Page 8 of Pucking Around

“Well, here you are, hon. Home sweet home.”

I follow the apartment manager inside the open door of my new apartment. My hands are full with my purse, my apartment paperwork, a drink cup sloshing with crunchy ice, and a bag of leftover tacos. I heft it all onto the kitchen counter, turning to face the view.

This is a fully furnished unit on the fourth floor of a brand-new complex not five miles from the arena. Caleb said the Rays bought out the top three floors of this building to have places to house rotating staff like me, as well as keep units in a constant state of readiness for farm team guys.

“You’ve got all the amenities,” she says. “Dishwasher, stove, microwave are all here. And there’s a small washer and dryer stack in your hall bath.” She points to an open door.

I step past her into the living room. It’s just a one bedroom, but there’s a kitchen with a little breakfast bar and a narrow living room capped with a wall of glass that leads out to a balcony. Beyond the balcony, I can see I have a view of woods beyond.

“Bedroom is through here,” Loretta calls. “You’ve got a full bath and the step-in closet.”

I follow her into the bedroom, noting the beachy colors everywhere—nautical blue, sand beige, and white. Everything in the unit is accented with wicker and seashells. There’s a jute rug in the kitchen. A sand dollar art print is framed over the queen-sized bed. Not a single decorating element is what I would have ever picked for myself. It’s coastal chic and I love it.

Okay, I’ll get used to it.

Fine, I’m buying a different bedspread at a bare minimum. Anyone who can handle this much sand beige must be part camel.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

Footsteps behind us have me turning. Caleb is standing in my kitchen, glancing around with a slight frown on his face. “Whoa…I forgot they look like this when you first move in.”

“Like what?” I say, taking my heavy backpack as he hands it over to me.

He scrunches his nose. “Like aisle four of a Home Goods.”

I stifle a laugh. Yeah, I’ll be hiding at least a quarter of these decorations in a cabinet.

“Making new friends already?” Loretta calls. “Don’t worry, hon. We’re not all as surly as this one.” She jabs a thumb at him.

Caleb picks up the glass bowl of seashells on my counter with a rattle. “Just curious, Lo, are there any shells actually left on thebeacheshere in Florida, or are they all in these fancy salad bowls?”

“You said something about recycling?” I say over him.

He smirks, setting the bowl back down.

“Yes, we recycle here. There’s a laminated list on the counter of what needs to be separated out,” Loretta explains. “And if you’re caught breaking the rules, there’s a $20 fine. The next fine goes up to $50.”

“We take ocean conservation very seriously,” Caleb chimes.

How the hell did he get around me and into the living room so fast?

“Take only photos, leave only footprints,” he intones. At the same time, he’s now holding what looks like a dried sea sponge decoration.

I roll my eyes at him. This guy is so hard to figure out. Is he an asshole or is he charming? Maybe he’s a charming asshole. I smile, trying to focus on Loretta’s long-winded explanation on proper dishwasher usage.

As she talks, I can’t help but glance over at him. He’s making himself at home on my sofa, moving around the striped pillows. He was so stand-offish at first. Understandable, since he thought I was standing him up…which I kind of was, totally inadvertently. Then there was the whole dildo debacle, which he was super cool about and hasn’t mentioned again. On the drive he seemed distant. He clearly didn’t want to talk, which suited me just fine. Especially since he’s got great taste in music.

I thought I had him pegged as the surly asshole loner type. But then, just before we got to the apartment complex, he pulled into a little strip mall and bought me tacos.

“You said you were hungry,” he said with an indifferent shrug.

Sure, we ate in silence, but it wasn’t an awkward silence. We sat outside at a little metal café table, sharing our chips with a very happy Sy.

Whatever Caleb lacks in charm, his dog more than compensates.

“Oh, no—Sy,” I cry, cutting Loretta off. “You can’t leave him in the Jeep. Bring him up.”

Caleb has his nose buried inside my coffee table book:Florida’s Seashells: A Beachcomber’s Guide. “It’s okay,” he replies, closing the heavy book and tossing it down. “I dropped him off when I brought up your backpack.”