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ChapterSeven
Skye
Gideon’s wearinga scowl when he comes inside. I narrow my eyes at him, mentally daring him to say something. I assume he doesn’t like my music, which is insane. Who doesn’t love Fleetwood Mac? From the bar, I watch him swing the door closed and walk swiftly past me to his bedroom.
Just who the heck does he think he is? Frustrated, I blow my long bangs from my face and lean over my project again. I’m framing a print to hang in my bedroom. It’s a cool poster I snagged from WordNerds, our local bookstore, when I saw them changing out a display. Maybe I had to bat my eyelashes at Felix, the guy doing the display, but it worked. The poster is an advertisement for Jane Joyce Armstrong’s latest book. She’s not only one of my favorite authors, she’s from Troy, Missouri, which is a hop, skip, and a jump from St. Louis. Which means maybe someday I’ll be lucky enough to bump into her and get her to sign the print.
I’m singing under my breath to “The Chain” when Gideon appears from his room and then disappears into the bathroom. Guess this will be our nightly routine. Me coming home from work at my normal six-ish time. Me eating dinner alone. Me doing my own thing—whether it’s reading or framing book prints or watching TV—and Gideon showing up at all hours. To his room. To the bathroom.
Wonder if he’ll do breakfast for dinner again tonight.
When he emerges from the bathroom, I’m eyeballing my framing job. It looks good. Now to hang it. Gideon quirks an eyebrow when I walk from the bar to my room, my heels clicking on the tile floor. After work, I went by the bookstore, of course, and then I had dinner with a guy who’s been asking since Christmas. It was exactly as exciting as I thought it would be, and so now I’m still dressed in my skirt and heels, and I’m still hungry—Mel thought fondue sounded good. Spoiler alert. It wasn’t. And I’m still without a boyfriend and wondering if Mel will take the hint after I dodged his goodnight kiss or if he’ll call me tomorrow. I didn’t give him my number; he’s a customer service rep at the bank, so he calls my extension.
“What are you doing?”
Frame in one hand and my hammer in the other, I stop just inside my bedroom and look at Gideon.
“What’s it look like?”
My sarcasm flies out the window when he tips his head like he’s actually thinking about it. I feel the heat from his intense stare as it travels up over my black heels and bare legs and skinny gray pencil skirt. What had he called it last night? Corporate getup?
“Kinda like an eighties music video,” he answers with a shrug. “Maybe porn.”
Stunned by his answer, I take half a second to wonder if I’m offended. The laugh pops out before I make up my mind. I hold out the hammer and twist it this way and that and finally shudder when I look back at him.
“I’m going to hang this picture.” I turn my back on him and put the frame and hammer down on my bed.
“Want help?”
I peek at him over my shoulder and shake my head. “No thanks.”
“Well, I mean, you can’t just hammer a nail in a wall and be done with it. You have to measure, so you’re not crooked.”
“I’m not crooked,” I promise him. I kick off my heels and lead him to the spot on the wall I’ve already measured and marked. “I did that first.”
Rather than look at the spot on the wall, Gideon studies me. Up close to him like this, I smell his cologne. Something woodsy but not overpowering. He also smells like old books or at least an old building—like the mix of paper and dust.
“Did you work late?” he asks me, and when I shake my head, he asks, “Why are you still dressed like that?”
Wow. He really does have an issue with professional attire.
“Had a date,” I answer. I left my nail out on the counter, so I go to get it. When I come back in, Gideon’s looking around my room. My cheeks heat with embarrassment when I see a lacy black bra tossed over the nightstand. He looks at me again with narrowed eyes, as if he’s trying to work out if I brought my date home and slept with him and forgot to put my bra on when I got dressed again.
“A date.”
“Mm-hmm.” I stick the nail between my teeth and eye the spot I marked earlier with a pencil.
“With who?”
“Mel Kavanaugh.”
“Don’t know him.”
“No kidding.” I speak around the nail in my teeth and roll my eyes. “He works at the bank.”
“That your type?” I wouldn’t swear to it, but he sounds disappointed.
“Will you gimme the hammer?” Nail still between my teeth, I hold my hand out and nod my thanks when he puts the hammer on my palm. Taking the nail out of my teeth, I lean closer to the wall and tap it gently with the hammer.
