The Grumpy Landlord, page 4
I looked at the jar. The lid was stuck. Dried acrylic acted like superglue.
I gritted my teeth. I twisted.
Nothing.
"Come on," I muttered.
I gripped the jar between my knees. I used both hands on the lid. I channeled all my frustration, all the fear about the eviction, all the confusing, heated energy from the night before into my grip.
Ethan.
His name was a jagged edge in my mind. The way he had looked at me through the glass. The hunger in his eyes before he walled it away.
My grip slipped.
The jar flew.
It didn't just fall. It launched.
It hit the edge of the easel. It spun. The lid, apparently deciding now was the perfect time to give up the ghost, popped off mid-air.
It was like a firework.
Pink powder exploded.
It hit the ceiling fan, which I had foolishly left on low.
Whoosh.
The fan blades became a dispersion system. A fine, glittering mist of magenta rained down on the room.
It coated the gray rug.
It coated the white bedspread.
It coated Charlie, who yelped and scrambled up the side of a tall, metal shelving unit in the corner.
The shelving unit where Ethan kept his tools.
"No!"
I lunged.
Too late.
Charlie’s claws scrabbled on the smooth metal. He panicked. He kicked off a heavy red toolbox.
Crash.
The box hit the floor. Wrenches, screwdrivers, and a very expensive-looking drill scattered across the polished concrete.
The noise was deafening. It sounded like a car crash in a library.
I stood frozen in the center of the room. I was pink. My eyelashes were heavy with powder. I tasted chalk.
Silence louder than the noise" is a paradox often used as a cliché. Focusing on the "ringing emptiness
Then, footsteps.
Running.
Heavy boots pounding on the gravel path.
The door flew open. It banged against the wall.
Ethan stood there.
He was chest-heaving, eyes wide, adrenaline pouring off him in waves. He looked ready to fight a war.
"Willow!"
He scanned the room. His gaze swept the room. Tactical. Assessing threats. Clearing corners.
Instead, he found a scene from a candy-colored nightmare.
He stopped. His arms lowered slowly.
He looked at the pink ceiling fan. He looked at the pink rug. He looked at the scattered tools.
Then he looked at me.
I must have looked insane. A magenta ghost standing in the ruins of his perfect, orderly guest house.
"I..." I started. My voice was a squeak. "The lid was stuck."
Ethan stared. His jaw worked. A muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked at his drill, which was currently sitting in a puddle of spilled mixing medium.
He closed his eyes. He took a long, deep breath through his nose.
"You," he said. His voice was low. Dangerous. "Are a hazard."
I looked down at myself. My vintage combat boots were ruined. My favorite overalls were a casualty of war.
It was awful. It was a disaster. I was going to be evicted.
A bubble of laughter rose in my throat.
I tried to swallow it. I bit my cheek.
But then Charlie meowed from the top of the shelf. He looked like a punk rock fuzzy grapefruit.
The laugh escaped.
It started as a snort. Then a giggle. Then, full-blown, hysterical laughter that doubled me over.
I clutched my stomach. Tears streamed down my face, cutting tracks through the pink dust.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, wheezing. "He looks... look at the cat!"
Ethan didn't laugh.
He stood there, stone-faced.
But he didn't yell.
I peeked at him through my fingers.
He was watching me. The anger was draining out of his posture, replaced by something else. Something softer. confused.
He shook his head. A sigh left his chest, but it sounded more resigned than furious.
"Stay there," he ordered.
He walked into the kitchenette. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and a wet rag.
He came back to me.
"Don't move. You'll track it everywhere."
He knelt in front of me.
My laughter died.
He was close. So close I could smell the soap he used. Sandalwood and something clean, like rain.
"Look at me," he said.
I looked.
His eyes were the color of the ocean before a storm. Dark blue. turbulent.
He raised the rag.
"Close your eyes."
I obeyed.
The cloth was cool against my skin. He wiped my forehead. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle. He moved with the precision of a surgeon, cleaning the chaos from my skin.
He wiped my nose. My cheeks.
"You have paint in your eyelashes," he murmured.
His voice was rough gravel. It sent a shiver straight down my spine.
"Is it bad?" I whispered.
"It's everywhere, Willow. It's in your hair. It's on your neck."
The rag moved down. He wiped my jawline. Then my throat.
My breath hitched.
His hand paused.
I opened my eyes.
He was staring at my mouth. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the blue.
The air in the room grew thin. The smell of paint faded, replaced by the scent of him. Heat radiated from his body, warming the cool space between us.
He dropped the rag.
His thumb brushed my cheekbone. It was rough, calloused skin against my softness. A contrast that made my toes curl in my ruined boots.
"You're a mess," he said softly.
It didn't sound like an insult. It sounded like a confession.
"I know," I breathed. "I tried to warn you."
"You did."
His thumb traced the line of my lower lip.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I leaned into his touch. Just a fraction. A millimeter of surrender.
