I set my teeth and hit delete.

Fucking motherfucker.

I jumped and turned when a knock came at my door.

I had a shit door that, even wearing my daintiest high-heeled sandal, I could kick through. It was two layers of thin, cheap wood with a small diamond window at eye level so you could look out.

And in that diamond window, I saw Merry.

Fucking motherfucker.

He’d texted tomorrow.

And it was tomorrow.

I stared at him through the window, but he did not stare at me.

He opened the door and walked right through.

Mental note: lock the damned door, no matter if you’re inside just to pour a cup of coffee.

“Well, come on in, Officer,” I greeted sarcastically, throwing out my hand with the phone in it. “Something I can get you? Cup of coffee? Late breakfast? Quick blowjob?”

He did not look amused. He did not look annoyed.

He looked ticked.

“You puttin’ in your own storms?” he asked.

With the crap coming from my neighbors, Walter Jones getting my cell phone number and having no problem calling me, thinking he could ever in a million fucking years make it “worth my while” to talk about Dennis Lowe, and Merry waltzing into my living room, all in the expanse of ten minutes, I wasn’t following.

“What?”

“Windows, Cher.” He jerked his head toward the side of the house where the storm windows were stacked. “You puttin’ in your own storm windows?”

I had no idea why he would care, but there was only one answer to that question, so I gave it to him.

“Well, yeah.”

“Why doesn’t your landlord do it?” Merry asked.

“Because he’s seven hundred and twelve years old and my CPR skills are a little rusty, so I don’t want him giving himself a heart attack switching screens out for storms when I can do it myself.”

“It’s his responsibility,” Merry returned.

“I’d have to study my rental agreement, but I think routine maintenance is my responsibility, Merry.”

“You study that agreement, you’d find you’re wrong.”

It had been a while since I read it, but I had a feeling Merry was correct.

I didn’t share this feeling.

I said, “Then, considering the screens pop out, the storms pop in, and the doors only require little ole me to be able to turn a screwdriver, I’d rather just do it instead of calling him, waiting for him to come over, suffer a stroke while winterizing my house, thus scarring me mentally for life.”

His eyes narrowed. “You this much of a smartass before I made you come for me five times?”

I waited for my head to swivel around on my shoulders while fire shot out of my eye sockets.

When that didn’t happen, I snapped, “Uh…yeah.”

“Leave ’em,” he ordered. “I’m done with my shift, I’ll come over and put ’em in.”

I didn’t know how to react to that except allow my mouth to drop open, which I did.