Reckless Hearts (4 page)

I
blink. What’s happening here?

“You
look different,” I blurt.

He
glances down. “That’s because I’m not heading to an
office every day.”

“You
sound different, too,” I add, suspicious.

“That’s
the Georgia in me,” he explains. “It comes out once I get
south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

I
pause. “I didn’t know you’re from Georgia.”

“There’s
a lot you don’t know about me.” Will tilts his head,
giving me a tempting smile. “Want to find out? Dinner?
Tonight?”

I
gulp. I want to—which is exactly why I shouldn’t say yes.
I keep things simple, no-strings. This guy making me feel so
flustered isn’t simple. It’s messy as hell.

I
shake my head, ignoring the regret when I say, “No, I don’t
think that would be a good idea.”

I’m
expecting him to put up a fight, try and convince me to take a chance
on him, but instead, Will just nods. “OK then. See you around,
Delilah.”

I
watch him easily hoist his bags and head back across the square to
where an ancient-looking pick-up truck is parked. He loads the back,
then climbs up into the driver’s seat, pausing to look back at
where I’m still frozen, dumbfounded. He waves.

I
quickly turn and hurry away. I have a million things to do right now,
and none of them involve thinking about this guy, but as I drive over
to my new listing, I can’t help puzzling over what he’s
playing at. This can’t be some kind of joke or game; he seems
way too sincere for that, but he can’t be serious either!
Nothing about him makes sense, and no matter how hard I try to figure
it out, I’m coming up blank.

So,
instead of wasting precious time on the mysteries of the male mind, I
vow to put him out of my head and focus on what really matters right
now: staging an open house that will sell this place in record time.

That,
I know how to do.

The
listing is a cute townhouse, set on a newer developed block just past
the creek. I convinced the sellers to give it a touch-up, so now
there’s fresh paint on the walls, covering all their kids’
crayon marks, and pretty ruffled curtains hung on all the windows.
It’s small, but sweet, with a neat square of yard out back: the
perfect starter home for a young family. I called up everyone on my
list, sent out emails, even left a stack of glossy flyers at the
daycare and library, and now it’s finally showtime.

The
doorbell rings, right on cue at two p.m. I shove a baking tray of
store-bought cookie dough in the oven, and go to greet my potential
buyers. “Welcome!” I usher the first couple inside. “Take
a flyer, look around, let me know if you have any questions!”

An
hour later, and the open house is going great. I know half the people
coming through, and I can tell exactly if it’s what they’re
looking for—or not.

“Didn’t
we talk about finding you somewhere with more . . . privacy?”
I tactfully draw one of the attendees aside. Jed Springer and his
girlfriend are looking for a place to house them—and their
amateur rock band. “I’m not sure this place has the
sound-proofing you’re looking for.”

“You
think?” Jed frowns. “Maybe they won’t mind a jam
session or two.”

From
the way the neighbors have been twitching their curtains all day, I’m
not so sure. “It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood,” I
say instead, smiling brightly. “And you guys want to be closer
to the action, so you can stumble back from Dixie’s on a Friday
night.”

Jed
laughs. “True. OK, we’ll keep looking.”

“I’ll
call you to set up some more viewings next week!”

I
steer them out, just as a new couple arrives. “Mike!” I
exclaim, surprised, recognizing a guy I know from a few towns over.
“Hey, it’s good to see you, it’s been forever.”

“You
too, Dee.” He hugs me enthusiastically. “You look great.
Have you met my fiancée? This is Angela.” He proudly
presents a very-pregnant blonde woman.

“Lovely
to meet you,” I greet her. “I don’t need to guess
why you’re looking at this place. It’s got family written
all over it. Here, let me show you around.” I take them inside,
and tour them through the property, tickled to see Mike fussing over
Angela, helping her up the stairs. Mike and I had a casual fling,
years ago, and he was about as low-effort as they come. I was lucky
if he took a break from beer and video games with his buddies to even
give me a call. Now, he keeps one hand on the small of his fiancée’s
back, like she’s made of glass.

