Scoring. Kristin Hardy
and I…” She waved a hand at the ripped cardboard, trying not to stare at the woman’s smudged eyes and the wild waterfall of sable hair that tumbled to her waist.
The woman looked at her a moment longer. “Yeah, well, some of us work nights. Do me a favor and keep it down.” She slammed the door shut without another word.
And nice to meet you, too, neighbor, Becka thought as she leaned down to pick up the pans. Fumbling through her door, she carried the pile inside to spill them on her couch. Yup, it was shaping up to be a daisy of a day. After the humiliation of the night before, irritation—she was sure it was irritation—had kept her amped up and awake into the wee morning hours. Bad enough that he’d kissed her, but he’d made her respond.
And then his smug parting shot. Becka huffed back into the hall and stomped down the stairs. A matter of when indeed. It would be a cold day in hell before she slept with Mace Duvall, no matter how magic his mouth might be. She’d only responded because it had been a while, that was all. Which was the absolute worst reason in the world to get involved with someone, she reminded herself crossly.
And just where was Chico, she wondered, smothering her annoyance as she checked her watch again and crossed the parking lot. He was over two hours late. Even stuffed to the gills, her valiant little Toyota could only carry about seven or eight boxes, which had been why she’d reserved the cargo van, since cancelled. There were very few immutable laws in life, but one of them was certainly that she who gave up a U-Haul reservation on the last Friday of the month was not about to get it back. Thanks to Chico’s unreliability, she was going to spend her whole day ferrying boxes from Cambridge to Lowell.
“Need some help?”
Becka turned to see the woman from upstairs standing behind her, an ironic smile on her face. “I’m with the welcoming committee,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Mallory Carson, your neighbor.” She’d swapped the robe for a T-shirt and shorts, and tamed her hair into a ponytail. The smudged makeup was gone, leaving her with the clean-scrubbed look of a high-schooler on a face that any high fashion model would envy.
Becka shook her hand bemusedly. “Becka Landon. Hey, I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t usually jump on complete strangers, I swear.” Mallory gave a brilliant smile. “It’s just that I was at work really late last night. I’m a bartender,” she explained, yawning into her hand.
“Well no wonder you were ready to strangle me.”
She shrugged. “No big deal. I’m up now, so let me help. It’ll keep me from having to do something really disgusting like vacuuming.”
Becka popped the trunk and pulled out a box for Mallory and one for herself. As they crossed the parking lot to the broad side porch that led into the house, Mallory studied Becka with frank curiosity. “So are you from somewhere else or are you just moving across town?”
Becka balanced the box on her knee while she opened the front door. “Cambridge, but I work here.”
“Why do you want to leave Cambridge for a backwater like Lowell?” Mallory asked, following her in.
Becka shrugged. “Cambridge isn’t any fun if you’re never there to enjoy it. Dealing with the drive and the traffic was making me crazy.”
“Yeah, I guess I can sort of see that.” Mallory started up the stairs. “So I guess I should fill you in on the rest of our little happy home here. Two apartments on the ground floor, Ed and Lorraine. Ed’s in construction, so he’s usually out of here at the crack of dawn. Helpful if you have something really heavy to lift, but kind of a dim bulb. He was having an affair with Lorraine, but he just broke up with her to see someone else, so we’ve got lots of slamming doors around here right now.” Puffing, Mallory followed Becka onto the upstairs hallway and through her front door.
“Third floor only has one apartment. Anne, a grad student over at UMass Lowell. Psychology, I think. Terrifyingly earnest. Watch out about making any jokes when you talk with her. She’ll get this really concerned look on her face and say things like ‘That’s a very interesting question, Mallory, but the more important thing to ask is why you’re so concerned with how many male chauvinist pigs it takes to change a light bulb. We should talk about this latent hostility you have toward men.’”
Becka laughed. “I think you’re exaggerating.”
“Probably,” Mallory said cheerfully, setting the box on the floor and walking to the kitchen window to look at the vacant lot next door. “Now Mr. Metzger is the one you want to watch out for. That lot next door is his property and you’d better remember it. He’s got a lot of vegetables growing and he’s totally paranoid about people coming along and stealing them. I’m not saying he’ll take after you with a shotgun, but he’s been known to be unpleasant.”
Becka looked over her shoulder and out the window at the white-haired old man moving among the lush green beds of vegetables. “Does he sell any of them?”
Mallory shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I’ve never managed to have a conversation with the man beyond him barking at me. I guess I look like a zucchini-napper.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Becka asked as they started back downstairs.
“Catholic guilt,” Mallory said good-naturedly. “Helping you move is my penance for being rude. So what’s the story with you? The neighbors will be wondering.”
“I’m the trainer for the Lowell baseball team.”
Mallory goggled at her. “You teach them how to play baseball?”
Becka laughed. “No, I do everything else. Supervise workouts, keep them healthy. It’s a fancy version of a physical therapist.”
“Small world. I run the sports bar just across from the park.”
“Double Play?”
“Yeah. Some of your players come in after the games, especially the dark-haired one with the long eyelashes. He’s real popular.”
Becka’s eyebrows rose. “You’d better take a good look at their IDs. Most of those kids are barely old enough to vote. Not to mention the fact that they’re violating curfew.”
They went down the front hall and out onto the porch.
“So it’s kind of unusual for a woman to be a trainer on a guy’s sports team, isn’t it?” asked Mallory.
“A little,” Becka admitted over her shoulder as she stepped out the door. “They were hard up and I was the best option they had. I’m trying to convince them I’m indispensable.” She turned to walk forward and stopped. Across the parking lot, leaning on her car, was Mace Duvall.
“Do they give you a bad time?”
“Only some of them,” Becka said darkly, forcing her feet to start moving again. His eyes never left her, making her conscious of every step she took, of the strands of hair trailing down her cheeks, of the thin, dust-smudged tank top she wore. She crunched across the gravelly pavement of the parking lot and stopped in front of him. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping you move. Hi.” He nodded to Mallory then took his gaze back to Becka. “Chico’s wife surprised him this morning, so he asked me to pinch hit for him.”
Ignoring the awareness that buzzed through her system, Becka walked past him to pull a crate of sheets and towels from the back seat of her car. He was not going to get to her. She knew what she wanted, and it did not include getting involved with another guy who played the field. “I can handle it, thanks.” She swung the door shut with unnecessary force.
“I’m sure you can.” Mace caught the door neatly before it slammed and scooped another box out of the back. “As long as you don’t mind spending the entire day shifting your things in that little cracker box. I’ve got the Bronco. We can move your stuff in a couple trips.”
Becka