Page 9 of Pucking Around

“Dropped him off?”

“Didn’t this grumpus tell you?” Loretta laughs.

I glance between him and Loretta. “Tell me what?”

Caleb crosses over to me. “I’m your new neighbor, Doc.”

My heart skips a beat. “Neighbor?”

“Yep, he’s right next door in unit 403,” calls Loretta.

“Why else do you think I was volunteered to pick you up from the airport?”

I gaze up into his dark eyes and feel something in my belly swoop. And no, it’s not the tacos. Oh, this is so not happening. No way.

Red alert. Back up, Rachel. Shut it down.

I’m not getting involved with a coworker. I don’t care if he’s gorgeous and working a smolder so hot it burns.

“So, if you ever need some sugar,” he murmurs. “You know who to ask.”

5

Isigh with exhaustion, swaying at my kitchen counter as I pour myself a generous glass of chardonnay. I successfully made it to the end of this marathon two days. At this point, I’m not sure which I need more: sleep or air. It’s a toss-up, really. As soon as I down this wine, I plan to crash.

Once Caleb left, I unpacked my one ridiculous bag, confirming what I already knew. The only choice in clothes for tomorrow are two evening gowns, a couple bikinis, a white lacy swimsuit coverup, or my winter gear. So, I called for an Uber and made a Target run. Three hours and $600 later, I was back in my apartment with a stocked fridge and pantry, a new comforter on the bed, new pillows on my sofa, and a load of laundry spinning in my mini washer—to include new scrubs and underwear.

Just as soon as the washer buzzes, I’ll toss the clothes in the dryer and go to sleep.

I fiddle with my phone, turning on some music. I stripped my leggings off as soon as I got home. Sports bra too. So now I’m wearing nothing but my undies and the softest cropped band tee I found in the junior’s section.

Grabbing my phone and my glass of wine, I saunter across my apartment towards the balcony. I’m a snob about making my outside spaces comfortable, and I’m already planning a patio makeover for this weekend—a plush lounger, some cafe string lights, plants for the railing. I could have one just for herbs. Basil and dill, maybe some rosemary. I make a note on my phone, using my elbow to slide the glass door shut behind me.

It’s so lovely out here. The humidity from the day has finally cut, so now it’s just warm. And so blissfully quiet. My music plays as I scroll mindlessly on my phone, slow sipping my chardonnay. I’m a few pages into my latest monster romance when I hear the loud buzzer on my washer go off. Draining the rest of my wine, I go to open the sliding glass door.

Shunk.

It doesn’t budge.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” I mutter. I tuck my phone under my arm and give the handle a harder pull.

Shunk. Shunk. Shunk.

“Oh, no. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!” I hiss, setting both the phone and the empty wine glass down. “Come on, door. Please, don’t do this to me,” I whine, trying to see if there’s something I’m missing, some lever that need lifting or a latch that needs flipping. But no. Nothing. There is literally nothing on this side of the glass except the handle.

“Oh, comeon!” I snatch up my phone and go quickly through my contacts, looking for the number to the front office. Of course, I haven’t plugged it into my damn phone yet!

“This is just perfect,” I mutter, opening my internet to do a google search.

I swear to god, when I get myself out of this, I’m going to bed and I’m never waking up again. I jerk the phone up to my ear, waiting as the dial tone plays some shitty elevator music. After what feels like an eternity, an answering service finally connects.

“Thank you for calling the Silver Shells Maintenance Service. Our office is currently closed. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911—”

I hang up.

Oh god, I amnotcalling the police to come rescue me! I have a sudden image of a firetruck raising up a ladder to my fourth-floor balcony. A handsome fireman reaches out his hands, ready to lift me over the rail like I’m a kitten stuck in a tree. I’m sure all my new neighbors will enjoy watching me shimmy my bare ass over the balcony into a fireman’s ladder-bucket-thingy.

I gasp.