“The
master looks out over the creek, see.” I show them around the
upstairs. “And this is where I’d put the nursery. Isn’t
it the cutest little room?”

Angela
grips Mike’s hand. “Honey, it’s perfect.”
She’s got a smile a mile wide, and I can tell, she’s
already imagining a crib and mobile hanging from the ceiling.

“Do
you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” I ask.

“Boy,”
Angela answers, cupping her bump.

“Congratulations!
And see, it’s already painted blue,” I add. “It
must be a sign.”

Mike
laughs. “We’ll see about that. The asking price . . .”

“Is
always negotiable,” I finish for him. Then I lean in, as if I’m
letting them in on a secret. “Just between us, I think the
sellers could be flexible on the price. They’ve already found a
new place they want to make an offer on, over in Beachwood Bay, so if
you can move fast, they might be willing to come down a little.”

Angela
looks eagerly at Mike. “You hear that? Honey, we have to make
an offer.”

“We’ll
see,” he says, calming her, but I can tell from the adoring
look in his eyes, it’s game over. What the mom-to-be wants,
she’s going to get. “Let’s look around some more.”

“Go
ahead,” I agree, “make yourself at home. And check out
the yard. Perfect for teaching Mike Junior to catch a football!”

He
laughs, and steers Angela back downstairs. I see them a moment later,
stepping outside to take in the yard.

Yup,
they’ll make an offer.

I
feel a surge of pride. Not just for the sale—and my handy
commission—but because the house is perfect for them. That’s
the part of this job I love the most: finding the right fit for every
home—and the right home for every buyer. It’s like a
puzzle, matching up exactly what everyone needs, and it turns out I
have a gift for making the pieces fit together. Another satisfied
customer.

I
linger at the window, still struck by the change in Mike. From
all-night GTA video game sessions and barely sending a booty-call
text past midnight, to future father and devoted husband, it’s
a pretty big switch. I watch as he mimes throwing a ball around, and
then brings Angela in for a kiss, holding her there, one hand resting
on her stomach.

I
feel a pang. Not for Mike—he’s a nice guy, but we weren’t
exactly star-crossed lovers—but for the picture the two of them
make down there, so happy together. They’re just starting out
on their future as a family, a team of two (and soon to be three),
taking on the world.

I
wonder, will I ever find that kind of love?

Will’s
face comes into my mind, and I remember his comments before. He
seemed genuinely surprised that men weren’t uprooting their
whole lives and falling at my feet, but that’s ridiculous. I’m
not the girl who men drop everything for like that. I’m the
girl you call on a whim on Friday night, or because you’re in
town for the weekend, or you just broke up with your girlfriend and
want a wild, crazy time to put her out of your mind for good.
Spontaneous. Fun. No-strings—and definitely no commitment.
That’s the way I’ve always liked it, so why is it so
unsettling that he sees me totally differently?

There
are footsteps on the stairs, another round of viewers. I quickly turn
away and fix a bright smile on my face. I shouldn’t even be
thinking about Will. I don’t even know the guy.

But
you know how he smiles
 . . . 
how
he laughs
 . . . 
how
he
kisses . . . 

It’s
crazy. After all, what kind of man just leaves his whole life behind
and shows up in the middle of nowhere like this?

I
push the thought back and greet the next round of buyers. “Now,
how about these views!”

Will

Turning
my life upside down for a girl I barely even know may seem like the
craziest, most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, but after the
life I left behind in New York City, it doesn’t seem like a bad
idea at all.

In
fact, it might be the best decision I’ve made in a long time.

I
finish up my errands in town with a smile, struck again with how
friendly and welcoming everyone is. Once they find out I just moved
here, they couldn’t be happier to offer advice and guidance,
from where to buy my groceries to where the town goes drinking on a
Friday night. Delilah wasn’t lying about that, or how beautiful
this part of the country really is. I can’t get over the ocean,
so crisp and sapphire blue, beating steadily against the rocky shore,
or how the old cypress trees line the streets and boulevards with
leafy shade; the town receding into the green woods, with the creek
winding lazily back as you drive further into the country.

