Pen Pal

9

Another rumble of thunder makes the kitchen windows shiver in their frames. The rain starts to fall harder, pattering against the roof. The drips falling into the buckets on the floor pick up speed, little ploop ploop ploops that seem to mock me.

Like Mr. Personality here is.

“I can’t afford ten thousand dollars to fix my roof. Or ninety-nine-ninety-nine, either. So thank you for your time.” I leave the quote on the table, stand, and gaze down my nose at him. “I appreciate you coming out.”

He looks up at me. His dark eyes are calculating. “What if I throw in the electrical?”

“That’s generous, but it won’t make money magically appear in my bank account. Nice to meet you. I’ll show you out.”

I walk away, expecting him to rise and follow me. When he doesn’t, I stop and turn around.

He’s still sitting there at my kitchen table. He isn’t even looking at me, he’s just watching the water drip into the buckets on the floor.

“Mr. Leighrite.”

Without turning his head, he says, “It’s Aidan. And if you can afford five grand, I know a guy who can help you out.”

I think about that. “Is he licensed?”

He makes a small motion of his head, a shake that seems to indicate his amazement at my stupidity.

I say crossly, “I’m not letting anybody work on my property who isn’t licensed and insured. I’m sure I don’t have to go over all the reasons why.”

His shoulders rise and fall as he inhales and exhales. He runs a hand through his thick dark hair.

Then he shakes his head again and rises.

He walks to where I’m standing and gazes down at me. “It’s me. I’m the guy. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Cash or check, I don’t take credit cards.”

Then he brushes past me and leaves without asking if we have a deal.

He already knows we have a deal because I’m desperate.

The son of a b***h just checkmated me.

7

t eight o’clock sharp the next morning, Mr. Personality knocks on my door.

Pounds on it actually, with brutal force. As if he’s the leader of a SWAT team, and he’s

been tasked with taking down a group of crazed hostage-takers to save a hundred people’s lives. I open the door and stare at him. “Good morning, Mr. Leighrite. What’s the emergency?” Frowning, he looks me up and down.

Because the house is freezing, I’m wearing a bulky sweater with a down vest over it along with sweatpants and a scarf, but the man looks at me like I’m wearing a beehive on top of my head paired with assless leather chaps. He asks, “You okay?”

“Do I look as if I’m not okay? No, don’t answer that. Why were you trying to break down my door?”

“I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.”

“I see your sense of time is as good as your sense of humor.”

He holds up his arm. Wrapped around his thick wrist is a chunky black watch. Some kind of sports thing that tracks your steps and spies on you while you sleep. He taps the crystal. The readout shows ten after eight.

“Ten minutes. And for the fourth time, it’s Aidan.”

Didn’t I just look at the clock in the kitchen? It said eight on the nose. Flustered, I say, “Sorry.

My clocks must be off.”

“Is your hearing off, too?”

Because it seems to be our thing, we stand there and stare at each other in silence.

Until he demands, “Look, are you letting me in or not?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, decide. I’m not getting any younger.”

How old is he? Thirty? Thirty-five? Hard to tell. He’s in great shape, whatever his age. God, those biceps are huge. And those thighs could crush a Volkswagen.

“Yes, come in,” I say too loudly, trying to drown out the idiotic voice in my head simpering over

his big stupid muscles.

Avoiding his eyes, I leave the door open and turn and walk into the kitchen. I sit down at the table, then stand up again because I don’t know what to do with myself.

The front door closes. Heavy footsteps cross through the foyer. He lumbers into the kitchen and stands a few feet away from me.

We commence our silent staring game of Who Will Say Something Strange First.

I break under the strain before he does. “I have your money.”

He looks at my empty hands. “Do I have to dig around in your backyard for it, or are you gonna give it to me?”

“You know, I think you lied when you said you don’t have a sense of humor. I think you’re a big frickin’ comedian.”

“You can curse in front of me if you want. I won’t get offended.”

I take a moment to massage my pounding forehead before sighing. “That’s very generous. Thank you. I was up all night worrying about how not to upset your delicacy.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, my delicacy is as solid as my humor.”

Either he’s trying not to smile, or he’s having painful stomach cramps. It’s hard to tell. The man has a face like a brick wall.

“You said a check was okay, right?” He inclines his head.

Today he’s wearing another version of lumberjack chic, with an untucked, faded black-and-red plaid flannel to go along with the faded jeans. His boots are—

“Oh no.”

Following my gaze, he looks down at his feet. “What?”

“You tracked mud all over my floor.”

He glances back up at me. “You don’t have a doormat. And it’s raining outside.”

“You make a good point.”

“Plus, this floor is pretty dirty anyway.”

“Excuse me, but I just mopped it.”