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Except “landscape” is too fancy of a word. Storage units, as far as the eye can see, stretch on either side across the street, lines and lines of aluminum and concrete wasteland.
The downtown revitalization project should save our block of connected, rowhouse-style units from going the way of the masses. And I, for one, am excited about that. Something needed to stop the storage unit magnate from snatching up every little piece of the pie around here.
Out the window, I see a flash of movement.
It’s Aria Robinson leaving out the front doors of the bakery, which is connected to our building.
It’s not a surprise, since I know she works there as Camilla’s graphic designer, social media manager, and marketer in one, but seeing her always jolts me, like that ice bucket challenge for ALS that made the rounds when I was a teen. Even though you’re expecting the jolt, it still gets you every time.
She disappears, walking right next to the building, and then I hear a faint knock on the front door.
She’s coming in here, and I need time to school my expression. I go down the stairs, much more slowly than I went up, taking my time and enjoying that with each step down, I can see more and more of the vision in front of me.
Her long, dark hair is pulled back in a colorful turban that acts as a hairnet when she’s around the food in the bakeshop. She’s in wide-legged, dark-washed jeans and a thin blue sweater, covered by a white apron. Her swan-like neck and her regal collarbones under smooth, tan skin come into view. I ‘ve never thought of any woman’s collarbones as being “regal,” but that’s the only way to describe Aria’s.
Now I can see her eyes, right before I take the last step down. Large, luminous, velvety brown. Like Bambi, the baby deer. She even has the finest sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, like spots on said baby deer. They are barely noticeable, but if you stand close to her, you can see them.
Not that I’ve gotten to stand close to her much. We’re not exactly friends. I came on a bit too strong the day we met in the bakeshop two years ago. I’d been in my default mode, the I-can’t-help-but-flirt-around-an-attractive-woman mode that I can’t help getting in when I’m nervous. It was the completely wrong way to approach her, and I’ve been regretting it ever since.
“Theo.” She says it like a confession—like she has no choice but to utter it.
“Hey, neighbor,” I say as I reach her. I throw my arms wide. “What do you think of the new place, huh?”
Her gaze takes in the room. It’s not done yet, but she should have seen it three months ago.
“I like it. The scent of new paint is top notch,” she says.
“I know,” I say. I scrunch up my face. “Is it wrong to love the smell of paint?”
She grunts a laugh. “If you’re not actively seeking it out, it’s probably fine.” She nods as she steps forward to look around some more. “Camilla said you’re moving in this weekend.”
“We were. We are.” I give a firm nod. “The carpet is going in tomorrow.”
She shifts her weight to one side, and I know she’s gearing up to say something I’m not going to like.
“Do you know who owns the Beemer that’s illegally parked in the back?” Her nostrils flare.
I chuckle. I thought Camilla was the one who was dramatic. “It’s not illegally parked, but—”
“It is. And our delivery guy can’t get to where he needs to be.”
“Well, I’ll move it right away.” I feel my phone vibrate and stretch out a finger to her before I answer it. I have to do a spin move to avoid two workers carrying the large beam that will become the fireplace mantel.
I answer the phone because it’s Weatherby, but I don’t miss Aria’s huff and her arms crossing over her chest. If it had been anyone else calling, I would have silenced the call. But Aria does not understand the level of dedication Weatherby requires. He’s not a bad guy or a bad boss, I just want to make his life easier in whatever way I can.
“Things are set up with the Fleming case,” Weatherby tells me. “It’s all yours. He’s out on bail, so he can come to you.”
“Great,” I lie. It’s not great. I don’t want this case. Weatherby and Knowles is a full-service law firm. In a town this size, we have to be, and I love it. But there’s a reason I don’t practice in an inner city—I don’t like criminal law.
Maybe I’m a bit too squeamish for that kind of thing. Give me adoptions, prenups, or wills . . . I don’t like dealing with criminals. But Weatherby’s a tennis pro on a world tour and I’m his ball boy, crouched, unseen in the corner by the net, poised to run across the court to retrieve anything and everything he needs.
Weatherby sighs through the phone. “Did you hear about the scandal with the Christmas festival? Something about the charity the co-hosts run being a scam?”
“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Well, my wife’s in a tizzy. Says she feels betrayed by the co-hosts. She’s worried people will boycott the festival.”
“She volunteers, doesn’t she?”
