Читать книгу This Just In... - Jennifer McKenzie - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

THE MAYOR WAS being difficult. Luckily, Sabrina had worked with difficult interviewees before. The hockey player who’d cancelled three times before she’d finally shown up outside the arena after practice like a groupie and done the interview while his hair was still wet. The singer who’d appeared an hour late, hung over from the night before and answering most of her questions with requests for a cigarette. The actor who’d insisted on staying in character, accent included. All had ended in successful columns for Sabrina.

She knew how to get what she wanted. And she wanted this interview.

Since their meeting in the parking lot on Monday, she’d had two other opportunities to talk to Noah in person, both instances as she was making his espresso. On each occasion, he’d nodded politely and told her he would get back to her. The four times she’d called his office, she hadn’t even managed to get him on the phone. His assistant had acted as a gatekeeper and brushed her off with the now familiar story that he was in a meeting or out of the office.

But Sabrina was pretty sure he couldn’t avoid her if she showed up on his doorstep. Not that she was turning into some creepy stalker who would wait outside his house and pounce the minute he showed his face. No, she had more couth than that. She was moving in across the hall. Far less creepy.

She’d known her parents owned an income property, half of a pretty little duplex in town, but she hadn’t known Mr. Mayor called the other half home and, upon learning this tidbit, she’d convinced them—okay, there might have been a teensy-weensy bit of begging involved—to let her move in. Their previous tenants had moved out a couple of months earlier and the apartment had been sitting vacant. Sabrina didn’t believe in astrology or fate, but her stars? Those were aligned.

She wondered if Mr. Mayor was a briefs or boxers man. Really, it was the kind of investigative journalism that readers would want to know. Her cheeks warmed.

“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?” Her dad interrupted her thoughts.

“Just excited to be getting my own space.” She rolled down the window. Mr. Mayor wasn’t even her type. She preferred the slightly dangerous bad boys. The ones who demanded rather than asked and kissed a woman so hard that she popped right out of her shoes.

“You haven’t even seen the inside yet.”

Although it was now Friday and she’d talked them into letting her use the apartment on Monday, she hadn’t had a chance to come out until now. The coffee shop had been busy all week as tourists began spilling into town for the start of the summer rush. Sabrina had worked two double shifts already and in the few hours she’d had off, she’d been at the newspaper office getting to know the staff and preparing for her interview with Pete.

But she didn’t need to see the inside to know the apartment was going to be perfect. Already, she could picture curling up in a cozy corner with a book, setting up her computer somewhere other than her bedroom and lingering over a cup of coffee on her mornings off without interruption.

At her parents’ house, she sat at the same dining chair that had been hers since she was old enough to scramble up on it, slept in the same twin bed that she’d graduated to after toddlerhood and had to share the remote for the TV.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents. She did. A lot. But she’d lived on her own for the past nine years—except that one period when she’d had a roommate who spent the entire six months on the couch leaving crumbs on the cushions and smoking a bong. Never again. Sabrina was used to having privacy, playing the music she liked and watching various iterations of Real Housewives without having to justify herself to anyone.

Her father smiled as they cruised through town. Probably because he and her mother were now certain that Sabrina would be staying in Wheaton long-term. She’d heard them talk about it through the wall in her bedroom last night. Apparently, her fib about writing that book hadn’t fooled them. But there was another more important reason to get out and into her own place. The discussion about her future hadn’t been the only thing she’d heard from her parents’ room last night.

Logically, Sabrina knew they were still young and vibrant and sexually active, but she really didn’t need proof of that fact. Ever. Again.

“Here we are.” Her father pulled into a long driveway and parked in front of the house. “Ready?”

Ready? Sabrina was already out of the car and heading up the stairs that led to the long wraparound porch and front door. She hadn’t seen the place in over a decade but it was just as cute as she remembered. From the front it appeared to be a single dwelling with three steps that led to the blue front door.

Matching sets of French doors, one on either side of the main door, opened to the porch, as well. In its original state, the house had been built for one family and the doors led to a pair of sitting rooms and could be opened to catch the summer breeze. Now they provided porch access for each apartment occupant without needing to go through the entry and front door.

They were missing the artful iron vines she was used to seeing on large glass doors and windows in the city, but then security wasn’t such a concern here. Sabrina had been shocked to find her parents still didn’t lock their doors. And not just during the day when they happened to be at home. All the time, day, night, in or out.

Petty crime—or non-petty crime—wasn’t something she needed to worry about in Wheaton. No one was going to snatch her purse off her shoulder or kick in her window to steal her valuables.

Someone had planted shrubs along the sides of the house and in front of the porch. Probably her mother. They were well-tended, with small white flowers starting to bud.

There wasn’t any outdoor furniture, but Sabrina figured she could borrow some from her parents. She’d already requisitioned a coffee table and the floor lamp with a pink shade and ’20s fringe from her mom’s sewing room. What were a couple of outdoor lounge chairs, a small table, maybe some oversized pots of brightly colored flowers added to her tally?

