Neighbors (4 page)

“
It was my pleasure,” he says.

Accepting that I’ll just have to be satisfied with a friendship, I remind him of my earlier offer
. “Don’t forget…if you need help, okay?”

A smile stretches across his
face. He starts to cross the street then turns. “You know what? Maybe you
can
help. You said you were good at organizing stuff, right? I nod. “Maybe you can suggest how I can set up my closet so it won’t look like a disaster area. Wanna come in and take a look?” He doesn’t move as he waits for my response.

My brain is screaming,
Yes, yes, yes!

When I say nothing, he says,
“I found the coffee pot while I was unpacking last night. I can make you a cup.” His stare pleads with my wantonness.

I kno
w I should say no, especially since the message he sent earlier is clear that he’s not interested, but I don’t want our time together to end. “Sure.”

He opens
his door and moves some of the cartons so that I can walk in. Watching his muscles flex makes my insides tighten. An urge to touch him is combated by my quickly grabbing the belt loops on my shorts to keep my hands occupied. I sashay around stacks of boxes and misarranged furniture.

“Sorry about the clutter. I’m hoping to be done by the end of the week. I have to go back to work next Monday.”

I follow him into the kitchen. Random cabinet doors hang open and the counter is buried with more boxes. He walks over to the refrigerator. “Do you take milk in your coffee?”

“
Yes, and sugar, please. Thanks,” I say.

He
starts the pot then spreads out his arms. “So, this is the kitchen,” he laughs.

I laugh
, too. “I figured that when I saw the stove. It’s nice.”

“I’m going to rip out these cabinets and put new ones in during the winter. House building is usually slow
during cold months.”

“
I bet you’re good with your hands.”

One
eyebrow rises and he offers a suggestive grin, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part.

He
takes me on a tour of the house. We start on the main level. In each room he shares his ideas for decorating. I offer some of my own when he asks. With the first floor concluded, I follow him upstairs. His tight jeans offer a nice view as we climb the stairs.
Behave. Remember, friends.

Two small rooms flank to
the right side of the hallway. Each of the Miller children must have had a room as noted by the pink and blue colors.

“I’m going to m
ake this one an office,” he says pointing to the smaller, blue room. I lean in past him to poke my head into the room. As I do, I inhale his scent. That combination of his shampoo, clean cotton, and him is a mental seduction. I want to turn around and taste him to see how wonderful that is too, but I fight to control my urges. Still, I steal another quick whiff of him before I shake myself back to the conversation.

At the end of the hallway
is the bathroom. Fluffy, beige towels are piled on edge of the tub, and a few toiletries—an electric razor, a bar of soap, and a container of deodorant—are scattered on the top of the sink. I feel awkward that I know something more personal about Dylan now that I know the brand of soap he uses. The wrapper reads Clean Linen. That explains the cottony smell.

“Sorry. The bathroom isn’t as clean as yours. I’m working on it.”

“You’ve only been here one day. You’ll be fine once everything is put away.” I look up and he’s staring at me. A surge of electricity races from my head, down my body. A small knot forms in my stomach.

He points
to the hall closet. “This is where I thought your expertise would come in handy. Maybe you could suggest how I should set it up.”

“Sure.” I nod
. “You’d have to show me what you want to keep in here first. That way I’ll know what I’m working with.”

His smile reveals his
dimples. “It’s just sheets and towels and extra soap and stuff.”

“Oh
,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

“Um, this is the master bedroom.” He holds an open hand out to the room across from the two smaller ones. Large in area, there’s a king sized bed on the far wall. The blanket and throw pillows are haphazardly tossed on top.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company just yet.” A fl
icker of red brushes his cheeks.

The knot that started in my
stomach tightens and a tingle spreads down my legs. An awkward silence hangs in the air between us as I try to stifle thoughts of rolling around that big bed with him.

M
y inappropriate images are interrupted when the phone rings.

“That was quick. I just called to turn it on yesterday.
The phone’s downstairs. I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

“Sure,” I say
and he disappears down the stairs.
The phone isn’t the only thing he turned on yesterday…
Without him next to me I look at the bed again and wonder if I truly would have made my contemplations a reality. The traffic in my head is stifling. The two sides of my brain—the naughty side and the rational side—are shouting at each other. Ultimately, good sense wins and reaffirms Dylan’s lack of interest in me. I shake both sides off and go downstairs.

His back i
s to me as he talks on the phone. I stare at how his jeans hug his behind and think about how I shouldn’t be.

“Okay,
Thursday is fine. I’ll see you then.” Hunching over the counter, I see the muscles in his back ripple as he scribbles something on a scrap of paper
.
My breathing is audible and I attempt to calm my heart rate by holding my breath.

In order to distract myself,
I look at an open box on the counter. Some of the contents have been transferred to the cabinet just above it. I reach in and pull out a box of cereal and begin arranging it in the cabinet.

Dylan
says goodbye and hangs up the phone. “That was the gardener I hired. He’s coming Thursday afternoon to install some sprinklers. Then I can start obsessing over my grass the way all other suburbanites do.” He laughs.

“How nice,” I sa
y holding the box of cereal.

Dylan
registers what I’m doing.

