Page 12 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

“Alright.” I’d be silly not to accept. My pride has already taken an irrational and serious beating with the mention of the contract. Fair enough. I can play at not having feelings, either. Anyway, it’s a good way to spend some time. I’ll give him the cookies after, of course, even if he doesn’t eat them. Because technically, he bought them. “Whatever cookies you like, for two grand, I’ll sure as heck bake.”

Chapter four

Beau

Nighttime.

Great for vampires, people who like being awake in the dark, and closet/bed monsters. Not that I’ve ever met one of those before, but I imagine night is when they really shine. The night is great for other things. Astronomers, campfires, burglars. Some people prefer driving at night or traveling in general. Some people stay awake or work during the night because they are more productive when the rest of the world is asleep.

But the one thing that makes nighttime suck?

When you want to sleep, but you just. Fucking. Can’t.

I know Ignacia isn’t asleep.

I can tell by her breathing. She’s not trying to fake it. She hasn’t moved, either. She’s stayed perfectly still, lying on her back on her side of the bed. She hasn’t so much as twitched or sighed in three hours.

Earlier, I watched her bake cookies. Three batches of them. She threw in the last one for free and told me they didn’tcount since they were no-bake haystack cookies. She whipped up a batch of peanut butter jelly thumbprint cookies first, then monster cookies with just about half the kitchen thrown into them, and lastly, she finished up with the haystack cookies. They’re called that, I suppose, because they’re mostly coconut and oatmeal, and they form little blob mountains like old-fashioned haystacks. But not like the bales, as there was nothing square or compact about them. They were delicious, though. I felt I had to be polite and try each cookie so as not to appear like a super creep for asking her to bake them.

We both knew it was more about the experience.

I haven’t seen anyone bake cookies since my mom.

The process brought up all sorts of feelings and emotions I thought I’d dealt with and buried. Perhaps I’m a masochist. Maybe I knew it was going to hurt, but I pressed for it anyway, or it could be that it was the talk in the barn, where I surprised the hell out of myself by opening up to someone. I haven’t even told therapists most of that shit, and I hired them when things got really bad because I knew I had to do something, seeing as gettingmyselfthrough it wasn’t an option, and I could barely function.

Maybe it was all for the job. Sharing something from my life might not have made Ignacia spill the details about hers, but it did earn her trust. It might have been about as fun as taking a rusty nail in the left eyeball, but…

Anyway.

After cookies, which ate up a good three hours, Ignacia went and got a book for me to read, and we sat out on her porch, enjoying the cooling evening. The bugs were atrocious, I have to say, and when they became too much, even with the citronella candles she lit and placed all along the porch railing, we moved inside.

She wasn’t awkward at all when she said she was tired. She asked me how I was doing, and I lied and said I was tired as well. After telling me to get my bag out of the car, she then gave me the bedroom to myself to get changed. She said she’d turn off the cameras for three minutes. I watched and knew the second they were deactivated. Then, I changed into a T-shirt and sweats in under a minute. When I work, I see to my comfort last. Always. And in my regular life…yeah, it’s pretty much the same.

By the time three minutes was up, I was already ready and standing by her bed. I didn’t pick a side because I figured she’d want to tell me which one.

Following a knock, she then breezed into the room, wearing fluffy pink pajama bottoms with little clouds all over them and a vintage band T-shirt with the logo cracked and nearly peeled off. She had her hair in a messy bun, and her face looked glowy and washed. She must have kept a spare change of clothes in her bathroom.

“The left,” she’d said, immediately noticing why I hesitated. “If that’s alright?”

It was fine. I didn’t have a preference. I lifted the quilt. It was done in a ring pattern but not homemade. It was too perfect for that. The sheets were red plaid flannel.

I slipped under the quilt, more certain than ever that this job was a mistake. I was never awkward in my life, but at that moment, I felt every letter of that word down to my core.

Ignacia was so much more at home. She’d looked at me with a genuine, soft smile that probably made all her other clients feel immediately at ease. She’d also asked if she should turn off the lights or if I’d like the hall light to drift into the room, and she wondered about music and white noise. Was I sure I didn’t need a glass of water for the nightstand beside the bed? And finally, did I do anything at night that she should be aware of in case she needed to be proactive?

Like fucking what?I’d wanted to ask, but I didn’t. How many of her clients had health issues? Had she ever had to do CPR on someone because they stopped breathing in the night? Did someone come with issues like nightmares?

I’d told her no, and everything was quiet after she turned out the lights.

Right now, we’re both still awake. I know it. It’stooquiet.

I’m so used to the noise of the city. It’s pretty much always with me. When they say New York never sleeps, they’re serious about that. It’s the same with every other city, though. I’ve rarely been out in the country. I wonder if, out here, it’s true that the stars are brighter. The air is definitely cleaner. Far, far cleaner than anywhere I’ve ever been.

“Oh my god!” Ignacia suddenly sits upright in bed so fast that I startle and jerk upright, too. I nearly fall out as well as jump out of the bed, at the ready and in defense mode in case someone has snuck in here to kill us. It’s the personal protection officer in me, working even when this isn’t that kind of a job. But I don’t need to guard this woman or protect her. She doesn’t have anyone coming for her.

Or does she?

“What? What is it?” I bark.

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