Sabrina had loved her tubs of blooms on her balcony in Yaletown. Well, loved them until the tenant below her complained that they were making a mess on his balcony. One measly bud had fluttered onto his ugly wicker chair, but he’d acted like she’d purposely defaced his property. Her boot heels clacked a little louder. Please, her flower had done more to improve his decor than a mountain of furniture. Which she’d told her landlord, but he’d merely pointed to the clause in the contract that stated she needed permission to put anything on her balcony and she hadn’t bothered to get it.

But there weren’t any balconies here and Sabrina doubted Mr. Mayor would get crabby about flowers. People in Wheaton were friendlier, more agreeable. He would understand that her decor improved his space, as well. Assuming he even noticed.

She tried to peek through his curtain-free French doors while she waited for her dad to finish fiddling with the car and join her, but the glare from the sun prevented her from seeing much. She squinted, but couldn’t make out anything more than a couple of blobby shapes.

There was always the possibility that they’d become friends and he’d actually invite her inside. So far, her old friends had made themselves scarce. She hadn’t even seen Marissa or Kyle. Not that she’d expected to.

Her dad finally finished whatever he was doing and unlocked the front door. The entry was plain but neat. An overhead chandelier, original to the house, sparkled under the afternoon sun. Wood floors were polished to a golden gleam. A well-used Turkish-style rug lay in the center of the room beneath a round oak table that had a bowl of potpourri on it.

Sabrina wrinkled her nose. “Potpourri, Dad? This isn’t the ’80s.” Which was exactly what she’d told her mother when she’d spotted it in the guest bathroom.

He shrugged. “Your mother said it would smell nice.”

Yes, if people wanted their homes to smell like an old lady’s underwear drawer. Sabrina made a mental note to take the bowl and all the dried flowers with her when they left.

Her father walked past the offending decor without a glance and stuck his key into the interior door on the left. Men. Sabrina lingered, noting the cheerful welcome mat in front of the mayor’s door. There was a small nail beneath the peephole. Probably to hang a wreath at Christmas.

“Sabrina?” her father called.

She sent one last look at the door, not that it told her anything, and headed to what would become her new home. She imagined plain white walls, simple wood floors polished to the same gloss as the entry and maybe some architectural features found in older homes that gave them such character. Crystal doorknobs, paneled doors and thick crown molding.

What she found would have caused her mouth to fall open in a gasp of horror had she not trained herself out of the habit years ago when one of her university friends told her it made her look like a rube.

“What do you think?” Her dad was practically rubbing his hands together.

Sabrina wondered if they were seeing the same thing because what she saw was that the bowl of potpourri wasn’t the only thing left from the ’80s. The walls of the duplex were pastel stripes. Yes. Pastel. Stripes. In four colors. Lilac and mint and blush and sunshine shown off in all their glory because there wasn’t any furniture to distract from it.

She prayed it wasn’t wallpaper. Oh, God. She did not relish stripping thirty-year-old paper from the walls. She’d done that in an apartment once. The paper had practically fused to the drywall and it had taken her days of hard labor, one of those scoring tools, fabric softener and finally the rental of a steamer to get it off.

There was one lonely rug that the previous tenant had left behind. A fringed circle of lemon yellow—and not the cute and sexy fringe like her lamp. No, this was the thick yarn type. She didn’t bother to disguise her shudder.

But the wood floors appeared to be in good shape and the fireplace was nice. A simple, traditional wood frame that just needed a fresh coat of white paint to bring it back to life. The kitchen was all right, too, if she avoided looking at the walls, which had been sponge painted.

The appliances were standard white, but clean and carried no leftover odors. She’d once moved into a place where the previous tenant hadn’t bothered cleaning out anything ever. After scrubbing the fridge and scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing some more, Sabrina had insisted her landlord replace it. He’d been irritated and pissy. Apparently, he’d hoped she’d just grow used to the stench. The counters were a neutral beige. Nothing to get excited about but most definitely livable. The pink ruffled curtains, not so much. They would be coming down first thing.

“It needs some upgrades,” she said.

“Now, Sabrina. Don’t go getting any ideas about granite and marble and stainless-steel appliances. I’m already covering the costs of shipping your furniture from Vancouver. Why did you ever put it in storage? Waste of money when we can store it for you in our basement.”

“Because I’m going back.” She’d already explained this, but her father chose not to hear it.

He waved off her statement as he’d done the previous two times she’d told him. “Or you could stay.”

“Now you sound like Mom.” Sabrina sloughed off the idea without another thought because she wasn’t staying any longer than necessary. But until that day arrived, getting the apartment into the new millennium would be a good project for her. Something to fill the long evening hours when Wheaton shut down for the night. Her current obsession of checking email, text and social networking sites was not working for her. At all.

“Don’t you want to come back home?” her dad asked. For the hundredth time, she considered telling him the truth. That she wasn’t back to write a book about her experiences interviewing celebrities, filling the pages with all the tidbits that hadn’t fit into her articles. That she’d been fired and that it wasn’t looking like she’d ever get her job back.

Once again, she swallowed the words and smiled. “It doesn’t feel like home anymore, Dad. It’s been a long time since I lived here and I love the city.” With its late-night burger joints, extensive shoe stores and Opera Guy, a local gentleman who strolled around the neighborhood singing opera at the top of his lungs, Vancouver was the place she longed for. “But I promise to come and visit more, okay?”

