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The whole thing made me want to return to where I’m most at home, and that’s with my hands trimming someone’s hair while chatting about life. But my dear neighbor is so adorably fumbling—who knew a man this gorgeous could have two left feet?—that I take pity on him.
He seems shy, and despite the humor that just blossomed between us, my guess is that few women have offered to share some cake with him. Cake or anything else. It’s too bad, too.
Hasn’t the guy looked in a mirror?
With eyes like that and a smidge more confidence, he could have anyone he wants.Anyone. Regardless, I hand him a giant piece of sinfully decadent devil’s food and a cup of coffee, so we can chat.
Well, mostly,Ichat.
I tell him all about A Cut Above, how I felt about this evening, how it feels to be back in Oak Valley after over a decade of absence, and on and on. Only when I realize I’ve been taking over the discussion do I press him for details.
“So tell me about yourself,” I prompt.
“Not much to tell.”
“Have you always lived in Oak Valley?” I don’t remember him from my childhood or school days, but I’m guessing he’s a little older than I am, anyway.
“No. Moved here a few years ago.”
“Where’d you live prior to that?”
“California.”
I pause, thinking he’ll go on, but he doesn’t. This is painful. Getting answers out of him is like pulling teeth.
“And you’re an electrician?” He merely nods as I repeat one of the few pieces of info I have on him. “Do you have any hobbies?”
Silence. Then, after a pause that I can literally count to five Mississippis on, he shrugs. Frustrated, I liquor up his coffee with some Irish Cream. If alcohol won’t get him talking, I don’t know what will.
“Come on,” I push once he’s taken a couple of sips. “You can do better than that. What do you watch on TV? Do you like movies? Video games? Puzzles?”
He snorts, and his expression grows somehow wary and soft at the same time.
“I like building things. Small things.”
“Like?”
“Like miniature ships in bottles. Birdhouses. Dollhouses.” He stares down at my kitchen tabletop where we’re seated as if something he said is shameful.
“That’s awesome.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Will you show me sometime?”
He simply studies me as if memorizing my face, continuing to drink his coffee until it’s gone. Once it is, he seems to have relaxed by a handful of degrees.
“Now?” he asks, but I’ve lost track of the subject.
“Now what?”
“Would you like to see my ships and things now?” He tips his chin toward the wall separating our two units.
I shove to my feet. “Why not?”
The first thing I notice is how remarkably tidy this man is. I’m a messy person much of the time. The only room I even try to keep clean is my living room, and even then, there’s at least some clutter hanging around. Yet Sean is organized. His floors appear carefully swept, there are no extraneous belongings on his sofa or on the back of a chair, and the few items he has seem to have their own special place.
He ushers me into the second bedroom, a space I use exclusively for storage, and while he’s doing the same, his stacks of boxes are immaculate. Then, on a bookshelf, I see his craftwork. If I were to come across such creations while out and about, I doubt I would’ve given them much scrutiny, but as Sean hands me a ship in a bottle—behaving as cautiously as a dad with his precious firstborn—I can tell that this took a lot of patience and delicacy.
