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“What?” He finally turns as if to shut the door and notices I’m still on his porch. “Come in, I’ve gotta get ready for work.”
“And I’ve gotta talk to you.” I state, but don’t budge from my spot.
“So, talk to me while I get ready.”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Because…” I almost stamp my foot like a pissed off little teenager. “Because I hardly know you.”
“You know me!” He honestly looks confused. This is what I was afraid of! He thinks we have started something. But we haven’t. That’s why I need to tell him that I am not interested in starting anything with him or anybody else. After everything I just went through with Jason, my non-committing ex-boyfriend of eight years, I do not want to get my life tangled up with anybody. Maybe never!
Certainly not now and certainly not this guy. He’s too stunningly gorgeous, and a cop for heaven’s sake. If he knew what I do in the wee hours of the night to finance my unexpected needs, he’d follow me around, or set a stake-out and bust the people whose trust I have earned behind that green door.
The last high-stakes game I attended, where I walked away with one hundred thousand dollars, was secretly hidden behind an innocent looking olive green door that leads to an underground room from the alley behind Deadwood Tobacco Company. Big Mike used a coded metaphor referring to a karaoke event at midnight, while I was in the cigar lounge, to tell me when a card game would be held. Then he gave me a card simply stating, “Green Door.”
Being even so much as an arms-length friend to Detective Blaze would be putting all those guys at risk of a raid. I couldn’t risk losing my only source for a local game should I need it in the future.
“Sure I know you. You’re my neighbor. But we… aren’t…” How do I put this and not sound like an idiot. “We’re not friends, Mr. Hemingway.”
I knew calling him Mister Hemingway would make my meaning very clear. When I first met him, he told me his name was Jonathan Hemingway, but his friends call him Blaze. I had said, “So what do I call you, Mr. Hemingway?”
Then and now, I am making myself as clear as possible that we are not friends.
His jaw drops open slightly. “Oh. Okay.”
He steps out onto his porch with me. I can feel the heat from his body and wish he would back off a little and yet I find I don’t want to move. Having him stand so close to me sends a thrill through my body that I rather enjoy feeling.
“So, what do you want to talk about.”
“Last night.”
“Okay, what about it?”
“Look, what you did—”
My words were smothered into silence. His arms engulfed me, pulling me tighter against his hard, muscular chest. My knees go weak. For a split second, I want to give in and indulge in this luscious interlude with him. Oh god! I taste his tongue, searching for mine. I haven’t even brushed my teeth this morning! I slap my libido down and push away from him, staggering backward. An Adirondack chair catches my heel, and I sprawl on my butt. My flip flop goes flying across his porch.
“Ow, that hurt.” I gingerly rub my scraped palms together. “Why’d you go do that?”
I look up at his suppressed smile. If he busts out laughing, I’m going to kick his shins, or whatever I can reach from this position. He reaches out to help me up, but I smack his hand away with my bare foot.
“I’ve got it.” I crawl to my feet and glare even sterner at him. I see my flip flop and limp to it sliding my toes around the thong. “Look. You have really gotten the wrong idea, Mr. Hemingway.”
“Have I?” He looks so arrogant I want to slap him.
“Yes. I came over this morning to tell you that.”
“Did you?” He quips.
What is this guy’s problem? Sure, he’s drop-dead gorgeous and wears his jeans better than a bull rider leaning on a fence waiting his turn in a rodeo, but I do not need this. “Look. Thank you for helping me carry my stuff up those awful stairs and thank you for giving Frank an alternative place to sleep than my living room, but that’s as far as this goes.” I motion between us. “We are neighbors. Nothing more. If you need a cup of sugar, go ask someone else, ’cause I don’t bake.”
I turn on my sore heel, and march away.
“Maribeth, wait.” I hear him say.
Regret tugs and pulls on me like a little gremlin trying to change my mind. It wants me to turn around and apologize. But I keep moving toward my stairs. I climb each step, breathing heavier and heavier as I ascend to my front door. By the time I enter my house, tears are streaming down my face. I hate how that went down.
