Mr Right, Next Door!. Barbara Wallace
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Having let them in, Sophie headed in that direction only to find Grant hadn’t followed. Turning, she found him studying the framework dividing the two spaces.
“You kept the doors,” he noted, tracing a finger along the molding.
He meant the pocket doors, which could be drawn to divide the space. Obviously he’d been in the space before. “For now. I’ve only been here a month. I figured I should live with the place awhile before making any major changes.”
He nodded, and without asking, gave the door a tug. There was a soft scraping sound as the heavy panel moved outward. “Did the Realtor tell you that these are original?” he asked, brushing the dusty wood.
“He mentioned something.”
“Etta—Mrs. Feldman, the owner, insisted on keeping a lot of the original fixtures. Most of the other units are far more modernized.”
“The Realtor told me that, too.” Apologized, really, over the fact that Sophie’s hadn’t been one of the redesigned spaces.
“My…” She found herself stumbling for a word to describe David. Companion was most correct but the word felt awkward on her tongue. Then again, she was finding talking difficult in general watching Grant caress the paneled door with the tenderness of a long-lost lover. “My… friend suggested I remove them and paint all the woodwork white.”
“God, I hope not.” She swore he winced at the suggestion. Better not to tell him David’s full suggestion—that she gut the place. “This is black walnut.”
“So?”
“So—” his look was way too condescending for someone so young “—you paint soft wood, like pine. Hard wood like walnut is meant to be shown off.”
“I didn’t realize wood came with rules.”
What she did know was watching him run his hands up and down the woodwork was damn unnerving. The soft brushing sound of calluses against the wood’s rough surface made her stomach knot.
“Did you know Mrs. Feldman well?” she asked, pushing the door back into place.
“We met when she turned the building into apartments. She filled me in on the building’s history.”
“The Realtor told me she was the original owner.”
“Well, not the original original,” he noted. “This building predates the Civil War. But, her husband’s family was. The only reason she converted was because she was convinced a developer would gut the place after she died.” Sophie swallowed a kernel of guilt on David’s behalf. “She fought right to the end to make sure the building retained as much of its original look as possible. Especially her living space. ‘You can push me into converting, but you won’t make me change my living room,’ she used to say.”
“Sounds like you two were like-minded.”
“Last couple years, I’ve come round to see her way of thinking.” He gave the woodwork one parting swipe.
There was regret in his words that made him sound older than his years. Look older, too, as a melancholy shadow accompanied them, darkening his golden features. Odd.
“I have to confess,” she said, trying to break the mood, “I like some of the old fixtures. The entranceway for example. It’s nice how the place is both modern and antique at the same time.”
“A brilliantly designed blend,” he softly replied. Almost sounded as if he was reciting a quote. Again, the words came across as weighted and old.
She had little time to wonder because Grant had crossed the dining room and was already pushing the swinging door leading to her kitchen. After trying to move him along earlier, she now found herself scurrying to catch up. She did only to find he’d stopped short again. This time he was studying the kitchen cabinetry with the same sensual attentiveness. She had to catch herself from bumping square into his back.
“Then there’s the kitchen.”
Unlike the edge from before, this time she heard a note of amusement in his voice. Though she couldn’t see his face—she was still stuck behind his broad back—Sophie could easily picture his expression, basing the image on the many amused looks he’d shot in her direction over the past two days. Interestingly, in hindsight, those looks weren’t nearly as infuriating as they seemed at the time.
“You don’t like this room?” she asked.
“Etta was stubborn. She insisted on keeping it as is. Right down to the hardware. Making a last stand, I suppose.”
The last line was said as he knelt down to examine a lower cabinet door. Sophie took advantage of the movement to slip past, sucking in her breath to avoid brushing up against him. Her neighbor, attention on the cabinet, didn’t appear to notice.
“Maybe she simply knew her mind.”
“That she did. Your hinges need replacing,” he added, opening the cabinet door.
“I wouldn’t mind replacing the entire room.” Although she spent little time in the kitchen, Sophie found the space narrow and cramped. She found the room even more cramped now thanks to the addition of Grant’s large form. His broad shoulders—so broad they practically filled the expanse between the counters. “Unlike your Mrs. Feldman, I don’t need to keep this room exactly as is.”
“Won’t get an argument from me. Any idea what you’d do?”
Not really. Oh, she had ideas, but they were nebulous and atmospheric, based more on fantasy than any actual plan. “Brighter, definitely,” she told him. “Sunnier. With windows and gleaming wood cabinets.”
“Sounds like another woman who knows what she wants.” Their eyes met, and he flashed her a smile that implied far more than cabinetry. Or so it felt from the way her insides reacted.
“Pizza,” she announced abruptly. Goodness but the kitchen was cramped. And really warm. There was absolutely no air circulation at all on these hot nights. “What kind would you like?”
“I have a choice?”
“Of course. I might not match Chezzerones, but I have a decent variety. Cheese, pepperoni, Hawaiian, chicken, pepper and onion…”
“Holy cow!” His voice sounded from over her shoulder causing her to jump. The guy didn’t believe in personal space, did he? “It’s like looking at the frozen food section at the mini-mart.”
“I like to keep food on hand in case of an emergency is all.”
“What kind of emergency? Armageddon?”
Ignoring the comment, Sophie reached into the freezer. Gooseflesh had begun crawling in the wake of his breath on her bare neck, putting her out of sorts again. She’d feel better once she was alone again.
“Here,” she said, pulling a box from the stack and thrusting it into his hands. “Go Hawaiian.”
He looked down at the box, then back up at her.
“Is there a problem?” she asked him.
“What about cooking?”
She pointed to the side of the box. “Directions are right here. I don’t have my reading glasses, but I’m pretty sure you preheat the oven to four-twenty-five.”
“Okay.” He didn’t budge. Clearly he expected her to cook for him.
Sophie let out a frustrated sigh. It had been way too long a day, and she still had to track down a plumber and finish her paperwork. She didn’t have time to entertain her neighbor. Especially one that had her set off balance since their first meeting.
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that when a sound interrupted the kitchen’s silence.
It was her stomach growling.
“Fine,” she said, snatching the