It’s
beautiful alright, and coming after the hectic, loud chaos of the
city, I almost can’t believe it. No sirens, no screaming drunks
on the corner. When I wake up in the morning to nothing but the sound
of crickets and the wind rustling in the trees, I almost forget where
I am. Then it hits me all over again, with that same thunder of
awesome possibility.

Blank
slate. Fresh start.

And
her
.

Delilah
Morgan. A couple of questions at the hardware store gave me her
surname, although I can’t believe I didn’t know it
already. From the moment I saw her on the street that night with her
whip-smart mouth, teasing blue eyes, and infectious laugh, it’s
felt like we were always going to meet. It was inevitable.

And
totally unforgettable.

I
know that to anyone on the outside, I might seem seriously crazy
right about now. Even my friends back in New York can’t
understand what I’m doing. They think it’s a harebrained
scheme I’ll snap out of soon enough, like when one of my
buddies packed it in to go learn to surf in Belize, or another got
engaged to a hostess in Vegas. They lost their heads, tried something
wild, but in the end, they were right back where they started soon
enough: at their desk Monday morning, ready to face reality again.

But
this is different.

I
haven’t lost my head, if anything, I’ve found it again.
That perfect life in New York I’d worked so hard to build
shattered apart, and I never saw it coming. From having it all
figured out, to finding everything was a lie: it’s enough to
drive any man to take a long hard look at what he’s doing. What
kind of life they want; how to make it right again. I already knew
everything had to change by the time I took a left downtown on that
neon, rainy street and found the answer I was looking for. I was
right there on the edge, ready for a push.

And
man, did Delilah make me fall.

There’s
just something about her. I’ve never met a girl like this
before: so completely, utterly at ease in who she is. Everything
seems simple with her, like the answers have been staring me in the
face all along. Just one flash of that gorgeous, joyful smile made me
forget the mess of the past six months—and just one glimpse of
the peach lace curves hiding under her blouse just about knocked me
to the ground.

And
that was before she kissed me.

I
hit pause on that memory, before I get off-track. The roads out here
are quiet and shady, winding through the country, and I have to keep
my eyes peeled so I don’t miss the turn; I already overshot
twice this week and wound up halfway to Wilmington before I realized
my mistake. Today, I recognize the curve in the road and that old
dogwood tree, its branches almost bent double to hide the broken-down
fence, and the peeling red mailbox marking the turn.

Home
sweet home.

The
first time I followed the glorified dirt track out here, I nearly
turned back a dozen times. Sure, I wanted something different, but
this is a million miles from my slick Manhattan apartment, with the
24/7 doorman out front and views of the downtown city lights. Here, I
don’t see another soul as I drive past open pasture fields,
through the woods, and alongside a lazily-winding creek before
finally arriving in front of the dilapidated set of buildings that
passes for a home. “A real fixer-upper,” the owner said,
but we both knew, I wasn’t buying it for the house. I’m
here for the change of pace, the sound of birdsong in the trees.

The
chance to start over, and maybe do things right this time.

I
unload my bags from the truck and take them inside. Just a few
essentials to get me settled in, but looking around at the leaking
roof, peeling old wallpaper, and serious dampness problem, I’m
wondering if I should have picked up a tent and sleeping bag instead.

“
If it’s
broke, then fix it
.”

My
grandpa’s favorite saying pops into my mind. I’ve been
thinking about him a lot lately. He’s the one who gave me my
first toolbox, taught me how to take an engine apart and put it back
together, and showed me what it’s like to sand and whittle a
hunk of wood into something special, a sturdy table, or slim set of
chairs. Those were some of the happiest summers of my life, learning
right alongside him in his workshop back in Georgia, before he
passed, and somehow I stepped on the conveyor belt towards a whole
different world: the kind of life where furniture comes crafted at a
designer showroom, sleek sports cars are toys to show off your latest
bonus, and everything, even your damn soul, has a price tag in the
end.