Page 10 of Suddenly Entwined

“I built this myself, thank you very much. It will not break.”

When I’m sandwiched between my daughters, I read the library book Louisa brought home this week. We usually alternate each evening to keep it fair. Lou conks out first, then Natalie, and I’m only vaguely aware of the pressure of the book against my chest as my breaths slow.

Chapter five

Carolina

Marv leaves well before closing, but Carl sticks around, watching me do my duties like he’s waiting for me to screw up. I follow the standard operating procedures in the binder given to me during my training, so I dare him to find something I’m doing wrong. When I’m all done, I toss my dirty apron in the laundry and peek outside the back door to see if it’s still raining. Deep puddles have formed in the potholes of the back lot. Why would I expect anything else for a West Isle winter?

“Caro, I packed some meatballs for you.”

I accept the to-go box that’s piping hot against my palms.

My tummy growls, clearly unsatisfied by the peanut butter protein bar I ate on the drive here.

“You are amazing,” I tell her.

“Bag check.”

We both turn to Carl, who seems to pop out of his office at the most inopportune times.

I raise an eyebrow. “A what check?”

“A bag check. For loss prevention.”

I brought the smallest purse I own to work. It’s big enough for my wallet, phone, and a tampon if I’m being generous.

“A bag check,” I echo back once more. “Has someone been stealing?”

“It’s a new procedure.”

I bet it’s a procedure Marv knows nothing about.

Begrudgingly, I hold open my purse and he leans forward to peruse the contents with narrowed eyes. It sucks and feels like a complete violation of my privacy.

“Did you want to check the meatballs for contraband?”

Theresa snorts before coughing and turning back to the last of her dishes. I don’t wait for a reply and pop out the back door into the rain. This place doesn’t pay enough to put up with someone like him. My windshield wipers squeak unhappily the entire drive, the scent of the meatballs Theresa gave me making my mouth water.

“Home sweet home,” I say as I pull into the driveway next to what I guess is Berg’s truck.

Good to know he exists.

I shut my car door softly, trying to be a respectful new tenant even though I don’t feel like I got very much respect earlier. Coming home to my own space, to peace and quiet, is a realtreat. My mom kept waiting up for me whenever I closed at the bar, and while that was kind of sweet, all I ever wanted to do was decompress. Tonight, my only plan is to scorch myself clean in that dream of a shower, chow down on those meatballs, and sleep. I can barely see the lock as I fumble with the keys. The outdated single bulb fixture next to the door is dark. Only when I manage to twist the key, do I remember Chris said the door was sticky. I’ve got this. Copying my brother’s move from earlier, I shove my shoulder against the door.

“Ow!” I hiss as whatever the bone in your shoulder is called jars against the door with little effect.

One more time. I rotate to try my other side, because that seems reasonable, but all that happens is that now both my shoulders are aching. Outstanding. I pull up the hood of my raincoat, knowing full well it’s not actually waterproof, and step out from under the tiny eave above my door. It’s late, or early, depending on how you want to look at it. There’s no way in hell I’m calling my brother. Not even a full day living in the place and I’m already calling for help? No. Absolutely not. Equally unappealing is the thought of waking up Berg and his family…but what am I supposed to do here? Sleep in my car?

Dashing up the stairs, I force myself to knock. As I stand there holding my breath, I reassure myself that this is par for the course as a landlord. Sometimes you’ve got to do landlord stuff. It comes with the territory. But when no lights turn on and I’m still standing there shivering several minutes later, I head back down to try again.

Frustration over the whole situation roils in my gut, and I narrow my eyes and give the door a whole body slam.

“Damn door…come on.”

“Can I help you?”

The sudden sound of a voice should probably scare the pants off me, but it’s grumbly and slow, and when I turn, I know exactly who this must be. My brother described Berg MacMillan, single dad, as grouchy and old. Whether he’s a grump remains to be seen, but when I take in the sight of this tall shirtless man with rainwater dripping through coarse hair on his broad chest, the absolute last word in the world I’m thinking up is old.

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