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“What?”
“Waffles is…I’m an artist,” she corrects herself. “I paint textured flowers and sell them online. I figured you should know, just in case you assumed I spent my days hanging around my house with my dog and watching soap operas.”
“I didn’t think that.”
Although I have been curious about what she does for a living.
“Well, I better get back inside; it’s freezing out here.” Marlow wraps her arms around herself.
I hadn’t noticed until now that she wasn’t wearing a coat.
“Yeah, I’ve got to get back to work,” I rush out.
I grab a lone bill out of my mailbox before heading toward my house.
“Dylan?” Marlow calls out after me.
I pivot in her direction. “Yeah?”
“In the spirit of being honest, please tell me if you don’t want to shovel my driveway anymore.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “I’m sure Rick can find someone else.”
I furrow my brow. “What does your landlord have to do with it?”
“When I moved in, he agreed to find someone to do the yard work. I’m sure he only asked you because you live next door. But I can tell him to get someone else to do it if you’d prefer not to anymore.”
I’ve never met Rick in person, but I’ve heard about him. He lives out of state but owns several houses in Aspen Grove. From the stories I’ve heard from his tenants, he’s a total flake and does a poor job of maintaining his properties. It turns out Marlow’s been dealing with the same problem as the others, without even realizing it.
As soon as I get Rick’s phone number, we’re going to have a nice little chat about what it means to be a property owner and the responsibilities that come with it.
I’m flooded with a rush of guilt when I realize I’ve spent the past year judging Marlow, calling her irresponsible, because she didn’t take care of her yard. In reality, she was under the assumption I had been asked to take care of it for her. That explains why she comes to the window to thank me when I’m shoveling outside.
“I don’t mind doing it,” I reassure her.
And for the first time, I mean it.
I’ve had all these preconceived notions about Marlow Taylor, and I’m beginning to wonder what others might be wrong.
6
MARLOW
I TOSS A BOX OF LIMITED-edition Lucky Charms with unicorn-shaped marshmallows in my shopping basket for Lola. Occasionally, I surprise her with a gift when I come across something she might like.
Even though she’s obsessed with all things unicorn and rainbows, I doubt she’s ever had this kind of cereal. From what she’s told me, it sounds like Dylan has an aversion to junk food, which I assume includes sugary cereal. This further confirms my decision. You could say I have a thing for pushing his buttons—it makes me positively giddy.
If he saw the contents of my shopping basket, he’d probably develop an ulcer. It’s filled with frozen corn dogs, Frosted Strawberry Pop-Tarts, Cheez-Its, creamy peanut butter, canned beef ravioli, and a loaf of bread—my essentials during a big painting project. They aren’t the healthiest options, but I prefer quick and easy meals since I often forget to eat when I’m immersed in the creative process.
As I roam the aisles, my thoughts wander to my unusual interactions with Dylan in the last two days. First, there was the incident when he wiped the paint off my face. I’m weak at the knees remembering the touch of his thumb grazing along my lower lip, and his lingering gaze.
And yesterday, I would have figured he’d come pounding on my door, demanding I turn my music down. His approach of using Waffles as a mediator was surprisingly comical and endearing, and I nearly fainted from shock when he smiled at me. It’s not like I’ve been trying to get that man to crack a smile for the past thirteen months or anything.
It's a drastic change from his typical responses, which include a glower, accompanied by sulking and grumbling, with the occasional curt nod tossed in when he’s in a good mood.
Aside from his surly attitude, there is no denying that Dylan is attractive. He reminds me of a modern-day Clark Kent, with short black hair, chocolate brown eyes, a chiseled jawline, and his black-rimmed glasses. Not to mention he’s positively mouthwatering in a three-piece suit, although I wouldn’t admit that to anyone.
When I finish shopping, I take my grocery haul to the register at the front of the store.
Before I moved to Aspen Grove, I assumed small-town grocery stores like Doose’s Market in Gilmore Girls didn’t exist. That is until I visited Main Street Market for the first time and met the owner, Willis Moore. He’s a stout man with a thick beard and calloused hands, a testament to being in business for forty years, and he often tells me he’ll never retire. I hope he means it because I look forward to seeing him when I stop by.
