Home is Where You Are Page 6
“And I was the one who got you a library card.”
I bite my cheeks not wanting her to see how amused I am.
Her eyebrows turn in, and she has those tiny wrinkles pop up on the bridge of her nose. Her hands plant firmly on her hips in the I-don’t-take-shit-from-anyone way.
“Are you going to hold the library card thing over my head forever?” I say jokingly, but it’s exactly why I don’t take handouts.
“No, but… ugh! You’re annoying.” She throws her hands up in defeat. I stand back and watch the show. It’s quite amusing. Not to mention she looks pretty damn hot when she’s angry.
“Right back at you, Preppy.”
Her heart shaped lips part in disgust. “Don’t call me that.”
“It seems pretty accurate to me. Exactly how many button-up sweaters do you own?”
“It’s a cardigan.”
“It’s the uniform for a preppy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
Anna storms away, and I’m torn. It’d be easy to turn around and go back to my life. Where the only person I’m concerned about is myself. But the loneliness is overwhelming and there’s something about her. Something that makes me forget about that life. And even if it’s only for a moment, a single second, it’s the most relief I’ve felt in years.
One look at her swaying hips and brown hair whipping around, and I don’t want her to slip away. “Wait!” I call out to her for the second time this week. Her body stiffens, but just as quickly she straightens her neck and turns back to me with her nose in the air.
“I was looking for lawns to rake.”
Her nose drops from its high and mighty position. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t know this was your house. I was just knocking on random doors. Your house happened to have a lot of leaves on the lawn.”
“Oh.” Anna looks across her yard then back at me, but doesn’t make eye contact. “Well. My mom isn’t home, and I don’t have enough money.”
“I wouldn’t take your money.”
“I kind of found that out back at the coffee place.”
She really needs to get over the whole coffee thing. “However,” I say and wait till her eyes finally meet mine. “I will work for something else.”
“And what’s that?”
“A shower.”
I try to play it off as if his words didn’t just totally freak me out. A shower? It seems so simple. Innocent. He’ll rake my entire lawn and all he wants in return is a shower? The only problem is, I don’t know if I’m ready to let Dean into my home. Asking questions is one thing.
But if I let him into my home, I let him into my life.
“Uh.” That was coherent. I just don’t know what to say. He moves closer and my heartbeat echoes in my ears. Breathe.
“Scared you might want to join me?”
“No!” Here I am seriously debating letting him in, and he goes and says something like that. He should go back to his one word answers. He was more charming then.
“Why don’t you start raking? You’re running out of sunlight. I’ll let you know.”
“I’ve been known to go all night, so I can wait.”
For a homeless guy he sure as hell is arrogant. I go to spit words back at him when I notice his arms. He’s not wearing his sweatshirt like usual. His black t-shirt hugs him in all the right places. The sleeves are tight around his biceps and the bottom of a tattoo sticks out on his right arm.
Is he old enough to get a tattoo? Either way it’s hot. I bite my bottom lip wondering what marks his beautifully shaped arms.
“So?”
Oh shoot. I hope he didn’t notice me staring. Though I’d never get in a shower with him, I can totally imagine what he’ll look like with water dripping down his bare skin, over the ink of his tattoo, and down his long arms. I lose balance for a split second, tripping over absolutely nothing. Oh. My. God. What is wrong with me?
“The rake’s in the backyard in the shed.” I need him away from me so I can slap some sense into myself.
His copper eyes light up, and he lifts his chin at me in that arrogant way guys do. “So you’re going to let me shower?”
“Maybe.” I smile and walk back into the house, falling against the door as soon as it shuts.
If he finishes, there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to deny him a hot shower. I just want the upper hand. He thinks he has me figured out. He doesn’t. And I want him to see that he’s not even close.
My life’s much more complicated than I’ll ever let him know. Getting into an Ivy League school isn’t the only thing I worry about. I just put my energy towards it because it’s the one thing I can control.
It’s been a few minutes since I shut the door behind me. Curiosity is driving me crazy. I need to know if he’s still out there. I creep over to the window like a trained spy and pull the thick, burgundy curtain back. Not only is he there, but he has a massive pile of leaves beside him.
Is it fair I have him out in my yard raking leaves just so he can get a chance to shower? Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my nice warm house, watching him.
Damn my conscience. I grab a box of garbage bags and my peacoat.
He’s so in the zone he doesn’t hear me. With each pull of the rake his muscles tighten and bulge. I shake my head to drop any irrational thoughts.
I walk until he can see me. His eyes start to follow my leg, past my stomach, until they stare back at me. There’s something about them, and it’s much more than the way they look. I see hope, determination, and staring into them calms all apprehension I have towards him.
“I’ve come to help,” I say with a smile.
He laughs. “In those shoes?”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?” They’re brown suede flats and pretty darn comfortable.
“Nothing. If you don’t mind getting them dirty, Preppy.”
“I don’t.”
“Probably because you have a million pairs.”
