Excerpt:
Determined to be pleasant to a mousy old lady, Vincent approached the driveway where Iris and the new tenant stood watching the moving pod being delivered. “Good morning.”
The two gray-haired women turned his way…and there the similarity ended. Tongue-tied, he stood and stared as introductions were made. The too-slim woman named Hilary surprised him. Devoid of makeup and jewelry, the gray hair was the only thing that made her look older. Dark slashes of eyebrows above green eyes added color to her smooth, pale complexion. She stood tall with the erect posture of a dancer and a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. He took her outstretched hand, aware of his calluses against the cool smoothness of her slender fingers. Of its own accord, his hand squeezed hers, then he dropped it like a hot potato. Cheeks heating up with mortification, he caught her wide-eyed gaze and the slight flare of her nostrils before she turned away, stammering out a quiet hello. They watched the pod being unloaded while Iris nattered away.
When the truck left, she turned to them. “Well, you two have fun unloading this.” Iris disappeared into her house.
“Where do you—”
“I think we should—”
Vincent dipped his chin toward Hilary. “You go first.”
Cheeks slightly reddening, she tucked a curl behind her ear. “I think we should start with the big stuff.”
Two hours later, one-third of the meticulously packed storage pod had been emptied of the labeled, neatly stacked, organized-by-room boxes. As well as the larger pieces of furniture. She was stronger than she appeared. It wasn’t like he had gone all he-man, but she easily kept up with his pace and muscled around the bigger pieces requiring two people without complaint, without dropping anything, or without calling attention to his clumsiness.
Because, for the third time, Vincent dropped his end of the hutch. Hilary arched an eyebrow but didn’t say a thing. In fact, she’d barely spoken since Iris introduced them. What the hell was wrong with him? He was years younger, four inches taller, and at least fifty pounds heavier. Yet he was the one bobbling, jockeying, and fumbling like a middle school boy with a crush. So much for looking cool. This quiet woman in baggy clothes was his undoing. So far, he’d broken a lamp and dropped a suitcase on the stairs, which then popped open, spilling brightly colored panties and camisoles all over.
Pulling her ringing phone from her back pocket, Hilary looked at him in silent question. She moved to the back lawn at his nod to take the call. Thank Christ. Vincent wiped his sweaty hands down the front of his jeans. He thought about his least favorite prison guard to distract himself from catching her scent on the breeze sifting through her curls. The one who ate onions with every meal and apparently didn’t own a toothbrush. The memory worked. Until he looked at Hilary, wondering what color lingerie she wore under the shapeless jeans and sweatshirt.
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