Читать книгу Underneath It All - Nancy Warren - Страница 10

OH, NO. Kate groaned when she saw the note taped to the washing machine. Now what?

“Occupant of Apartment B,” the note was headed.

Plunking her overflowing laundry basket on the floor, Kate ripped the scrap of paper from under the tape. The sight of the cramped black scrawl annoyed her even before she read the note.

Occupant of Apartment B,

Please don’t leave your clothes in the washer.

Thank you.

D. Edgar. (Occupant of Apartment A)

“Now, what’s his problem?” Kate grumbled, her words echoing off the gray cement walls of the duplex’s laundry room.

Glancing around, she quickly spotted the problem and uttered a cry of distress. On top of the dryer was a tangled, limp mess of pink and white. She recognized the remains of her brand new satin camisole, which had started life a sexy deep red. The camisole snaked around a pair of formerly white men’s briefs that blushed furiously at the intimacy.

Just before breakfast she had carefully put the camisole on to wash in cold water and mild soap. Occupant A had obviously thrown in his clothes without checking that the washer was empty and cranked up the hot water.

And goodbye to last month’s clothing treat.

Kate held the limp, twisted fabric up to her body and sighed. The pitiful remains of the camisole hardly covered her full breasts. It had shrunk as well as run, ruined beyond hope.

Screwing the camisole into a ball, she hurled it at the trash. “Jerk,” she muttered. Tossing back her hair, she poked her tongue at the ceiling, in the general direction of her brand-new upstairs neighbor.

Furiously she stuffed her laundry—bright reds, greens, blues, purples and dramatic blacks—into the washer and cranked the water setting back to cold. Should she stand here in the laundry room until her load was done? Computer brain might blow a circuit if he came in and discovered she’d started washing laundry and left it again.

Kate had known in her heart she wouldn’t be lucky enough to get another Annie for a neighbor, but she had hoped for someone compatible.

What she’d got was the biggest jerk on the planet.

Now he was messing with her clothes. And, instead of apologizing, he was blaming her for his own mistake.

Picking up his blotchy pink briefs, she shook them at the ceiling.

“If you think I’m taking this, you need to learn a thing or two about Occupant of Apartment B.”

She had to live here, but she didn’t have to put up with a rude and unpleasant neighbor. Since he’d ignored her initial greeting, they hadn’t seen each other again. She was working more hours than not, and he never seemed to leave his apartment.

The slammed door was bad enough, but no way she was putting up with snarky correspondence in the laundry room. But how should she send the man a message that she wasn’t to be messed with?

A cold note like his wasn’t going to have enough impact. Kate paused, still holding the formerly white discount-store briefs, and an idea hit her. She knew how to send him the message. A glance at her watch told her she had just enough time.

She was still smiling when she pushed through the doors of the department store and sailed toward Men’s Wear. Shirts, ties, T-shirts, socks—her gaze roamed the aisles until she spotted what she was searching for.

As she entered the department, she felt uncomfortable. Did nice girls buy underwear for men they’d never met?

“Can I help you?” The young male voice stopped her in her tracks. Lunging toward a pile of woolen socks, Kate grabbed a pair of scratchy gray knee-highs and turned, pinning a bright smile on her face.

“No thanks, just looking around.”

The clerk was a pimply faced boy, likely not out of his teens, and his eyes bulged when she faced him. His protuberant gaze reminded her how tight her fuchsia tank was—maybe she should have bought the large, after all—and how short her black skirt.

“Well.” The word came out like a squeak. He flushed and tried again. “If you want anything, let me know. I’ll be, like, you know…here.”

Her own embarrassment evaporated in a smile. “Thanks,” she said casually, sifting through the socks until he moved away.

She slunk around, feeling as guilty as though she were planning to rob the place, until there was no sign of customer or clerk, then sidled into the racks of briefs, where she lost her embarrassment in the joy of the hunt.

Scanning the rows of possibilities, she was drawn first to a pair with a deep blue background dotted with perky sunshine-yellow happy faces.

No, she decided, too happy.

Then she almost succumbed to a pair of designer bikinis emblazoned with red-and-white hearts—one prominent red heart centered in the front—but heaven forbid the jerk should think she was coming on to him.

At last, she spotted them—a pair of deep burgundy bikinis adorned with ivory-colored Rubenesque cherubs. She chuckled aloud. They were more expensive than anything with so little fabric should be, but the delicious sense of revenge was worth it.

Disguising the briefs under a pair of the gray socks, Kate wandered surreptitiously out of Men’s Wear and kept walking until she found a pay station with a female cashier.

She was running late for her shift by the time she returned home from the mall so she ran into the laundry room, propped the designer briefs on the dryer and penned a quick note:

Dear Occupant of Apartment A,

Tell your mother this is what men wear nowadays.

These are on me. (Crossed out).

These are for you.

Please look in washer before you add clothes next time.

K. Monahan (Occupant of Apartment B)

CURIOSITY TUGGED HER to the laundry room the next morning. A basket of clean towels was her cover, in case Occupant A happened to be there. She was dying to see whether or not he had picked up his new briefs.

They were gone. In their place on top of the dryer was a gold-and-white box embossed with the name of Seattle’s most expensive lingerie shop.

Intrigued, Kate walked over to it. She didn’t see a note. Putting down the basket of towels, she removed the cover from the box. Inside, even the gold-and-white tissue was printed with the store’s name. Very classy. She breathed in the scent of roses emitted by the rustling tissue as she dug into the box.

A gleam of palest cream-colored silk peeked out. She stroked it softly before withdrawing an exquisite camisole embroidered with dainty peach rosettes. The tag told her what she had already guessed, the garment was pure silk. Even without a price sticker, Kate knew this camisole was far more costly than the red polyester satin it was replacing. The garment tag also told her it was the correct size.

