Page 9 of Hannah and the Hitman

4

HANNAH

“If you had any doubt before, I am officially your bestest of best friends,” Brittany huffed, eyeing me over the top of a heavy box of books we were carrying up the three flights of stairs from the lobby of our building to my apartment. “There is no way this is less than fifty pounds.”

Regardless of box hauling, Brittanywasmy best friend, ever since I moved in across the hall two years ago. She was a year older, a Leo and wore heels every day. That–the heels–wasn’t the reason we were struggling with this box. The box was well over the airline regulation checked bag weight. And I was a total weakling.

“It’s seventy-seven pounds.” I swiped my cheek against my shoulder, trying to get my hair out of my eyes without any luck. Sweat trickled down my back and I was puffing like a magic dragon. “I gave the gate agent twenty bucks tolet it through. Another one’s,” –I awkwardly adjusted my palms again– “coming in the mail. I had to ship it.”

“Wow, look at you breaking the rules and being a rebel. Might have to take that good girl tiara away.” Her teasing was softened by a wink and a sly smile.

Both boxes were filled with all my precious book finds at the romance convention. Where Brittany spent money on fancy shoes, I bought books. Heavy ones.

The problem? I wasn’t strong enough to get my new stash upstairs to my apartment by myself. There was no elevator in this old building.

We were struggling together under the heavy load. She hadn’t been home the day before when I got back from the trip, which meant I had to leave the box tucked in the corner of the lobby. She’d recently gotten home from work, dressed in cute pants and a sleeveless blouse. I was in yoga pants and a green t-shirt, having already changed into comfy clothes after my day at the library.

“I couldn’t bribe Raul, the rideshare driver, to carry it beyond the lobby,” I told her, breathing hard. “Otherwise, he’d be in your bestie spot.”

“Raul,” she muttered, stumbling on a step, tipping me off balance for a moment. “I could take him. Jesus, this is heavy.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, then groaned when the box slipped, digging into my hip. When I righted it, I took the bulk of the weight. All of a sudden, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t hurting my back. It felt…notheavy, which made no sense.

“Um, you got it?” Brittany asked, eyeing me carefullyand having her hands out in case I needed her again. I felt like a kid learning to ride a bike.

Growing up in Texas, Brittany was raised to never leave the house without her face on or her hair done, her momma telling her she never knew when she’d meet Mr. Right.

I’d grown up the barely remembered middle-child between two overachievers. My family didn’t notice what I wore, so I set my own standard of making sure I always had nice underwear on, never knowing when I might be in an accident and medical personnel got to see it.

Not that I didn’t pull myself together when I left the house. I wore cute clothes–or at least I thought so–and makeup. I couldn’t keep up with Brittany. She was gorgeous–with amazing teeth. All tall and skinny with the most gorgeous soft brown skin. I had to wear those little overnight acne patches and I burned an unattractive shade of pink without sunscreen.

She didn’tneedmakeup. Or a push-up bra. Or exercise. Or extra protein powder in her smoothie. I sure as hell did, to all of it, not that I did a ton of exercise. Or had reason for a little extra cleavage. I had plenty.

Fumbling with the box, I got it settled better in my arms. It wasn’t so bad, which was ridiculous because I’d needed a hotel cart to get it to the taxi in Vegas, then pushed it like a bobsled across the drop-off area from the taxi to the curbside check in.

“Look at me go,” I huffed with a surprising grin. “I actually have it. And it’s in the best friend handbook. They carry heavy boxes together. Even though you’re not actually carrying it any longer.”

Going solo, I turned to face up the stairs instead of sideways as we had been. Brittany was beside me every step of the way as a pseudo-spotter. “I think you have the wrong handbook. Best friends get mani/pedis together. They get drinks together.”

“I have wine in my fridge,” I offered as we turned at the next landing. “The fancy box kind.”

Her eyes lit up and she snapped her fingers. “Put some back into it, girlfriend.”

Said the woman not carrying the box.

Ten minutes later, our glasses of wine were full and the box half empty on my cheap IKEA coffee table.

“I’m not sure why you needed my help. You did it just fine,” she said, comfortably settled on my couch. Even after helping the first flight, her short hair was perfect with the tight curls, and her clothes weren’t even wrinkled. “Good thing you’re going back to the gym and lifting weights. I didn’t go to dental school to be a mover.”

She was a dentist and had a small practice in town she shared with a guy patients called Dr. Todd. With a last name of Aszkielowicz, he didn’t have much choice.

“I thought you went to dental school to get me free toothbrushes.” I stood beside the open box, pulling the books out one at a time.

She took a big sip of her wine and rolled her eyes.

“No way have I gone back to the gym. I went with you last year, remember? That thirty-day free trial where I did all the classes with you? I actually gained weight.” I took another book from the box, petted it lovingly, then set it on the shelf in its new home.

She assessed me over her glass of wine. “Huh.”

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