Page 3 of When Neighbors Fall

I’ve always yearned to go, to be notable or important enough to be asked. All of Oak Valley’s business owners and other VIPs will be there, and now that I’m one of them myself, I’m on the list. Mattie’s been on it for years and years, and now a week from this Saturday, I’ll be there, too. It feels as if someone’s finally told me that I’ve made it as a grown-up, that I’ve secured our whole town’s approval.

“So what are you going to wear?”

“Ooh, a trip to Trina’s sounds like it’s in order,” I exclaim, zooming from my bathroom to my bedroom like an air hockey puck. I love shopping, particularly for clothes, and if Jodi, her sister, and their cousin go with me, we can make a whole Sunday afternoon out of it.

“You know it. It’s a plan.”

We visit the ladieswear shop, just as I’d hoped, and I find exactly what I’m looking for. I even have the jewelry already—from their wonderful shop—to accessorize it.

The days spin forward, and I detect neither hide nor hair of my neighbor. So far, the only way I know someone’s over thereat all is due to hearing occasional footsteps or the sounds of a microwave dinging after it’s heated up a meal. Also, whoever lives there leaves at five in the morning, returns at some point, and goes back out at seven.

I know this not because I’m monitoring their movements, but because Wilma’s door perpetually sticks and requires a rough slam to get it shut.

Since I don’t open the salon until nine, we haven’t had the chance to meet. You’d think we’d pass each other in the evenings, but not yet. If I were the kind of person who worried over such things, I might be spooked. It’s been almost like living with a mostly silent ghost.

It’s as I’m departing for the party at the Walcott’s when I at last lay eyes on my elusive duplex mate. Initially, all I manage a glimpse of is a man’s back, and I note that he’s taller than me—but then, most people are—the thick raven black hair, and a nice suit. I’m struck with a sense of familiarity I can’t seem to put my finger on as he pivots in place.

Our gazes lock, and I take in his features. He’s raising some thick black eyebrows over a set of pale grey irises that highlight his slightly darker sport coat. And damn, he’s a stunner. His shoulders are broad and his waist trim. There are fine lines along his forehead and eyes that only increase his allure. He must be a bit older than I am.

Yet there are no gray hairs in the short dark beard that hugs his tanned cheeks and chin just right. I rack my brain, trying to figure out where I know him from, when comprehension dawns. I bumped into him at my brother’s office.

This man’s coloring is the polar opposite of my redheaded sibling, though.

He’d been attractive even in a blue-collar dark navy uniform under the crappy-ass fluorescent lighting of the Public Works building, but now that he’s all dressed up, I find him even morealluring. Today, he smells of limes, freshly cut grass, and herbs all at once. I even lean in closer to grab another lungful of his tasty masculine essence.

“Don’t I know you?” I inquire of him, needing a name to go with his handsome face.

Three

Sean

I blink at her question, my heart racing. I knew our timing would align at some point, but looking at her now, all I can think of is how her skin glistened with sweat while doing jumping jacks sans clothing.

Now, though, she’s donned a green strapless dress—green seems to be a thing with her—and while the fabric has no pattern, it fits her as if made for her body exclusively. All the gray matter in my skull turns into mashed potatoes, so instead of saying something erudite or suave, I mumble.

“You’re Becca.” She raises her eyebrows and flutters her long, long lashes.

“That’s right.” She pauses and waits, staring at me, and I have no idea why until she prompts me. “And you are?”

Oh.

“S-Sean Ward,” I stammer as though I’ve never successfully used my vocal cords before.

“Remind me where I know you from.”

It’s not a question, but I can’t tell her my most vivid memory of her includes birthday suit aerobics or Pilates or Zumba, whatever the hell she was doing. It takes an embarrassingly longtime for me to remember when we officially first laid eyes on each other.

“At the Public Works building.”

“At Mattie’s, of course,” she confirms, bobbing her head. “You work with my brother, right?”

“He’s enlisted me for jobs when the occasion warrants it.”

“What do you do?”

“Electrician.” Mom always insists on calling my occupation by its full title of Master Electrician due to all the certifications and expertise I’ve had to acquire, but I’m not one to quibble over minor details.

“How nice.” I can tell she’s sincere by the open smile on her lips that dances all the way into her eyes. “Well, I’ve gotta go. Have a great evening, Sean Ward.”

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