Page 6 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
But Olivia?
She’s not impressed.
Which means I have no choice but to up the ante.
“Alright,” I say, pushing off the counter. “I see how it is. If I can’t win you over with my charm, I’ll have to settle for good old-fashioned labor.”
Her brow lifts. “Labor?”
I jerk my head toward her moving boxes, which are still sitting outside. “What kind of neighbor would I be if I didn’t help you move in?”
She eyes me with open skepticism. “You really want to help me carry things?”
“I’m a giver, Olivia. It’s a flaw.”
She huffs a laugh under her breath but doesn’t stop me when I head for the door. This is how I find myself hauling her stuffinside, box after box, getting a firsthand look at the state of her new place.
The floor creaks under my feet as I set down a particularly heavy box, and then it cracks under me.
I freeze. Look down.
The damn floorboard just snapped clean through.
Olivia stares at it. Then at me.
“Well,” she says, “at least now I know who to send the repair bill to.”
I groan. “Oh, no, that wasn’t me. Not at all.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s what they all say, but you broke my flooring.”
This is ridiculous. I’m trying to convince her to . . . I don’t know what I want—at least a smile or something. Instead I just broke her flooring, and I don’t even know how I did it.
“Listen, why don’t we move the rest of your boxes?” I suggest, because right now, I need to focus on damage control. “Afterward, we’ll find a good contractor to fix the floors. I’ll even help pay for half of it.”
Olivia doesn’t look impressed. Actually, she looks like she’s debating whether or not to kick me out entirely.
“You broke it,” she says flatly, arms crossed like she’s preparing a case against me in small claims court.
“Maybe the floors are rotten,” I offer, with what I hope is a convincing shrug.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re just making things up to get out of this mess.” She gestures at the boxes. “Move first, fix later. Let’s go.”
Fair. I rub a hand over my jaw, trying to piece together what, exactly, I’m doing here.
This whole situation started with my dog committing a home invasion. Then it turned into a battle of wills between me and a woman who, apparently, cannot be swayed by my usual arsenalof charm, good looks, and well-timed humor. And now? Now, I’m standing in her soon-to-be decrepit house, negotiating my way out of an unexpected construction bill.
What am I even doing?
Actually—what do I even want with her?
The answer should be simple. Maybe it is. But before I can untangle whatever this is, I settle for the only thing I do know for certain—I’m not losing my bonus because I tried to be a good neighbor.
“Did you have an inspection before moving in?” I ask, because maybe—hopefully—this is an Olivia problem, not a me problem.
She exhales, and for a second, something flickers in her expression. Not annoyance. Not amusement. Something else.
“Yes,” she finally says.