When she saw the downturn of her father’s lips, guilt snuck into her cheerful attitude. It had just been easier for her parents to come to her. First because she worked at the paper through the holidays. Low person in the chain of command. Then it had just become habit.

“Oh, come on.” Sabrina elbowed him lightly. “Cheer up. I’m here now. You’ve got me doing slave labor at the coffee shop.” Even with what she hoped would be an increased workload at the local paper, she’d continue to work most mornings at the coffee shop. “And I’m going to fix up this place for free.”

“Does this mean it’s not going to cost me anything?” The edges of his eyes crinkled.

“My labor is free,” she clarified. “Which we all know is the majority of cost. I’m giving you a deal.”

She could see the finished project in her mind. A pale pink on the walls, like the inside of a rose, to play up the reds and pinks in the large throw rug she had. Maybe she could search out an old wrought iron chandelier to hang over the coffee table. Antiques shops would just be opening for the summer season and would not yet be picked over. Her parents had a grandfather clock in their entryway that was too large for the space, but it would be perfect against the wall in here. Pillows on her oatmeal-colored couch, throws on her ivory chairs, flowers in crystal vases on the end table. She had a small series of sculptures that would look fabulous on the fireplace mantel.

Sabrina was still thinking about it as they exited the suite. Until she saw the monstrosity of a potpourri bowl and hurried over to dispose of it. An act of compassion, really, putting the hideous thing out of its misery.

She was sweeping some of the dried blooms that had fallen onto the table back into the bowl when the front door opened. Her senses went on high alert. If she was at the table and she could still hear her father locking up the apartment, then the front door could only be opened by one person.

“Mr. Mayor.” Sabrina put down the bowl. And felt her insides wobble when she turned and got a look at him.

Gone was the nerdy golf shirt and dress pants combo, exchanged for a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt that did wonderful things for the muscles in his arms. In his more casual attire and without that polished veneer, Noah didn’t look like the same man. She felt something warm unfurl in her. Her fingers itched, wanting to touch.

“Hello.” Noah glanced from her to her father, a line of confusion between his eyes. “Just checking up on the place?”

“Hi, Noah.” Her father turned from the door and handed the keys to Sabrina. “You won’t have this old place to yourself much longer. Sabrina is moving in.”

“Moving in?” Noah’s eyes darted back to her.

“Pretty soon you’ll be inundated with loud music and singing. Hope you have earplugs.”

“Dad.” Sabrina rolled her eyes as she stuffed the keys into her pocket and focused on Noah. “I’m not that loud,” she told him.

“You can be,” her dad said. “I’ll be outside.” He pulled the door closed with a click and silence filled the space.

Sabrina smiled. “Hello, neighbor.”

Noah rubbed the back of his neck as his eyes flicked over her. Were her eyes deceiving her or was he checking her out? She twirled a lock of hair around her finger before letting it slip and trail down her cleavage. Yes, she was a shameless hussy. She saw his gaze drop down, following that lock of hair, before shooting back up to her face and giving her a guilty glance. Yes, that’s right, her eyes were up there.

He cleared his throat. “Neighbors. Welcome then.” He put on his fake politician smile. Sabrina was well-versed in that smile. Every celebrity, pseudo or otherwise, had their own version of it. Some were bright, others mysterious, but they all indicated the same thing: an unwillingness to share a person’s real self. She hated that smile.

“Thanks, and for the record, I sing in key. No earplugs required.”

Noah’s smile warmed, edging toward reality. “I’ll hold you to that.”

She felt a flicker of heat waft through her. “Please do.” Or just hold her. Wait, what? Now she was having dirty fantasies about the mayor? Shameless, shameless hussy. No upstanding citizen would do such a thing. Luckily she was neither a citizen of Wheaton or particularly upstanding. “Well, I should be going. My dad’s waiting.” She picked up the bowl of dried flowers.

“Sabrina.” She looked into his eyes, so soft and blue like the blanket she used to carry around as a toddler and that her mother still had stored in a box somewhere. Good ol’ wubbie. “When are you moving in?”

“Tomorrow.” Just as soon as her furniture arrived. She’d considered sleeping on the floor of the apartment just to avoid accidentally overhearing her parents’ bedsprings again, but common sense won out. She had an iPod. And earbuds. “Why? You want to help?

She didn’t expect him to say yes. No doubt he had better things to do than help her move. Particularly as he didn’t even seem to like her enough to give her that interview. Yet.

“Sure.”

Sabrina blinked. “Seriously?” She couldn’t even get him on the phone and now he was willing to spend hours with her?

His smile widened. “Seriously.”

She wasn’t one to question her good fortune a second time. “Then I’d love to have your help.”

And love to watch him work. All sweaty and hot. Bare arms. Carrying her bed. Her throat felt dry. She clutched the bowl in her hands more tightly and wished for a glass of water. Really any liquid would do. A drop of sweat running down Noah’s chest. Perhaps there was a way she could convince him to go shirtless and then snap a few pictures. For the paper, of course, not personal use.

Really, she’d be doing it for the readers.