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Women don’t call men. Period. If there was an occasion where we needed to speak, they could figure that out and call us. Granted, this rule only applied during the courtship period and could be abandoned without thought once a relationship had progressed to commitment, but should be picked back up during times of fighting or punishable male behavior. But after a date? It was always the man’s job to call a woman. On a holiday? Man’s job. If your roof had caved in and you needed assistance from the hunky next-door neighbor? He had eyes. He could damn well figure out what a damsel in distress was.
Obviously salt shakers and chewing gum didn’t apply here. But I had always agreed with her firm stance on not calling men. Of course, I was also approaching thirty and single, so it was entirely possible that said firm stance was kryptonite in today’s female-empowered dating environment.
I lifted up my head and eyed the phone, willing it to ring. My phone number was listed. He had access to the Internet. Three seconds of searching, and he’d have it in hand.
I rubbed at my forehead, the glitter addition stubborn, and licked my finger to give it more oomph.
Maybe he was busy. Working away, designing someone’s next office complex. I uncapped a bright purple marker and began to fill in the page’s title. Maybe I should become an architect. How hard could that degree be? You’re just drawing stuff. Adding eaves. Creating little squares and labeling them MASTER BEDROOM and KITCHEN. Tilting back my chair, I snuck a sniff of the grape-scented marker and envisioned it. I could work in his firm. Be an apprentice. Establish clear evacuation and emergency plans while keeping an eye on him.
The doorbell rang and Mr. Oinks slipped and skittered along the tile in an attempt to get to his feet. I caught a glimpse of his cute little hooves before he knocked my chair over and I slammed backward against the tile.
Ouch. I lay there for a moment, assessing my injuries. My head was saved, though the impact had kicked up my headache a notch. The high-backed chair had seriously dented my shoulder blades and my knee had knocked against the table, an impact that was still vibrating through me.
Mr. Oinks began to jump against the front door. The doorbell rang again and I groaned in response and attempted to roll to one side. “Just leave it, Don!” I called out, listening to Mr. Oinks work himself into a lather. “I don’t need to sign it!”
I waited for the sound of my delivery driver’s feet, heavy down the front steps, but there was only silence, followed by a strong knock against the wood. Jeez Louise. I dragged myself along the floor, untangling my damaged knee from the chair of death and struggled to my feet. Hobbling to the front door, I ignored Mr. Oinks’ frantic grunts and twisted the handle, pulling the door open.
It wasn’t my lovable delivery man, beaming and expecting a bottled water. It was Declan. He rested one hand on the doorjamb, had his phone out in the other, and looked up as I swung open the door. My hurt knee threatened to buckle, and it was completely due to the injury and not the fact that he was in a button-up and tie and delicious enough to eat with a spoon. I’d seen a suited Declan Moss before, but always from afar. Close up… I felt a little faint.
“Am… I… interrupting something?” He scanned me from head to toe and the corner of his mouth twitched into a grin.
“Actually, yes.” I pulled down on the front of my Hulk Hogan shirt, and cursed myself for not wearing a bra. I also could have thrown on something other than these baggy sweatpants, which had a fresh blackberry jam stain from my breakfast. “I’m working.”
His gaze lingered on my face, and I reached up to brush at the glitter spot in the middle of my forehead. “Any chance you’d like to get lunch? To discuss my safety, of course.” He added the last sentence in grave undertones, and I was too flustered to tell if he was making a joke or being serious.
“Ummm… lunch?” I stalled. “Right now?”
He glanced at his watch. “I could wait in the truck if you need some time. I just need to get back to the office by two.”
I drummed my fingers along the doorknob. Lunch sounded innocent enough. To discuss his safety. How could I refuse that? I glanced down at my t-shirt and sweats. “Sure. I just need five minutes.”
He smiled, and he must have shaved this morning. It was odd, to see him without the light facial hair. “Sure. I can wait out here.”
“Oh.” I stepped back and gestured him in. “No. Come on in. Just…” I looked around. “Make yourself comfortable. You remember Mr. Oinks.”
