“Not to a Georgian.”
“Reckon not,” he says with a throaty laugh. “Might as well be a damned Yankee in your book, right?”
“Great, he mocks me.”
“I mock not, Ms. O’Neill. I simply speculate.” Okay, it’s definite. This guy is flirting with me. A nameless, faceless stranger is right here in my office, flirting with me for all he’s worth, and I’m not sure what to make of that. Suddenly, I’m blushing despite the darkness. And I’m running my fingertips along the left side of my face, praying he won’t see my freakish scars once the light comes back on.
Then I’m unclasping my ponytail, hurrying before he does somehow see the horrible scars on my face. Or that strangely twisted half-smile of mine, because the problem is, I can’t stop smiling at absolutely everything he says. Next, I shake my hair out, so that it cascades loose along my shoulders and then comb it forward with my fingers. Not only does my hair provide good camouflage, but it’s also my most attractive feature these days. Golden, honey-colored and long, with natural highlights. Thick and wavy, too. At least there’s still one good thing that Ben McAllister didn’t manage to steal from me.
His outline is highlighted by thin shafts of light that filter through the blinds, and I can tell he’s maybe even six foot three or so. “I’ve gotta go get something from next door,” he announces, brushing off his hands as he rises to his feet. “I’ll be back.”
I nod nonchalantly—as if he can see anyway—and remain calm despite the way my heart is dancing some kind of wild jig inside my chest. He vanishes into the dark hallway, then a moment later there’s the sound of the main door opening and shutting to the parking lot outside. Only then do I realize that I’ve been holding my breath.
***
“Look, sweetie, he’s not the one,” Trevor advises me in the dark. We’re sitting in my office—darker than the others in this bungalow because it was once a screening room for daily rushes. In fact, Ed still uses it for that purpose which is why my wooden blinds are drawn closed today, just as they are most of the time.
“Why not?” I ask in an arch tone. After all, Trevor’s the one always pushing me to date someone. Anyone at all.
“Because he plays for my team. Gay-dar Central, I assure you, my dear.” He taps his fingertips on the window for emphasis. “Ding, ding.”
“That guy is not queer.”
“Why not? Because he’s macho and manly?” He laughs, drawing out the last word for emphasis.
“No, because he…” Flirted with me? I’m not about to tell Trevor my interpretation of events.
“I just thought he seemed straight, that’s all.”
Trevor places a comforting arm around me. “Sweetie, sometimes we gay men can read a moment, all right? There’s kind of a current that passes, a look, if you will. Subtext.”
“That happened?” I ask, feeling small and defeated. “You heard subtext? It was dark!”
“But our eyes met at the front door of the bungalow.” Crap, that’s right. With the power off, Trevor had to let him in manually.
“Was he cute?” I ask, even though my hope is fading fast.
“Ah, yes,” he nearly growls. “Quite the sexy lad, but taken for sure. It’s in the vibe. Clearly off the market, so it’s a no-go for me, as well.”
So much for my own ability to read a moment, I think, stumbling through the blackness toward my desk chair. That’s the last time I decide I’m experiencing an emotional connection with a stranger in the dark. No, that stuff’s just reserved for stupid sixties songs, not for me or my bungalow.
I drop into my seat and feel inexplicably tired. Beyond exhausted, really, as I wonder if there’s someplace else where I can go until our development meeting, somewhere I can hide before the gay electrician returns.
But I don’t leave. My cell phone rings, and it’s the New York agent phoning me back about the bestseller, suggesting something of a compromise. Next thing I know we’re discussing an offer, and then the strapping electrician lumbers right past me again before I can begin to plot my escape.
Once I’m done with the call, I fold the phone shut and begin straightening the manuscript on my desk into a neat pile. I’m ignoring the shadowy flirt, determined to tune him out as I stand to leave, when he says, “Sounds promising.” Why do I immediately think he’s talking about far more than the deal he just heard me negotiating?
“What?” I ask, rising to my feet. I have to get out of here before this guy weakens my steely resolve.
“Sounds like you’re shutting down the competition, Ms. O’Neill.”
I clutch the manuscript against my chest, feeling the need to protect myself.