Page 8 of Absolutely Not in Love
“Yeah, it’s—sorry. I dropped it all. But there are a couple of things here that are yours.” I crouch down and start gathering up the mail—again—and try not to think about how much of an idiot I am. “Right. Here we go. Gracie Mitchell.” I hold out the letters. “These two are yours.”
She takes the letters, slowly looking over them before she looks back at me, her eyebrows raised. “Wow. An advertisement from a local orthodontist and a new credit card offer. I don’t know what I would have done without these,” she says, humor in her tone.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Right. I mean, sure. I knew it was junk mail. But it had your name on it. It felt wrong to just throw it away. I’m pretty sure that would be a felony anyway.”
She leans against the door frame and taps the letters into her palm, studying me closely, a smile playing around her lips.
It’s only then that I truly take in what she’s wearing. She’s dressed all in black. Fitted pants with a tuxedo stripe down the leg, a sheer black top over a black tank top, and heels. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and her brown eyes look bigger than usual. Maybe because she’s wearing more makeup? She looks amazing. Like,take my breath awayamazing.
“You know,” she says, and I force myself to focus on her words. “When I get your mail, I just stick it in your mailbox.”
I swallow. “Right. Yeah. I can do that next time.” I take a step backward toward my apartment.
“Thank you though,” she says. “I appreciate you bringing it by.”
I manage a nod, but really I just want to escape so I can lament my poor social choices in private. Still, I can’t keep myself from asking, “Are you going somewhere?” The question comes out sounding almost like a judgment, so I quickly add, “I only ask because you look really nice. Not that you don’t always look nice. You do. But tonight, with all the black. You—good.”
I close my eyes and wince.You good?I might as well beat my chest and grunt like a caveman.
She looks down at her clothes. “Oh. Thanks. I have a gig tonight.”
“Ah. Now all the black makes sense. With the symphony? What are you playing?” I’ve been meaning to look up the Harvest Hollow Symphony. See when their performances are. And not just because of Gracie. It’s something I wanted to do even before I knew she played the cello.
“Not the symphony tonight,” she says. “It’s just a quartet. We’re the background music at some sort of business bureau dinner thing happening downtown.”
“How does a gig like that rate compared to the symphony?”
She purses her lips to the side. “Nowhere near as good as the symphony, though it does pay better. But not as bad as a wedding.”
“What’s wrong with weddings?”
She shoots me a droll look. “Have you ever noticed the cello part in Pachebel’s Canon?”
I love that she’s talking to me like this—opening up a little. “I’m guessing it’s not very exciting?”
Her lips lift into a wry smile. “It’s the same eight notes played over and over again.”
“I see your point,” I say.
We stand there a few more seconds until the awkwardness is almost too much to handle.Whyis it so awkward? Is it me? Or is it just that she doesn’t want to be talking to me?
“Okay, well, I should get going,” she says. She reaches just inside her door and grabs a coat, slipping it on before wrapping a mustard yellow scarf around her neck. The color brings out the gold flecks in her dark brown eyes.
“Right. Of course. Don’t let me keep you.” I fish out my keys and unlock my apartment, then scoop up my bag.
Gracie comes out of her apartment, cello slung over her back. She turns and locks her door, then walks past me, a hesitant smile on her face.
“Good luck tonight,” I say.
She nods, her expression still wary, like she doesn’t know what to make of me. When she reaches the top step, she spins. “Oh, actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
I immediately perk up. “Sure.”
“I was just wondering if you have a way to contact our landlord directly. There’s a thing happening with my stove, and I’ve tried to email the agent I worked with when I signed my lease, but she isn’t responding.”
I frown. There’s something wrong with her stove? The agentshouldbe responding and relaying all of Gracie’s concerns to me. Trouble is, I can’t exactly say that to Gracie because she doesn’t know that her landlord is actuallyme.
It was something the leasing agent I worked with recommended—that I keep it on the down-low that I’m the one who owns the building. She said having tenants who know their landlord lives right next door is an easy way to have people bothering you all the time, complaining about things, making demands. It made sense at the time, but now that I know Gracie a little better, it seems like an unreasonable precaution. She’s been totally chill, hasn’t complained about a single thing in her apartment.
