Page 4 of Eyes in the Shadows

I’m not concerned. I’ve got hours until the real action starts, and this is the last floor I have to clear out. Alice Parker isn’t the first resident to put up something of a fight, but no one really wants to stick around and see the kind of bugs that would make an exterminator nervous. They just want to grumble and make it clear they’re not happy about being put out last minute like this.

I knock and after a moment, I hear something crash inside followed by, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

I almost snort as there’s another loud crash, a yelp of pain and a loud curse, and then the door swings open in front of me.

Well, shit. Eleanor Wilson is not 75.

She is lush. And just my fucking type.

She’s holding her left elbow in her right hand, and it pushes her breasts together in a way that makes my mouth go dry. She’s wearing some kind of sleeping outfit, and I can see all of her long, thick legs in those shorts. Her wavy dark hair is mussed and her bangs are flipped up in the middle. She’s pretty tall for a woman, standing just under my chin in lovely, arched bare feet, and she’s so fucking soft. Even her face has a rounded jaw, full lips, heavy-lidded blue eyes…

Those eyes scan me with a blank lack of recognition, traveling to my face, then down my body. I see pink appear on her cheeks as she subtly moves her arms to cover more of her unmistakable breasts, and I find myself grinning a little at her reaction.

I’m used to people staring, normally finding it more irritating than anything else, since being noticed is the very last thing I need in my line of work. It’s helpful when it comes time to blow off some steam by getting someone under me, but a damn nuisance when I’m trying to be functional instead of just decorative.

But I’m tall, stacked and have a face more than a few mamas could love, so I do understand it. And I know I’ve got a memorable face, so I wear the huge, thick-framed glasses so people will remember that instead of other, identifiabledetails.

However, irritation is not what I’m feeling under my skin as this little piece gives me the thorough once-over. Her perusal stops at my nametag.

“Mac?” Understanding, then embarrassment twists across her face. “You’re the exterminator. Oh God, I’m so sorry. I got in late and I forgot to set my alarm and I don’t wake up until 10 most days… I swear I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.”

Trying to hide my grin at her apology-fueled explanation, I glance over her shoulder. There’s an overturned chair next to a duffel bag in the center of the floor, which has clothes haphazardly sticking out. She’s got the curtains drawn, so it’s dark—curtains are good—and I can see that the windows take up most of the opposite wall. That’s also good.

“That’s all right, Miss… Wilson,” I say, pretending to read her name off my clipboard. I lay on the southern accent thick, and I tell myself it’s so the story about me stays consistent. But really, it’s so I can see those eyes perk up with interest. These northerners love a southern transplant. “We are sorry for the inconvenience. You have somewhere to go, I hope?”

“Oh, yeah, a friend and I are going to stay at the Ritz Carlton.”

I cock my head, slow to catch the joke when she laughs, but I grin back anyway because that damn smile is infectious. I try not to watch how the laughter makes her chest shake under the flimsy tank top.

“God, I wish. No, we’re staying at Super Dreams,” she admits with a shrug.

Now, I frown. That place is… seedy. I don’t like the idea of her in one of those dirty rooms surrounded by drug deals, pay for the night encounters and possible homicide. I know for a fact that the night manager keeps track of which rooms have the young women staying alone. “One of your downstairs neighbors mentioned they’re staying at the SeaBreeze Inn, maybe they have a vacancy?”

“It’s too far. I don’t have a car; I need to be able to walk to work.” With a little sigh, she shakes her head.

She turns and I almost groan. The view from the back is… better. Those shorts are made of something so thin that I can see everything. Every. Damn. Thing. She’s not wearing panties. I move my clipboard to cover the front of my jumpsuit, watching as her hips swing and jiggle as she hurries.

I want to follow her inside so badly, but I can’t. It’s not what an exterminator would do. An exterminator would ensure she was leaving on schedule and go back to his truck to get his supplies. But I don’t want to leave. I want more time to interact with her. So, I lean against the door jamb, filling the space with my shoulders and height. I watch her whirling-dervish routine, grabbing items from the floor and sofa and tossing them haphazardly into the open duffel.

“I really will just be a minute. I’m so sorry, I know you’re just trying to do your job.”

“Stop apologizing. I’m the one kicking you out of your apartment; I appreciate the hustle. What brought you back so late, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She throws a quick look my way, flushes again, and grabs something out of a drawer to throw into her bag. “Work. I don’t finish at the restaurant until 10:30 or 11 most nights.”

“Which restaurant? I’m new in town and I’d take a recommendation.” Maybe I’ll make a chance-meeting happen when this is all over.

“Bistro Jacques. It sounds French, until you realize that the guy who owns it is named Jack and he’s about as South Jersey as they get.” Her head whips back around to me, eyes wide like she realizes she’s said something wrong—talking me out of going instead of talking me into it. “The food is really good, though. You should totally check it out.”

“Maybe I will.”

She disappears into the bathroom and I hear the fan come on as she flicks on the light. Seconds later, she’s back out, arms full of towels and bottles and a pink floral travel bag.

“Um, so all my stuff is okay, right? The chemicals or whatever won’t hurt anything?”

“The gas will be long gone by the time you get back. As long as you don’t leave anything alive, you’re good to go.”

She pauses, cocking her head at me. “What about a sourdough starter? That’s alive.”

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