so of course there would be something off about her. He’d yet to find an attractive woman in Center County that was single, not his relative, and sane. Why should that change now?
Chapter 6
Maggie knocked at the door to her general manager’s office.
“Come in.”
The battered door’s paint wore so thin she could see the wood, but no one here seemed to notice that stuff. “Hey, Jim.”
“Maggie, what can I do for you?”
She swallowed uncomfortably, hating this task every year. She loathed the comprehension that registered in people’s eyes, the pity she glimpsed, and the validation that she was still weak and broken and would likely need to make this request until the day she died.
“Um…” She fidgeted with her gloved hands. Noticing what she was doing, she forced her arms to her sides. “St. Patrick’s Day is coming up.”
He grinned and pointed to his copper hair. “Don’t I know it.”
“Well…” Her gaze skated to the moldings along the floor. They also needed paint. Someone should at least dust them. “I, uh… The seventeenth was the last…”
Understanding dawned and his mouth formed a sympathetic smile. “That’s right. I’m sorry, hon. Slipped my mind for a minute.” He reached for the schedule and grabbed a pen. “Will one day be enough, or do you need more?”
“One is fine.”
He scribbled a note. “I can see if Mike can cover. Should be fine. Anyway, not your concern. Consider it handled. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
To her frustration, tears of relief sprung to her eyes. “Thanks, Jim.”
Word traveled fast in small towns and even faster when you were the only girl in a male run company. Most of the guys moonlighted as first responders and several were local firefighters, so they shared a brotherhood she’d never penetrate. They also shared the intimate details of that horrid day two years ago, when many of them saw her fall apart at the scene of the accident, just before the car caught fire and they dragged Nash’s body from the wreckage.
The rest of the week overflowed with sympathetic glances, gentle pats on the back, and “How ya doin’, kid?” sort of inquiries. Sometimes the greatest challenge with misery was privacy. She just wanted to be left the hell alone but also feared a day would come where they would all forget what she’d been through, and she wouldn’t be excused to grieve anymore.
Things got progressively worse as the week of Nash’s death approached. She made her third stop at the liquor store to cover all her bases. No thought ever went into the ritual, but somehow over the last year, her actions had set a precedent.
