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I’m not sure how long we stood there, staring at each other with only the buzzing of the bees in the honeysuckle to fill the space between us. I shifted my weight, suddenly aware that my hair hung down the back of my neck like a limp rag. A limp, tangled rag that hadn’t been brushed in days.
“Monroe,” I finally answered.
“Monroe,” he repeated, as if he didn’t believe me.
I tugged my cami strap back into place.
“You have a problem with my name?”
He shook his head, “nope,” and ran his hand across the back of his neck. I’m sure he did it because it pushed his chest out.
Pushed his chest out and emphasized his abs. Not that I was looking or anything, but it was kinda hard not to notice when he was so…naked.
“I’m just here to do a job.” He stood back. “Do you know where the family bones are buried or not?”
I considered lying, but what was the point? Gram wouldn’t be impressed, besides, it’s not like I had to stay out there and keep him company. The sooner I showed him where the crypt was, the sooner I could get back to the important business of having a nap.
“Follow me.”
I pushed past him and waited for the door to slam shut behind me before heading down the front steps and out to the back of the house. His supplies were set on the back porch, and I waited for him to grab them—a paint can and a couple of brushes—before following the stone path that led into the fancy gardens.
Gram’s plantation is one of the fanciest in Louisiana. A Greek revival, it’s been used in movies a few times, and while I don’t find the house all that impressive—it’s old—I’ve always loved the gardens. There is a maze to the left of the house, one I used to spend a lot of time in when I was younger, playing pretend or reading a book. And beyond it, set back on a small hill surrounded by mature oak trees, is the family crypt. It doesn’t look as though it’s far from the house, and I suppose it isn’t, but by the time we reached it, I was breathing heavy.
Which was embarrassing, because I’m Soccer Girl—I’m in good shape—or at least I used to be back before I started taking naps every afternoon and not caring.
I turned and felt my cheeks flush when I found his eyes already on me. After clearing my throat and attempting to sound as normal as I could, I spoke. “What’s your name?”
“Nathan,” he said.
“Does Nathan have a last name?” Crap. Now he was going to think that I actually cared.
A hint of a grin touched the corner of his mouth, and God help me, but my cheeks stung even more. I bet they were as red as the apples in the bowl on Gram’s table.
“Last name is Everets, and you?”
“Blackwell.”
He tossed his brushes on top of the paint can at his feet. “Where are you from, Monroe Blackwell?”
Nathan approached the iron fence, which was faded and chipped and looked like a black and white cow had exploded all over it.
I shoved my hands into my back pocket and blew a curl out of my eye.
“New York.”
“And you’re here because…”
I’m here because no one knows what to do with me.
“Look, I don’t really want to do this talking buddy thing, so I’m just going to let you get started, okay?”
He shrugged but didn’t say anything, and for some reason that irritated me. I wasn’t used to being dismissed like that. I was used to being under a microscope—used to having every action analyzed and picked apart. I was used to my parents, teachers, and friends hanging onto every word that came out of my mouth as if it was gospel.
Of course, the gospel according to Monroe isn’t exactly full of rainbows and unicorns, but as long as I was talking, they were happy. Because a talking Monroe wasn’t as scary to deal with as the nonverbal version I’d been several months ago. Back then, I was almost straitjacket material.
Back then…I shuddered. Nope. Not going there today.
Once more, I yanked on my cami straps, pulling on the material a little so that it wasn’t plastered to my chest. Even though there was shade from the oak trees, I thought that it would be pretty awful to spend the afternoon out here painting. Because it wasn’t just hot, it was oppressive.
