“I’ll go to Wayfarer’s, get another bag, replace your wine,” he offered. “Are you fine to wait with your other things while I do that?”
Even though Wayfarer’s was the last place on earth I wanted to be, something about him made me decline his offer.
“Again, thank you but I’ll do it.”
“Please,” he pushed. “You were on your way before I crashed into you and I’d hate to think of the other bag breaking while you sort out something it was me that made you need to sort out.”
He was right about that.
“I’m in kind of a hurry,” I somewhat lied.
He more than somewhat smiled. “Then I’ll be certain to hurry.”
I sighed and decided discussing it with him would make this situation last even longer, not to mention mean I’d remain in his presence for longer, so I gave in by nodding.
He kept smiling and nodded back.
Then he sauntered off, appearing not in a rush at all and not bothering to ask me what the wine was he should be replacing.
I stood on the sidewalk, hoping to all that was holy that Olympia and Martine wouldn’t walk out and catch me standing on the sidewalk looking like an exceptionally well-dressed, exemplarily-shod, fabulously coifed and made up daytime prostitute.
This didn’t happen and within minutes, a checkout boy from Wayfarer’s dashed out with a bag. He also repacked my things. Another one came out as the first one was doing this. He had a dustbin and broom and cleaned up the broken bottle and wasted bag.
They were both gone by the time the man came back with another Wayfarer’s bag, this one doubled against the obviously heavy contents inside that could not be a single bottle of wine.
He approached me, again smiling. “Let me help you get this to the car.”
“I’m able to carry it,” I replied.
“As my way of an apology, I bought you four bottles of wine. It’s heavy.”
Four bottles?
I stared.
“Your car?” he prompted.
I again sighed and gave in.
“This way,” I said and started walking.
He fell in step beside me, doing this noting, “I haven’t seen you in Magdalene.”
“No, you haven’t,” I confirmed.
“I’m Boston Stone,” he shared and I looked up to him as I turned in front of him, causing him to stop then follow me as I moved toward the trunk of my car parked on the street.
“Hello, Boston Stone,” I greeted because I had no idea what else to say.
“You are?” he asked as I put the bags to the ground and touched the button on the trunk that would open it keyless.
As it glided open, I opened my mouth, doing it uncertain if I’d share my name or continue to try to brush him off, but I didn’t have the chance to decide.
I heard the word, “Babe,” growled from behind me.
I turned and saw Mickey stalking our way.
Not sauntering.
Not simply walking.
Stalking.
And he didn’t look happy.
“Mickey,” I called tentatively as a greeting, uncertain at his demeanor.
I hadn’t seen him since he hadn’t seen me (I hoped) at the movies.
He was in his firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform of blue khakis and tee. His eyes were moving up and down my body. He still was unbelievably beautiful (that uniform…seriously).
He didn’t greet me back.
When he stopped, his gaze cut to Boston Stone and it went flinty.
“You need somethin’?” he asked incomprehensibly inhospitably.
“I was just helping this lovely lady with her groceries,” Stone responded.
“I got it,” Mickey stated flatly and then he got it. As in, he carefully pulled me back, grabbed the bags I was perfectly capable of picking up myself and placed them in my trunk.
He then went for the bag Stone was carrying, caught hold, but Stone didn’t let go.
“I can put it in the trunk myself, Donovan,” Stone clipped.
So they knew each other.
“As I said, I got it, Stone,” Mickey clipped back.
Yes, they knew each other.
The handles flattened as they both kept hold and pulled.
“Please!” I exclaimed. “We already had a wine incident. The sidewalk of Magdalene has been anointed with one red, let’s not anoint Cross Street with four.”
Mickey instantly let go and stepped back, running into me but he didn’t apologize or move away.
He stayed close, the back of his left side touching the front of my right.
It was at that point I noticed Mickey gave off a lot of heat.
Stone put the bag in my trunk, shut it and turned slowly to Mickey and me.
But he had eyes on Mickey.
“Are you two seeing each other?”
“That’s your business how?” Mickey asked as reply.
“It’s my business because, if you’re not, I’d like to request you leave so I can ask her to dinner,” Stone returned.
My head jerked as my body locked in shock.
“That’s not gonna happen,” Mickey growled.
My body stayed locked in shock but that didn’t mean my eyes didn’t fly to Mickey’s stony-faced profile in more shock.
“So you are seeing each other,” Stone remarked.
“Again, not your business,” Mickey bit out.
Stone’s expression turned shrewd. “And that’s something that would lead me to believe that the beautiful woman standing behind you is free to go to dinner with me.”
“You forget English?” Mickey asked. “I already answered that too.”
I butted in, “I think I can speak for myself, Mickey.”
He moved nothing but his head (though his torso shifted an inch) so he could look down at me.
His eyes were communicating again.
This time they were communicating the fact that he really didn’t like Boston Stone.
Considering what I knew of Mickey, this would be something that, along with my own natural aversion to Mr. Stone, would have made me decline the man’s invitation.
Unfortunately, Mickey added words to his look so this didn’t happen.
“You’re not goin’ out with this guy.”
Was he being serious?
He couldn’t tell me what to do. He wasn’t my father, my brother or my lover.
Heck, he barely knew me!
All he knew about me was that he didn’t want me. I was his…“attractive” neighbor who he now did not even walk over to beg recipes from (okay, so Aisling didn’t know of any other recipes I had, but whatever).