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“Uh-huh.”
“Do you mean a plug?” Not that I know how you’d make a plug costume, but somehow it makes more sense than an outlet.
“No, I mean an electrical outlet.” She points at one of the outlets near my barber’s chairs for emphasis. “I can get a big box and cut out the holes. Then my face will be right here.” She crawls over to the outlet and puts her finger on the screw in the middle of it, turning to meet my gaze. “Can you help me make it?”
“Um. Sure.”
My kid is such a weirdo. I love her so much.
So, that evening, my daughter and I go on the hunt for a cardboard box big enough to use as her electrical outlet costume. We find a treasure trove of cardboard behind a furniture store, and I grab a few extras for good measure. Dinner will be late tonight, but Bailey is laughing and bouncing on the balls of her feet, which is worth it.
That’s how I end up carrying a large purse, a few groceries I stopped to get on the way home, and three massive boxes as I’m heading back to my temporary condo on Seventh Avenue.
Bailey is carrying a box of her own, explaining to me exactly how she wants to craft the outlet while I try to picture the finished product in my mind. Neither of us have any visibility down the hallway. My left side is slightly overloaded with bags while my right is carrying the bulky boxes, so I’m hobbling, awkwardly lopsided.
Then my daughter, in her excitement, spins around at light speed to tell me that she wants me to paint her face metallic silver so she looks like a screw—but the box she’s carrying knocks the cardboard I have under my right arm. Because I’m unbalanced, I try to recover by spinning, but the heavy bags over my left shoulder carry me too far.
I spin a hundred and eighty degrees, wobbling, then yelp as my shoe catches on a wrinkle in the carpet. My legs twist around each other, my left side tilting over so far I must look like a sailboat about to capsize. I flail and flap like a moron, screeching, and crash against the wall on my way to the floor.
Groceries tumble out of my bags, an orange rolling all the way to the fire exit at the far end of the hall. My cardboard boxes splay around me like an angel’s broken wings. Bailey’s eyes grow wide as she checks me over, and once she sees that I’m not hurt, she bursts out laughing, folding over at the waist as she wheezes. She drops to her knees and starts chasing after the oranges, still giggling.
“Stop laughing, Bailey,” I groan. “That’s not nice.”
“Sorry, Mom,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.
Heavy footsteps approach at a rapid pace. Great. My daughter wasn’t the only witness. Then, of course (because…who else?) Desmond Thomas pops into my field of view, dark brows furrowed. “Mia. Are you okay?”
Oh, God. No. I’m not okay. I was okay, until my stupid landlord watched me attempting to do a ballet pirouette while carrying enough cardboard to open a moving company.
“I’m fine,” I croak.
His hands touch my arms, curling around my back to help me sit up. I scowl at his bicep, inexplicably angry that it flexes against the fabric of his sweater the way it does. The fabric is a deep green color, and it looks great with his skin tone. It even makes his eyes appear slightly brown, instead of their usual black-as-the-bowels-of-hell color. Ugh.
Heat rises to the surface of my skin. My gaze darts to his lips, which is ridiculous. They’re full and firm, which I know because I kissed him three weeks ago.
Concern shimmers in those black-brown eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I haven’t had a man hold me or look at me like he cared in a long,longtime. If I allowed myself to enjoy it, I might not want to go without. And that’s unacceptable.
“Please let go of me,” I answer icily.
He drops his hold on me, and cold rushes in. Damn him for being so nice and warm. Damn him for caring—or pretending to.
Gathering my dignity, my cardboard, and my groceries, I lift my chin and give him a curt nod. “Goodnight, Mr. Thomas.”
“Let me help you carry something,” he says.
Just as I’m about to spit some scathing remark about him pretending to be nice when he’s in fact a huge, arrogant jerk, Bailey thrusts two cardboard boxes at him. “Here,” she says brightly. “I’m going to be an electrical outlet. We’re going to make a practice one so Mom doesn’t mess up the holes. We might need to use a utility knife instead of scissors, so I’m not going to cut them because it’s dangerous. I’ll go grab the last orange.” Then she takes off at a sprint toward the lone orange by the fire exit.
Des looks at the cardboard, then at me. I decide I don’t feel like explaining anything to him, so I say nothing.
I hobble toward my condo door. My cheeks are smarting and my whole body feels flushed and prickly. Once I’ve got my door unlocked, I stand in the opening and shove my things inside, then turn to grab the boxes from him. There’s no way I’m letting him past the threshold.
When I meet his gaze, I see kindness there, which renders me speechless for a moment. I’ve spent the past few weeks vilifying this man, reminding myself that he lied to me and tricked me, that seeing this look on his face doesn’t fit with the image I’ve created.
If I were honest with myself, I might admit that it was nice to have someone show concern for me. It was nice to have someone else to carry the bulky items while I walked to my door. It would be nice to have someone else to rely on for all the little things that I’ve been doing on my own. Would he take out the trash without being asked? Would he make sure my coffee was brewed in the morning by the time I woke up?
No. This is Desmond, the man who raised my rent, the man who lied to me and concealed his identity.