My
hand freezes with the cereal, mid-reach. “Um…Oh sorry. I didn’t mean to…I just thought I’d help out. That way you can start your road to normalcy quicker. I told you, I’m an organizational addict.”

His mouth morphs
from a hard straight line into a smile as he takes the box. His fingers brush my hand. My finally controlled heart rate spikes again. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

Again, I apologize
. “I just wanted to help.”

He pauses
as if to contemplate something. It makes him look delectable. My brain warns me again.
Remember, you promised you’d be friends.
The other half jumps in,
Give the girl a break. She can look, for Heaven’s sake.
The discourse chases the pull in my belly away.

“Well,
you are persistent,” his tone wanes. “I would like to have everything in its place… and you are very pleasant company.” His smile is full. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” The way he looks at me makes me think he can read my thoughts—including all of the dirty ones.

I swallow
hard to push the lump in my throat down. “I don’t mind. Just show me what I can do.” I say it with innocent intent, but my libido has other ideas.

“I guess
you can help in here. All the kitchen boxes are scattered. But, they’re labeled. I’ll clean the upstairs bathroom so at least I won’t have to annoy you later to borrow your shower again.”

I blush
at the memory of knowing that he was naked in my house while I sat in the other room and thought about him.
And did nothing
. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t mind.” Tell me I don’t sound pathetic.

He continues.
“I’ll work on the closet too so you can check and make sure I’m doing it right.” He winks.

All of the boxes a
re labeled. I begin my task as he goes back upstairs. As I put each thing away, I take note of all the foods he likes to eat. The internal battle in my head begins.

Stop being so pitiful. Go up there and take him
.

If you do that, you ruin
the chance of having him as a friend, at least. None of his actions suggest that he’s interested in you that way. Just help out your new friend and you’ll look for someone else.

* * *

An hour later, Dylan comes down the stairs.“So, how’s it going in here?” he asks. “Will I be able to find anything?”

Most of the boxes I found
labeled “kitchen” were now empty and dismantled in a pile. “I want to show you where I put everything,” I say, placing the last of the glasses into the cabinet above the sink. I open and close cabinet doors, showing him the system I used to put things away. He nods his approval with each display. He leans in close to move some items around so he can see what else is in the cubby. He smells heavenly and I feel his heat. My pulse quickens.

It’
s difficult to keep my breathing steady. With every intake of breath, his scent fills my nose. It makes me want him. A warm rush circulates to every edge of my body. A mental picture of me undressing him fills my head. My thoughts flip to a hand ripping the needle off a record.
Snap out of it!

I
decide it’s best to put some distance between us. I move to show him the other cabinets and he follows. He’s only inches from me. I can’t think straight.
You can still reach out to touch him. He might be receptive
. The other half of my brain is telling me that thought is not an option.

He looks at me
. A million tiny bubbles burst inside my veins. An urge to kiss him commands my concentration. Although I don’t want him to, he backs away, and averts his eyes.
Ouch!
See? Not interested
. Reality has bitten me hard again. I’m now aware of how stupid I’ve been behaving. Mentally I confirm my rational brain.
You’re right. I’ll stick to friends.

After a minute to reassess, I file Dylan in the “friends” folder in my
mind. Attempting to fix the weirdness, I walk to the other end of the kitchen. “Um, I put your spices in here.” I open the cabinet to show him. I grip the handle steady so he can’t see my hand shake. “Of course, you should move it around the way you want, but it’s a start.”

“No, it’s great. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I can’t look at him for fear he will see my embarrassment and read my thoughts through my disappointed expression.

“
Please let me take you for dinner to show you my appreciation.”

My eyes flas
h up at his.
This is too hard. Go home.
“That’s not necessary. You already took me to lunch. “ I walk toward the door, where I left my purse.

“I
want to. You’ve been so great—the cookies, the pizza, your shower—then taking me around today and helping me unpack. Please? I’d like to show you how grateful I am.”

Being
friends would be better than nothing
. And like and idiot, I relent. “Um, okay.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at six. You don’t have to tel
l me where you live.” He chuckles. It’s bittersweet.

My
return laugh sounds like a small animal being squeezed into a confined space; a cross between rejection and apprehension. This is definitely a good time to go home. I need to console my bruised ego. He follows as I reach for the door. “See you later,” I say and bolt across the street.

Behind my own closed door, I si
t on the couch and silently scold myself for being so stupid. Thoughts of the many mistakes I’d made with Greg fill my head. There are too many to count. All of the times I made excuses for his behavior because I didn’t want to admit to myself that he just didn’t want to be with me. The numerous times I looked away from his “plans” with his “friends.” If I’d ever questioned them I wouldn’t have been miserable for so many months. I just had to realize that I was meant to be alone. Relationships were not in my future.

I
call Tracy to vent.

“No freakin’ way,” she says
when I share how my day went and tell her about the invitation to dinner.

“
Do you think he’s gay?”

“What? No.
Tracy, he was in a bad relationship with a psycho.”
Now you’re making excuses for him,
just like you did with Greg.
“Maybe he’s like me; he doesn’t want to be involved right now.”

“
Maybe he does but he doesn’t know it yet.”

“Maybe it’s better if I
don’t get involved, Tracy. I don’t want to get hurt again.”