Tell me she didn’t leave without locking her door.
Her car is in the driveway, but I don’t see her bicycle.
“Chloe?”
Still no answer.
What was she thinking?
What if some sick bastard learns that she keeps her front door unlocked?It’s not hard to imagine, given she’s got asignon her doorstep broadcasting it to every creep this side of the Atlantic.
Not my problem.
Her house.Her life.Her choices.
I take one step back, then another, that damn mat laughing at me the whole way.
You know what?
No.
I stalk back to the front door, pick up the frayed doormat, and toss it toward my front yard.Screw it—I’ll buy her a new one.One that says:Fuck Off.This House Is Armed.
I stomp back down the stairs to my place to grab my wallet and keys, then drive straight to Mugs.
It’s busy today, with four of the six tables occupied, one by the three old guys who always seem to be here.They point their stares at me like I’m Clint Eastwood sauntering into a Western saloon on his first day in town.I give them a nod, but they don’t return the gesture.
Doesn’t bother me in the slightest, especially when the prettiest eyes in the room settle on me.
“Well, look who decided to grow a pair and buy his own coffee instead of bribing an innocent woman into doing it for you,” Chloe says, smiling brightly as I walk up to her.
I let the “grow a pair” comment slide.There are more important matters to discuss.
My palms grip the edge of the counter as I lean forward.“I went by your house to see if you’d heard about the tropical storm.That place is woefully unprepared for anything other than a balmy sea breeze.”
Her gaze jumps from my forearms to my eyes.“Take a breath before you pop a blood vessel.We get storms out at sea all the time.I can’t remember the last time we had a direct hit.”
I watch her, waiting for more.“That’s it?That’s your plan?Hoping the storm does a little spin and dances off somewhere else?”
She frowns at me.“Who pooped in your coffee?It’s not like it’s a hurricane.If it looks like the storm is going to hit us, then I’ll get ready.”
“You won’t have time.You need a tree lopped and your roof fixed.You’ve also got wires sticking out that could start a fire, even without a storm.”
She arches a brow.“Know anyone who works construction?”
I let out a sigh.“I’ve got enough on my plate, and I’m not even licensed to work on your place.Shit, Chloe, how can you be so blasé about this?”
Somewhere between being called a butthead and being slathered in sunscreen, I realize I’ve started caring about what happens to this woman.
Not my problemhas become very much my problem.
Call it being neighborly or whatever, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.
“At the very least,” I say, “make sure you’re not at home when—if—the storm hits.Go stay with a friend.”That way, if her shack collapses, she won’t get buried in the debris.
She bites off a laugh.“Sorry, but no-can-do.I’d never leave my place alone in a storm.Like you said, Shirley is fragile.”
She named her shack Shirley?Of course she did.