His gaze dropped to my neck, where my pulse was fluttering like a trapped bird.
"Ethan," I whispered.
The sound of his name seemed to snap a cord.
He froze.
The heat in his eyes vanished, replaced by a wall of ice.
He pulled his hand back as if I had burned him.
He stood up abruptly, towering over me again.
"Clean this up," he said. His voice was clipped. Cold. "The vacuum is in the closet. Don't use water on the rug."
He turned on his heel.
He didn't look at the tools. He didn't look at the cat.
He walked out the door without looking back.
I stood there in the silence, my skin still burning where he had touched me.
The pink dust settled around me like confetti after a party that had ended too soon.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Okay."
I touched my lip.
I could still feel him there.
And that was a problem. A much bigger problem than the paint.
On Call
Ethan
The hospital smells like rubbing alcohol and floor wax. It is a clean smell. A sterile smell.
It is the smell of order.
I stand at the nurses' station, staring at a digital chart. The numbers are crisp and white against the black screen. Blood pressure one-twenty over eighty. Oxygen saturation ninety-nine percent.
Perfect. Predictable.
My mind drifts.
It doesn't drift to the thoracic cavity I need to inspect in Room 304. It drifts to a guest house filled with gray furniture and pink dust.
I look down at my hand. I rub my thumb against my forefinger.
I can still feel the softness of her cheek. The heat of her skin under the layer of pigment.
Willow Hart is a pathogen. She has infiltrated my system, bypassing every defense mechanism I spent years constructing. I should be annoyed. I should be drafting an eviction notice.
Instead, I am wondering if she got the paint out of her hair.
"Dr. Rourke?"
I blink. The numbers on the screen come back into focus.
Sarah, the head trauma nurse, is standing on the other side of the counter. She has her arms crossed. She is looking at me like I have grown a second head.
"You're doing it again," she says.
"Doing what?"
"Smiling at a tablet. It's unnerving. You look like a serial killer who just found a coupon for bleach."
I frown. The muscles in my face feel tight.
"I am not smiling."
" You were," she insists. "I saw teeth. It was terrifying. What's going on? You finally sell that boat you never use?"
"No."
"Meet a nice girl? Or did you just bully a resident into crying? That usually cheers you up."
"I don't bully residents. I educate them on their incompetence."
Sarah snorts. She picks up a stack of files.
"Right. Well, keep the smiling to a minimum. You're scaring the patients."
She walks away.
I stare at the tablet.
Smiling.
I wasn't smiling. I was grimacing. I was contemplating the sheer logistical nightmare of living fifty feet away from a woman who throws paint at ceiling fans.
And moans your name in the dark.
The thought hits me like a physical blow. A sharp, hot spike of desire that goes straight to my groin.
I grip the counter. My knuckles turn white.
I need to focus. I need a distraction.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The pager on my hip vibrates.
I look down.
TRAUMA 1. GSW. ETA 2 MIN.
The heat in my body vanishes. The thoughts of hazel eyes and messy curls evaporate.
The world narrows. The noise of the hospital fades into a low hum.
I am not Ethan Rourke. I am not a landlord. I am not a man with a complicated tenant.
I am a surgeon.
I clip the pager back onto my belt.
"Let's go," I say to the empty air.
* * *
The trauma bay is controlled chaos.
Nurses move in a practiced dance. Monitors screech. The air smells of copper and fear.
The patient is young. Too young. A gunshot wound to the chest.
"BP is crashing!" someone yells. "Eighty over forty!"
"He's bleeding out."
I step up to the table. I hold my hands up, gloved and sterile.
"Scalpel."
The instrument slaps into my palm. It feels like an extension of my fingers.
"Everyone quiet."
The room falls silent.
I make the incision.
I don't think about the boy on the table. If I think about him, I lose. I think about the anatomy. The plumbing. The red wires and the blue wires.
My hands move on their own. They are steady. Precise. Cold steel against warm flesh.
Clamp. Suction. Suture.
I find the bleeder. I stop it.
I reach into the chest cavity. I massage the heart.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
Come on.
The monitor steadies. The screeching alarm turns into a rhythmic ping.
"He's stabilizing," the anesthesiologist says. The relief in his voice is palpable.
I don't feel relief. I don't feel anything.
I finish the work. I close him up.
"Get him to ICU," I order.
I step back. I strip off my gloves. They are slick with red.
I walk out of the trauma bay. I don't look back.
The job is done. The machine worked.
* * *
I walk into the scrub room.
It is empty.
I turn on the water. It is hot. Scalding.
I plunge my hands into the stream. I grab the brush. I scrub.
I scrub until my skin burns. I scrub until I can't smell the copper anymore.
But the water doesn't stop the memories.
The adrenaline from the surgery fades, leaving a vacuum. And the past rushes in to fill it.
The sand. The heat. The chopper blades cutting the air.
