Page 3 of Flirting with the Scrooge

“Thanks for everything.” I stand and hold out my hand.

His hand firmly grips mine. “Hit me up when you get back to LA.”

“Definitely.” But truth be told, I don’t know if I want to go back.

Devon’s Uber pulls into the driveway, and he’s out the door. Silence fills the house. The type of silence where you can hear your own thoughts. This is what I wanted. To be left alone. To be by myself, but I’m not ready to deal with all that right this moment.

I toss my duffle bag into one of the spare bedrooms, then return to the living room. I glance around. There’s so much shit. I don’t even know where to start. My only task was to box everything up and clean the place up. Maybe apply a fresh coat of paint. As I spin around, this place will need more than some paint in order to get a decent price.

Harbor Heights has always been a great, family friendly neighborhood. Growing up, there was never a shortage of kids to play with when I stayed with Grams. The three bedrooms, two baths would make a great starter home for a new or young family. But not in its current state.

I slide on my shoes, throw on my coat, and trudge back into the cold to collect all the boxes in the back of the moving truck. A cloud of breath hovers in front of me and I walk down the stairs. There’s a light covering of snow covering the grass, even more in the shadows. The real cold hasn’t hit yet, but it will soon. I can feel it in my bones.

Once I reach the back of the truck, I lift the roll up door, and tuck a stack of broken down boxes under my arm. A blistering chilly wind smacks me in the face. Shit. Being away for almost three years, I’ve forgotten what Minnesota winters are like. If I’m going to be going in and out, I’ll need some proper winter clothes. Especially once the snow really comes down. I make a mental note to hit up the local fleet supply store. They’ll have all the winter essentials. But I’ll go later, right before they close, so there will be fewer people.

Two more trips later, I grab my two other bags and the last of the boxes and drop them on the floor. While I’m here, might as well start with the living room. I grab the packing tape and assemble boxes. I start with the smaller items, wrapping anything that may be fragile with newspaper.

In the middle of taping up one box, my phone rings from the end table. Glancing at it,Satan’s Ballsackflashes on the screen. Also known as my agent, Spencer, but I prefer Satan’s Ballsack. I roll my eyes, but I know I have to at least answer the call, so he doesn’t send a search party thinking his payday has gone AWOL.

“Hey Spence.”

“Thank fuck you finally answered. I just tried to call you. Did you get any of my phone calls or voicemails?”

I rake my hand through my hair. “Yeah. I’ve been a little busy driving across the country. Once I got settled, I was going to call you back.” But what I want to tell him is I purposely sent each one to voicemail because I don’t want to listen to anything he has to say. And I wasn’t going to call him back. Or at least not right away. If he wasn’t so good at what he does, I would have fired him months ago.

“So I can expect you back in LA, in what? A week? We need to have a meeting and nail down your schedule. We gotta get the band back into the studio working on the second album. The first tour was a big success, we need to keep the momentum going.”

I scoff at his use ofwe.It’s more likeI.He needs to keep the momentum, so the cash continues to flow in. I, on the other hand, couldn’t give a damn.

“So, I’ll book you a flight back to LA—”

“That’s not going to happen.” I rub my temples and pace the living room to burn up this anxious energy before I tell him to fuck off and fire him. I inhale a deep breath through my nose, and exhale through my mouth. A technique my therapist mentioned I should try. “I told you I’m taking care of some stuff. I’ll be back when it’s done.”

“Zane told me that you’re helping your grandma. What’s the big deal? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Fucking Zane and his big mouth. That’s the excuse, but not the reason. “Does it matter? Do you need to keep tabs on me? Should I call you when I’m taking a shit, too? Since you need to know every facet of my life.”

“Yeah. I need to keep tabs on you. You got two weeks to take care of whatever. Then I’m booking you a flight—”

I hang up. My patience is wearing thin. For once, I want to be on my own schedule instead of someone else’s. His name flashes on the screen as my phone rings again, but I ignore it. He’ll eventually get the hint and stop calling. In the meantime, I go back to packing boxes.

Several hours later, I have three stacks of boxes and a good chunk of the living room cleared. I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. At this rate, I'll finish ahead of schedule. But then that means back to LA.

Suddenly, a knock on my door draws my attention. Who’s knocking? Did Devon miss his flight? I stroll to the front door and rip it open.

Holy shit.

Definitely not Devon. Her bright blue eyes sparkle as they gaze back at me, and her full lips pull into a warm smile. Her knitted cap covers her long blonde hair. Then recognition hits. She’s the same woman from across the street who fell on her ass while putting up decorations.

“Hi. I’m Tatum. I live in the house across the street.” She twists around to point at her house and I get a whiff of her sweet vanilla scent. “I had no idea Mrs. Hendrickson sold her house. I never saw the For Sale sign. Then again, I’ve been a little preoccupied. But you don’t need to know any of that.” She chuckles softly.

And fuck me. Her laugh is just as sweet as she smells.

“I want to welcome you to the neighborhood. And I made you cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood gift.” She holds out the plate full of cookies toward me. I glance down and then back up. “Now, I know you just moved in, but the entire neighborhood always hosts a decorating contest—”

Not even a half a day in and it’s already started. “I don’t decorate.”

“But it’s for charity. I always helped Mrs. Hendrickson with hers. Plus, I’ve won the last three years so if you need any tips—"

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