So what if I have them in five different colors? Am I supposed to feel guilty? Because I don’t and I won’t. “Fine. Do it yourself then.” I drop the bag and walk away. Asshole. Thought I’d be nice and offer my help, but obviously he can’t go two seconds without being a jerk.
“Oh come on. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“But you did. It’s not my fault I have things and you don’t, and I’m sorry if that sounds bitchy, but I don’t know any other way to put it.”
He holds his hands up, and an amused grin settles on his face. “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I can see he’s trying not to smile. It’s kind of annoying, but also kind of cute.
“So, you going to help me or not?” he says.
“As long as you don’t make any more comments about my shoes.”
“Deal.”
“And my clothes.”
“I didn’t say anything about your clothes.”
“No, but I can sense it’s coming.”
He has the nerve to laugh at me.
“Fine. No comments on your wardrobe. Now hold the bag open and I’ll put the leaves in.”
“That’s all you want me to do?” I’ve done my fair share of raking. Hell, I help build houses. Houses people live in.
“I don’t want you to break one of your manicured nails,” he adds. My eyes roll and I’m about to turn away when he blurts out, “I’m just kidding. Lighten up already.”
It’s hard for me to lighten up. I’m not exactly the carefree girl Katie is. The fact that I’m standing in my front yard holding a garbage bag for a homeless guy I’m going to let in my shower is a sign the world is coming to an end. Or at least my world. The world I have put so much effort into keeping people out of.
“So tell me about that paper you wrote,” he says, and my eyebrow arches in confusion. “The one about King Tut.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask, pushing my hair behind my ears.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I smile back. No one ever wants to hear about my essays or even my articles for the school paper.
“For years people believed he died from blunt trauma to the head,” I explain. “But in the last ten years it was discovered that the damage to the skull happened after his death.”
Dean snaps then points at me. “I read something about that. They think it was possible that the archeologist and his crew who discovered the tomb might have caused it.”
“That’s one theory,” I say, holding the bag wide while he drops in a pile of leaves. “The other is that it happened during the embalming process.”
“What actually killed him then?”
“Last theory I read was a leg infection.”
“The blunt force trauma to the head was much cooler,” Dean says, reaching down to gather a pile.
I hold the bag open again. “Either way. Dying at nineteen just seems so unfair.” No leaves fall into the bag and I glance over to Dean. He stopped raking, his attention off in some faraway place.
I go to say something, but halt the words before they come out. Dying at nineteen may be unfair, but I’m guessing in Dean’s world it’s not so uncommon.
Dean gives a half-hearted smile. “Maybe so, but his legacy has lasted lifetimes.”
“True,” I say. “Now if you were given the choice, would you rather die young with a legacy that’ll last eternity, or live a long private life?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’d want both.”
“You can’t have both.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“That’s cheating. You can’t die young and live a long life.”
“No, but I could live a long life and still have a legacy.”
“Greedy!” Dean laughs and throws a handful of leaves at me.
“Hey!” I yell, but wind up laughing when he runs away from me.
Within an hour we have almost all the leaves bagged. As Dean places the last bag at the curb my nerves set in. The fear he’s going to step into my home dwindled as we enjoyed each other’s company.
He has a great sense of humor. Even if he uses it to push as many of my buttons as he possibly can. He’s actually really easy to talk to.
“Finished finally,” he says. I take a deep breath.
“Yeah, finished. I guess it’s time to shower.”
“You plan on helping me?”
“Um no. I’ll show you where the bathroom is and then you’re on your own. If you don’t know how to shower that’s your problem.”
“Touché.”
“Come on.” I grab the box with the remaining garbage bags and head into the house. I don’t allow myself to think about him.
I feel a little uncomfortable. Though, it has nothing to do with Dean being right behind me. If anything he’s making me more comfortable because it’s like I’m a normal girl for once in my life. I’m nervous and giddy, and I finally get what Katie means when she talks about how a guy can make your stomach do these little flips.
His eyes travel from one trinket to the next. “Nice house.”
“Thanks. My mom has a knack for decorating. She manages to make antique pieces and modern pieces look like they belong together. This house is a total faux pas, but it works.”
“You do have a lot of old shit,” he says as his long finger glides across the wooden butter churn Mom uses to hoard plastic grocery store bags. Cause Lord knows you can never have too many of those.
His eyes scan the pewter plates on display in an old wooden curio before resting on the wooden pogo stick hanging on the wall.
“This thing is awesome. Does it work? Like can you use it?”
“Sure. When I was younger and my mom wasn’t home, my dad would let me use it. I was never that good though. My dad would hold the pogo stick and when I jumped, he would help me so I wouldn’t fall on my butt.”
There are days when I’m home alone I sit and stare at the old pogo stick. The memories are comforting. It reminds me that the little things in life are what truly matter.
“My mom’s an antique dealer,” I say.
“Well, that explains it.”
“So, uh, the bathroom’s this way.” Awkwardly, I point and walk up the stairs. Visions of the dumb girl in scary movies, who runs up the stairs instead of out the front door, pop into my head, but I shake them away.
