Page 8 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
“Tess, this is Mr Spencer,” Shelly says as I make my way sideways, like a large crab, towards the entrance to the medical areas behind the counter, as far away from her, andhimas I can get. My mind is on a loop, brainwashing myself not to smile, lest my fangs show, and definitely not to spring towards him and…
Intent on my destination, I keep moving, but I know as soon as I see Shelly’s frown that I’m not going to make the refuge of the doorway unmolested.
“Tess, Miss Holmes,” a deep, melodic voice says, “I think I owe you an apology.”
I frown and stop, turning slowly.
‘I guess I need to hear him out, then I can leave, just hear him out, that’s all. Stay still, stay very still. Oh my God, he smells so wonderful.’
“I don’t believe that is necessary, Mr Spencer,” I murmur, “now if you will excuse me, I’m late for work.”
“You don’t start until nine,” Shelly quips, looking up at the clock which has betrayed my lie, showing 8.45pm. “You’re always early. She’s always early,” she adds to my neighbour.
“I startled you in the woods,” he says, as though he hasn’t heard anything either of us said, “and I’m sorry. I’ve swung by a couple of times since to introduce myself, but you haven’t been home.”
Even as he says this, I can hear that he doesn’t believe it.
‘He knows I was hiding.’
“I just wanted to let you know I’ve moved in next door, so we are going to be neighbours. Again, I’m sorry I frightened you, I had no business being in your neck of the woods after dark.”
“Then what were you doing there?” I interject. I hear how rude I sound, and wish I could eat my words, but I only have three emotions now, despair, anger and hunger.
“I just needed a walk,” he says quietly, “a long walk, and I lost track of time and distance. I’ll stick to my side of the property in future.”
“Thank you.” I nod and step through the door into my workrooms with their heavy antiseptic smell. As the door swings shut behind me, I sprint through the next set of double doors into the morgue at the rear of the building.
I don’t come out until I hear his truck drive away.
“And what else did you say?” Pru prompts as I sit curled up morosely on the couch, staring at the flames in the newly restored fireplace.
I wrinkle my nose. The smell of the cookies fresh out of the oven permeates the living room, reminding me of my imminent and terrifying rendezvous.
“That was it.”
“So, you were an asshole.”
“Yes.”
“Which is not the plan.”
“I know,” I groan.
“And now you need to get yourself into your pretty little Christmas sweater and march over there with me and apologise.”
“I caaaaaaan’t,” I whine.
“If I can shovel a fuck-load of snow off a driveway the length of an airfield, and agree to wear this,” she gestures to the knitted sweater I had given her, featuring tiny snow bunnies jumping through juniper berries. “Then you can deliver some cookies to his door, play nice, apologise for your shit behaviour and make friends.”
“At least I didn’t bite him,” I snipe.
“Do you need a smack around the head?” she growls ominously.
“You can try,” I smirk, jostled out of my doldrums despite myself, “but I can’t guarantee I won’t let Orson poop in your boots.”
“Disgusting,” she shivers, “now c’mon.”
Sighing I rise and walk to the peg where our jackets hang.