The boy in the Humvee. He was young too. He had a picture of his girlfriend in his helmet.
I couldn't stop the bleeding that time.
My hands were slippery. Too slippery.
My hands are shaking.
I stare at them under the water. They are trembling. A fine, violent vibration that travels up my arms.
I turn off the tap.
The silence in the room is deafening.
My chest feels tight. Like a vice is clamping down on my ribs.
I can't breathe.
I step back from the sink. My back hits the tiled wall.
I slide down.
I sit on the cold floor, pulling my knees up. I rest my forehead on my arms.
Breathe, Rourke. Just breathe.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
Tactical breathing.
It doesn't work.
I see the desert. I see the blood.
I see Willow.
Her face flashes in my mind. Not scared. Not dying.
Laughing.
Covered in pink dust. Her eyes bright with mischief. Her hand reaching for mine.
You don't have to fix me.
The image anchors me. It cuts through the smoke and the sand.
I focus on it. I focus on the color of her eyes. Gold and green. Hazel.
My heart rate slows. The vice on my chest loosens.
I lift my head.
The room is just a scrub room. White tiles. Stainless steel.
I am not in the desert. I am in Ohio.
I look at my hands.
They are still.
I push myself up. My legs feel heavy.
I need to go home.
* * *
The drive is a blur of streetlights and shadows.
My truck eats up the miles. I keep the radio off. I don't want noise. I want oblivion.
I turn onto my road. The trees close in, dark sentinels guarding my fortress.
I pull into the driveway.
The main house is dark. A looming shape against the night sky.
I kill the engine.
Silence.
I sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. I am exhausted. My bones ache with it.
I open the door and step out. The gravel crunches under my boots.
I walk toward the house.
Then I see it.
A shape on the porch swing.
I stop.
It’s a bundle of blankets. But a tuft of curly brown hair sticks out of the top.
Willow.
She is curled up on the swing, her knees tucked to her chest. A sketchbook is clutched in her arms like a teddy bear.
Why is she here?
I told her the rules. Main house is off-limits.
I should wake her up. I should tell her to go back to the cottage.
I walk up the steps. Quietly.
I stand over her.
In the moonlight, she looks young. Softer. The chaos is dormant. Her lashes cast long shadows on her cheeks. Her mouth is slightly open.
She breathes out, a soft puff of air in the chill night.
She is shivering.
Just a little. A tremor runs through the blanket.
I look down at the sketchbook.
It's open.
I shouldn't look. It’s an invasion of privacy.
I look anyway.
It’s a drawing. Charcoal. Dark, heavy strokes.
It’s me.
But it’s not the surgeon. It’s not the landlord.
It’s a man with haunted eyes. A man looking at something—or someone—with a hunger that looks painful.
Is that how she sees me?
I feel a crack in my chest. Just a hairline fracture in the armor.
I reach out.
I don't wake her.
I grab the heavy wool throw that I keep on the rocking chair.
I shake it out.
I lean down.
She smells like vanilla and rain. It is the best smell in the world. It chases away the copper scent that is stuck in my nose.
I drape the blanket over her. I tuck it around her shoulders.
My knuckles brush her neck.
She stirs.
She shifts, turning toward the warmth. Her eyes flutter open.
They are unfocused. Sleepy.
She sees me.
She doesn't flinch. She doesn't look scared.
She smiles. A slow, sleepy curve of her lips.
"Ethan," she murmurs.
Her hand slips out from the blanket.
She reaches for me.
Her fingers brush my wrist. Her skin is warm.
"You came back."
I freeze.
I should pull away. I should retreat to the safety of my empty house.
I don't.
I stand there, trapped by her touch, while the walls I built so carefully begin to tremble.
Shared Sunrise
Willow
The world came back in shades of peach and bruised purple.
I blinked, my eyelashes heavy, fighting the sticky pull of sleep. The air was cold—biting, sharp morning air that should have had me shivering. But I was warm.
I shifted. Heavy wool scratched against my chin. A blanket. Thick, dark gray, and smelling distinctly of sandalwood and rain.
Ethan.
The memory of last night washed over me. waiting for him. Falling asleep. The ghost of a touch against my neck.
I sat up slowly. The porch swing creaked, a rusty protest against the silence.
He was there.
Ethan stood at the edge of the porch, leaning against the railing. His back was to me. He was a silhouette cut from black paper against the rising sun. The light caught the edges of him—the broad slope of his shoulders, the short, military crop of his hair.
He wasn't wearing scrubs anymore. He was in jeans and a thermal shirt that clung to his back, outlining muscles that looked tense even in repose.
He held a mug in one hand. The steam curled up, disappearing into the cold air like a prayer.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me. I felt small inside it. Protected.
"You're awake."
He didn't turn around. His voice was low, rough with the morning, or maybe just rough from being him. It vibrated through the wooden planks of the porch.
