Coming home after a long week of getting nothing done to a party isn’t my idea of a great Friday night. Maybe it’s better than coming home alone, grabbing some potato chips, and sneaking up to my dark bedroom.
But…is it?
I’ve also completely forgotten about whatever we’re celebrating tonight, and I don’t even want to know.
Grumpy, I know. Maybe I just need a bag of potato chips and then I’ll be fine. They usually do the trick, and if they’re the salt and vinegar kind, my whole mood can do an about-face.
The thing is, I don’t have anything to celebrate—unless complete silence from the woman I’m desperate to interview counts.
I don’t think it does, and I don’t think potato chips will make someone agree to talk to me.
“Come on, Hillary,” I say to myself as I inch past the house, with its bright lights spilling out of the windows and cars filling the driveway and both sides of the lane.
I live with five of my college roommates, though I graduated six years ago. I still don’t have the documentary credits I want, but I push that aside as my phone rings.
After easing off the road so I can answer the call from my boss, I chirp, “Hey, Michelle.”
“Are you sitting down?” she asks.
“I’m in my car,” I say. “Not even home yet.” And not in a party mood. Thankfully, my room is on the third floor, and hopefully I can make a quick escape.
“Kevin called, and Cat has agreed to meet with you next week.”
My heart pounds into my throat, making it impossible for me to respond.
“Hillary?” Michelle asks. “Are you still there?”
I clear my throat, but my words have failed me. So much for that degree in film with a minor in journalism. Shouldn’t I always have the exact right thing to say?
“Anyway,” Michelle forges on. “I told him you’d clear your schedule, and he’s going to email when you can see her.”
“Great,” I manage to say, my eyes only taking in the darkness in front of me. We do have a neighbor here, but the farmhouse sits back on the five-acre plot of land, surrounded by an orchard and a beautiful lawn that’s well-taken care of.
“Great,” Michelle parrots back to me, and she says, “See you Monday. I want to go over your questions and topics.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I’ve been organizing and fine-tuning my questions and topics for Catarina Morgan, the only woman willing to speak about a controversial merger that happened in the eighties.
She’s seventy-seven now, and she lives in an elderly care facility that has some serious security. She, of course, has a lot of money, and no one talks to her without the approval of her manager and son, Kevin.
The call ends, and a smile finally touches my face. I still don’t want to party, but I don’t want to sit in my car either. The house has parking on the other side, which only those of us who live there know about. Hopefully.
I have to drive back down the lane and around the big block of five-acre estates to get to it, but there is a parking space there. Tahlia Tomlinson owns this house after inheriting it from her aunt, and she was my roommate the year I was a freshman and she a senior.
Inside the house, I find several people hanging out in the kitchen, and I keep my purse shouldered as I open the fridge and grab my container of potato salad and a cup of olives. Maybe not the best dinner, but I don’t think a meal is a meal without potatoes.
“Hillary,” Claudia says, and I turn toward her and toe the fridge door closed.
“Hey.” I lean in and hug her. She lives on the third floor too, and we share the bathroom up there. Tahlia has the master suite on this floor, and three other women live on the second level.
“What’s going on tonight?” I ask, glancing over to five people I don’t know.
“Oh, one of Tahlia’s former students got into Yale. So Tahlia threw her a party.”
No wonder I don’t know any of the people here, and no wonder most of them look a decade younger than me. They are.
“Amazing,” I say, smiling. “I’ll be sure to congratulate her.”
“You just gonna head upstairs?”
I nod and turn back to the fridge, praying there will be ice for my water bottle. “I have some French lessons to do.” I have news too—I got my interview!—but I can save it for another time, when there’s actually people I know and love surrounding me.
I fill my water bottle and escape upstairs. My room is a safe haven for me, and I sigh as I close the door behind me, all evidence of the party raging below suddenly gone. Good. If I can contain it inside my own room, then our neighbors won’t be calling the cops.
I start my self-guided French lessons and pull the notebook I take everywhere with me from my purse. As I stand at the desk and leaf through it, a smile comes to my face.
“You got the interview,” I tell myself as if I don’t know. And I get to sleep in tomorrow, and suddenly life is all potatoey goodness.
* * *
What’s not potatoey goodness is the sound of a lawn mower pulling me from my dreams the next morning. Yes, light pours in through my closed blinds, but it can’t be very late in the day.
“Stupid Liam,” I mutter. Yes, he takes good care of his property—and Tahlia even hires him to come help over here sometimes too.
He’s got all the tools required, and plenty of toys, like bikes and motorcycles and cars, though he claims those are broken down and he’s learning how to fix them.
I press my eyes closed as my irritation rises, hoping he’ll finish up so I can go back to sleep. If anything, the growling sound of the lawn mower intensifies, and it feels like he’s cutting grass in my very bedroom.
Frustrated, I throw my blanket off and stomp over to the window. I yank the blinds up, and sure enough, there’s my next-door neighbor mowing his lawn right along the edge of our property.
He sometimes uses a riding mower, but today, he’s pushing the machine, and I stare as he walks right by my window and continues along the line of grass that’s already done. He’s wearing a pair of tan shorts that only go halfway down his muscular thighs, a pair of work boots, and a baseball hat that shades his face.
Nothing else.
His bare shoulders span a magnificent width and taper down a trim back to his waist—and that’s when I yank my gaze away.
My first thought is to text the other women, because while Liam has an acidic tongue and a surly personality, he’s a pretty sight to see.
He reaches the top of the line and turns back, giving me a clear sight line to his chest. Oh, mashed potatoes and gravy. I have to do something besides stare, and my default is irritation.
I pull open the window and lean out of it. “Hey!” I wave my hand, remembering why I got up before seven-thirty a.m.—and it wasn’t by choice. “Hey! Up here!”
Liam looks over, and he lifts one hand in a wave too, albeit hesitantly. I’ll admit, we’re not the best of friends. Or even friends. Or even acquaintances.
“No!” I yell. “Stop mowing! It’s too early!” I make a slashing motion across my throat, hoping he gets that that means to cut the blasted mower already.
He does, his step slowing to a stop. He reaches up and pulls something out of his ears, maybe earbuds or maybe earplugs.
“Hey,” he calls. “Good morning.”
“No,” I yell back. “It’s not a good morning. Do you know what time it is?”
His dark hair and dark eyes only seem to get darker as he frowns. “Time to mow the lawn,” he says, starting up the mower once more.
“Liam!” I yell, but he shoves his earbuds back in and starts strutting in front of me again.
“Unbelievable,” I say, spinning from the window. “This is so not happening. Not today.” I slide my feet into a pair of flip flops, and I leave my bedroom, ready to give Liam Graff a piece of my mind for his Saturday morning wake-up mows once and for all.