How could Occupant A have guessed? She stood for a moment, horrified to think he’d checked out her body while blowing her off.

She stood frowning, caressing the soft silk thoughtfully until she remembered the discarded camisole in the trash can. Sure enough, when she picked it up she saw the size label had been neatly snipped off. He’d thought of everything. Maybe he was trying to say he was sorry? She rubbed the soft fabric against her cheek and then noticed the note in the box.

Dear Occupant of Apartment B,

This is what women of taste have always worn.

D. Edgar (Occupant of Apartment A)

Kate felt a sharp pang of hurt. Women of taste. How classy that sounded.

Women of taste didn’t grow up in her neighborhood fighting with four other siblings for a few minutes in the bathroom in the morning. Women of taste had hours to bathe and scent themselves before stepping into their silk lingerie. Kate was probably the only one in her family who owned lingerie—even if it was only polyester.

And what did Occupant A know about women of taste? Him with his too-bright shirts and horrendous hair? In the week since he’d moved in, the only company he’d had was that computer of his.

Who did he think he was to insult her like this?

Kate had an Irish temper to match her auburn hair and green eyes, and it blazed into life in a sudden rage. A veil of red shimmered before her gaze as she snatched up the camisole and marched up the outside stairs.

She was banging on the door of Apartment A in no time, ready to explode. She could hardly stand still; phrases she would say to him bubbled madly in her boiling anger.

The door opened.

Before Occupant A could say a word, Kate threw the silk camisole in his face.

It snagged on his glasses, hanging like a tassel on a life-size loser lamp.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she shouted.

His eyes widened.

“How dare you…” she spluttered, looking at the badly dressed, slouching, bespectacled figure in front of her.

“How dare you—you suggest I don’t have taste. When I need tips on how to dress from a surfer boy comic strip I’ll ask you!”

He opened his mouth to speak but she kept on shouting.

“I happen to work in a beauty salon. It contains the word beauty, which is something you don’t know the first thing about. I have plenty of taste and not…not…computer chips for brains.”

“I—”

Kate drew a shuddering breath and raised her hand to shake her forefinger in his face. “Furthermore, I hate your attitude and your rude behavior and your stupid notes and I think you owe me an apology because—”

“You’re right.” The words were quiet and calm.

She’d expected a shouting match and the quiet words caught her off guard.

Occupant A had taken off his glasses in order to unsnag the camisole, which seemed to be caught in the hinge. He looked down, fiddling.

“What?” she shrieked.

A pair of clear gray eyes met hers ruefully. “I said, ‘You’re right.’ I was out of line.” He sighed, his face wrinkling as though in pain. “I apologize.”

All Kate could think was what a shame it was that such beautiful eyes were wasted on a jerk who covered them up with glasses and stared at a computer monitor all day.

With a nod that sent her dangling earrings swinging, she said, “Well, okay. No more nasty notes.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” he agreed.

His voice was a surprise. Deep and rich, with an upper-crust East Coast accent.

Kate drew a long breath. She’d expected a battle. Adrenaline pumped through her body. She’d been ready to rant and rave and throw things.

His unexpected apology took the wind out of her sails, leaving her stalled on his doorstep, with no anger to push her on. Her rages were always over as suddenly as they began, and in the calm aftermath she felt a little foolish. She backed up a couple of steps and, taking another shaky breath, suddenly smiled.

“I’m sorry, too, if my temper led me to say anything I shouldn’t have.”

When she smiled at him she noticed his eyes widen in shock and he shoved the now-freed glasses back on his face.

She turned to leave.

“Wait.”

She glanced back.

He was holding out the camisole. “Please keep this.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s much too expensive.” It occurred to her that this man didn’t know you could buy inexpensive camisoles at any department store, as she had. He must think you had to go to a lingerie store, or one of those fancy catalogs. “You could return it.”

He straightened from his careless slouch and looked down at her. He was surprisingly tall when he stood upright, over six feet. “I’m not going to take it back. If you accept it I’ll know you’re not still mad at me.”

Something in his voice, a trace of command, made her reach out to take the wisp of silk from him. “All right,” she agreed softly. “It’s beautiful. Thanks.”

Feeling even more foolish, she turned once again to leave.

“Maybe we should set up a schedule?”

Puzzled, she turned back. “A schedule?”

“For the laundry. If each of us has assigned laundry days, we won’t have a problem in future.”

Kate thought of Annie and her in the laundry room together chatting, throwing their jeans and socks together to make up a load. It used to be so much fun. She sighed. “Sure.”

“I’ll put something together on my computer. Do you have a preference?”

“I don’t know anything about computers.”

He grinned. She was amazed to see he could grin. “I meant days of the week.”

“Oh, of course. Well, I work different shifts. I’m busiest on the weekends and usually not so busy midweek.”

“I can work with that.” He cleared his throat. “Um.” He seemed to be struggling. Finally he held out his hand. “My name’s Dean Edgar.”

“Kate Monahan.” She grasped the outstretched hand, which clasped hers with warm strength. She glanced up in surprise.

He pulled his hand back as though she’d given him an electric shock. Then suddenly he was gone, back into his apartment like a gopher diving down into its burrow.

She shook her head as she walked slowly down the steps. He was a strange one, all right. But she didn’t think she’d have any more trouble with him, now she’d let him know she was not to be messed with.

He was even kind of cute when you got past the hair and the wardrobe.

And there was that odd tug of familiarity. It was surprising, but she worked on a lot of men in the salon. He probably looked like one of her clients.

Not that any of her clients would ever leave her chair with their hair like that.