I wish I would have closed my bedroom door. He’ll think I’m a third grader who likes pink walls and ballerina slippers. Other than my comforter, not much has changed since then.
Thankfully Dean doesn’t seem to notice my room as we walk by. Or he just assumes it’s my little sister’s, who doesn’t exist.
Once we get to the bathroom, I flip the switch on and lean against the doorway to let him pass. He stands just on the outside, looking in.
“The hot water takes a couple minutes, and if you flush the toilet it will take even longer,” I ramble.
Dean nods and goes to walk by me, then stops. I can feel the warmth from his chest as it rises with each breath, see the golden specks in his eyes, and notice the way his lip quirks in the corner.
I’m so far out of my comfort zone. Panic sets in and I push up against the doorframe, dropping my gaze. My eyes fall to his shoulder, down the length of his arm, landing on several round scars on his forearm.
My heart races, and I snap my gaze away as I search my brain for something witty to say. I’m too scared to look up, but I can sense him moving closer.
His head leans in, his lips just centimeters from my ear. “Thanks,” he whispers and lingers before moving away.
I’m frozen in the doorway, a million thoughts running rampant in my mind. But my mind and my feet are on two different wave lengths.
Dean smiles that cocky smile of his. “So does this mean you’re going to help me then?”
The ice shackles on my feet break loose, and I turn with my hands on my hips. “Excuse me?”
“I figured since you’re standing there you might have changed your mind.” He waggles his eyebrows then smirks.
I rush out of the bathroom. Cocky doesn’t even describe him. Oh no, he is on a whole other level.
Darn it! There are no towels in the bathroom. Why Mom insists on keeping them in the hall closet is beyond me. I could just leave him in there without one. Would serve him right.
But Mom has the fluffiest, softest towels ever. When’s the last time he had that luxury? I grab a blue one out of the closet and head back to the bathroom.
The water isn’t running yet and the door is not completely shut so I ease it open. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of Dean standing in front of the mirror with no shirt on. His abs are just as muscular as his arms. His skin would be flawless if he didn’t have so many scars. Some are small, the size of a dime, while others are longer, harsh jagged lines.
On his right shoulder a tattoo of an angel hugging her knees and crying, each of her wings part of a broken heart. In each half of the broken heart a word, and as I move closer with the towel, I can make it out. Mom is written in perfect script along one wing and in the other, Dad. Above the angel a date.
A crying angel.
A date.
Mom and Dad written in pieces of a broken heart.
It all makes sense.
His parents are dead.
“Uh… I brought you a towel. My mom keeps them in the hall and well I didn’t want you to get out and only have a hand towel to dry off with. Because you know it wouldn’t cover much.” Did I just glance at his crotch? Oh. My. God. I need to stop talking and get out of here. “I’m sorry for not knocking. I… I’m going to go now.” I stumble on my words. That stupid scatter rug Mom insisted on throwing in the middle of the floor slips out from under me, and I fall forward.
My arms flail as I try to keep from falling when hands tighten around my waist and hold me in place. His hands are strong, but his touch is
gentle. Dean presses his chest against me—it’s as hard as it looks— and his breath is hot on my ear.
“Whoa, you okay?”
I straighten and try to suppress the burn in my cheeks, but what’s the point? I’m sure they’re lit up like a red dwarf star. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and my gaze locks with Dean’s. I quickly avert my eyes.
“A little embarrassed,” I admit. “But I’m okay. Thanks.”
He releases his grip on my waist, but doesn’t step away. I turn until I’m facing him. Inches apart again, but this time I don’t avert my gaze.
The look on his face is intense, but his eyes lighten its severity.
“Aren’t you scared of me?” he asks.
I look past his cocky façade to the real him. “Should I be?”
He hesitates for a second. “No.”
“Okay then.” I smile. “Enjoy your shower. Take your time.” Finally, I look away and head to the door.
“Hey.”
I stop and turn back.
“Is your mom gonna be pissed when she finds a guy in her shower?”
“She won’t be back until tomorrow night.” He raises his eyebrows, and I close the door before another arrogant comment flies from his mouth.
I pride myself on smart decisions, so why did I just make the worst one ever? Not only did I let Dean into my house—and let him get totally naked—but I just told him my mom won’t be home until tomorrow night. I could’ve just said tomorrow but no. I had to add the night. What if he’s some psycho? I just gave him more time to hide the evidence and my body.
But if he was going to attack me he would have done so already. Obviously I watch way too many Lifetime movies.
Besides I believed Dean when he told me I shouldn’t be scared of him. As tough and hard as he may try to act, I can see right through it. There’s more to him than just that. Much more.
I head down the stairs and into the kitchen. The least I can do is make him something to eat. He told me he does just fine getting food, and I’m sure what he gets is better than anything I can make, but I am a damn good microwaver.
Mom stocks the freezer with premade food. I blame her for my lack of culinary skills. I scan our options, frozen pizzas, frozen potato skins, frozen Buffalo wings, and frozen vegetables, and decide on a little of everything.