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Ansley
After work, I make my way to Market Square with my trunk loaded down with boxes. I’m slowly but surely moving out of my parents’ garage and into the eight-hundred-square-foot studio apartment above the café. It’s not big or fancy, but it will be the first place I can call home, and I’m beyond excited to finally have my own space.
I park in my slot in front of the café and pop the trunk. I usually park behind the buildings so as not to take up customer parking, but it’s late enough that most of the square’s shops have closed, and only a few patrons from the ice cream parlor are still milling around.
I grab a box and head up to unlock the door, balancing the box on my hip as I attempt to fumble with the keys.
A pair of hands comes around my side and takes the box from my arm.
“Thank you,” I say as I get the key into the dead bolt and open the door.
When I turn to take it back, Garrett Tuttle is smiling down at me.
“Oh, it’s you,” I say as I tug at the box. He refuses to let it go, and I step back and glare at him.
He’s still beautiful with his piercing green eyes and the dark wisps of hair that peek from beneath his hat and brush his collar. His powerful shoulders are on display in a snug thermal as he effortlessly holds the heavy box. He looks the same as I remember but different. Bigger, older, and sharper with a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks, the faintest hint of laugh lines that pop out around his eyes when he smiles, and those ridiculous dimples. I was always a sucker for his dimples. The infuriating man is the epitome of a sexy cowboy.
Damn my insides for trembling at the sight of him.
I have to force myself to speak. “What are you doing here, Garrett?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I saw you struggling with this thing, and my manners had me coming to your rescue,” he says.
I see red. “I don’t need to be rescued. Thank you very much.”
I step forward, snatch the heavy thing from his grip, and turn to go inside.
Before the door can shut behind me, he wedges a foot in the threshold and follows me in.
I set the box on the counter and turn back to him. “Do you mind? I’m busy, and I don’t have time for chitchat.”
“Looks like you could use some help from me. I could carry the rest of those boxes in for you. It’s dark out there, and the wind’s starting to kick up. I think a storm is brewing.”
I look beyond him and out the windows to the starless night sky just as a rolling rumble fills the air.
He raises an eyebrow at me as Mother Nature confirms his assessment.
Great.
“Should I stay or go?” he asks.
The telltale sound of precipitation pelting the roof starts to echo in the empty room.
I sigh. “I would appreciate the help. If you have the time. Thank you for offering.”
He grins. “My pleasure.”
Then, he heads out into the rain to continue unloading.
I let out an annoyed sigh and look toward the sky again. “Really, big guy? You send a storm now? Can you help a girl out here?” I throw the not-quite prayer, but more of an accusation to the heavens and follow after Garrett.
The two of us have all the boxes inside minutes before the bottom falls out.
“Anything else I can help you with while I wait out the storm?” he asks.
I flip the switch that lights the staircase leading upstairs, and I look back at him.
“Are you still any good with a hammer?” I ask and instantly wish I could grab the words out of the air and force them back down my throat.
What am I doing, thinking about asking the famous musician to roll up his sleeves and help me hang shelves?
I giggle at the absurdity.
One of his eyebrows lifts at my laughter.
“Of course I’m still good with a hammer. Why?”
I shake my head. “It’s stupid!”
“Try me.”
“I’m moving in upstairs. It’s a studio apartment with a small office, and I’m converting the office into a walk-in closet. I still have a few floating shelves to install and hooks for my purses,” I inform him.
He nods.
“Show me the way,” he says, and I lead him up the steps.
