Fearless, Abby Brooks [leveled readers .txt] 📗

her kitchen while she offers moral support. That kind of thing.” He popped another jellybean into his mouth and chewed around a grin.

I blinked at the man. Once. Twice. A third time. “I’m sorry. I keep waiting for the punchline.”

“No punchline. Think it over, but the offer is as genuine as it is spontaneous. I just have a good feeling about you. You did come highly recommended after all.” He dropped a wink at Amelia who dug her elbow into my ribs for the eight hundredth time that day, then gathered his genius nuggets and breezed through the door.

“Okay,” said Izzy. “I’m officially a convert to signs from the universe. My brother doesn’t flirt, and he definitely doesn’t offer jobs to strangers.”

“See.” Amelia folded her arms over her chest and beamed.

We returned home with bags of goodies draped over our arms. Amelia made a beeline for the kitchen to break into one of her many bags of candy and pulled up short. “Evie! Look at this!”

I peered over her shoulder into a perfectly normal kitchen. “Look at what?”

“See that chair? The one at the little table under the window? I definitely sat there this morning and I know for a fact I pushed it back in.”

Two chairs cozied up perfectly to a breakfast table nestled under a large window looking into the backyard. The third sat at an angle about three feet away and I scooted it back in place. “Maybe you forgot in your hurry to make your point about hints from the universe.”

“I didn’t. I am a serial chair pusher-inner.” She studied the rest of the kitchen, then gasped at the counter. With wide eyes, she yanked open a cabinet and pulled out a mug. “Oh my God! Evie! I didn’t put this away! I had it out, realized there wasn’t any coffee, then put it on the counter. I’m too much of a slob to put it all the way back in the cabinet!”

“Which is it? You’re a serial neat freak who never forgets to push in a chair? Or you’re a slob who never cleans up after herself?”

Amelia sagged. “I’m holding proof of the ghost right here in my hands and you’re too busy being a smartass to care.” She waggled the mug in the air, then clunked it onto the counter and disappeared in search of more signs.

While she careened through the living room—drawing room? Study? I really needed to learn the difference—I peered out the window toward Alex’s house. What did it say about me that we may have found proof of an actual ghost, but all I wanted to think about was my neighbor?

“It says my priorities are straight,” I whispered. Anyone who didn’t want to think about a man who looked like that had a wire loose somewhere.

Chapter Seven

Alex

My office had been the death knell to my creativity for months, but today was worse. For every minute I worked in the document, I spent ten more scrutinizing my new neighbor as she dug in the flowerbeds in front of her house.

Her hair fought the sun over who could give off more light. Her back was to me, but I could feel her smile and it fed my own. She was my metronome. The hypnotic tick of her actions swirled through my consciousness. Her schedule dictated mine.

I typed the lines into the document. They didn’t make sense in the context of the story, but I was desperate to see words on the page. Maybe, if I could get them out of my head, I could make progress on my book. A quick copy and paste sent them into my slush pile—a waiting room for scenes and sentences I liked but couldn’t use. Maybe they’d go into a book of their own someday. I’d never written a stalker before. Never been one, either, though anyone peeking in on me as I peeked out at her would beg to differ.

My fingers stilled as my gaze found Evie again. Morgan sighed and shifted at my feet, then lifted his head to hit me with a reproachful glare. “I know, I know,” I leaned down to play with his ear and Larry stood from where he’d been curled into Morgan’s stomach to head-bump my hand. “Get my eyes off the girl and my head in the game. I hear you, you furry dictator, you.”

His tail thumped his agreement, then he stood, resting his head in my lap as he wiggled with excitement.

I read his mind as Larry climbed my jeans. “You’re probably right. We both could use a good walk.” Wincing, I detached the tiny cat and put him on the floor. “And you could use some restraint with those claws, man.”

Nails scrabbled across the floor as Morgan bounded downstairs to whine and wag in front of his leash. The dog had a point. Maybe the crisp air would clear my head. And maybe, just maybe, standing near Evie would jumpstart my creativity like it had the last few times I’d been with her.

Even more aware of where we were going than I was—after all, we made this trek more often than I would admit—Morgan bounded off the porch and beelined across the yard, pulling me toward our neighbor who crouched in front of her flowerbeds, digging in the dirt. The leash pulled taut, but I refused to trot after him. Desperation was not a look I wanted to wear. Tell that to a dog, though. They lived in desperation and glee—and Morgan was the doggiest dog that ever dogged.

I have to get to that squirrel, or I will die!

I have to eat now, or I will never have another bite!

This is the best walk of all the walks we’ve ever been on, but I sure wish I had more food! Hey! What’s that? A squirrel! Can I eat it? I will try!

Evie glanced up as Morgan arrived, happy and wiggling beside her. “Well, good morning to you, sir!” She rubbed his head, laughing