9. Tabitha

Nine

Tabitha

I woke to the sounds of rustling and a shovel striking concrete. Blinking one eye open, I groaned at the bright sun streaming through the bedroom curtains, which were flimsy and Phillies-themed.

I covered my eyes with my hand, briefly disoriented. That dizzy, where the hell am I sensation was as familiar as the homesickness I battled on the road. Just a consequence of my perpetual motion.

I inhaled slowly, stretching my arms overhead. I was in South Philly, in Aunt Linda’s house. And Dean Knox-Morelli was my neighbor.

My disorientation shifted to curiosity. After seeing him yesterday morning, I’d distracted myself with work all afternoon, following up on potential leads, editing my last few videos, answering stray emails. Even still, I’d spent an awful lot of time gazing dreamily out the window, thinking about the breadth of those shoulders of his. Those intense eyes and that quicksilver smile that transformed his face from ruggedly handsome to charming.

He’d been like that in school too—a little shy, cards close to his chest. But whenever I could get Dean to smile, it would make my day.

The staccato rap-rap-rap of that shovel came again. Then a rough voice yelled out a “Hey, how ya doin’, Dean.”

Yawning, I crawled out from under the covers and glanced in the gaudy, gold-plated mirror to pull my snarled hair into a bun on top of my head. I was bra-less, in a tank top, but you couldn’t see my nipples and my teeth were food-free, which felt like a win to me. I walked to the window without the air-conditioning unit and peeled back the curtain, searching for the source of that sound. I shoved open the window and pushed the screen wide, propping my elbows on the ledge.

“Good morning, Mr. Machine,” I called down.

Dean looked up from the middle of the abandoned lot, squinting against the sun. He wore a sleeveless black shirt and running shorts, revealing every inch of his boxer arms and thick thighs, muscles rippling and flexing.

“Did I wake you?” he asked. My toes curled against the shag carpeting. That voice.

“Not at all,” I lied. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

He appeared slightly sheepish. “I don’t really have a plan. But between my pain-in-the-ass best friend and you—”

“A proud pain in the ass, thank you,” I said.

His lips twitched. “Thought I’d see what we’re working with, at least.”

I arched an eyebrow. “And what’s the verdict?”

He indicated the mountain of garbage behind him. “Not great.”

I had a fuller view from up here, so I could agree with his initial assessment. “I know I’ve been gone a bit, but I’m guessing the city isn’t investing in sanitation and trash collection, right?”

He nodded. “Or street maintenance.”