Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

I stepped back onto the sidewalk. Lizzie gave me a wide berth, keeping close to the building wall, in case I decided to surprise her with another brilliant move. “It wasn’t my fault,” I told her. “The Newspaper Nazi startled me.”

Lizzie shot a worried glance my way, obviously not convinced.

I could tell the peaceful coexistence I’d imagined with the newspaper office was ending before it began, by the surge of adrenaline that zapped through me at the thought of Ian Buchanan.

I took a calming breath and lifted my face to the sky. The night air settled on my skin like a soothing balm, thick with humidity and the intoxicating scent of the sweet olive tree at the edge of Miss Lula’s yard. The slow walk home took my worries and left them behind, step by step.

Serenaded by the choir practicing Rivers of Babylon in the Methodist Church down the street, I walked up the sidewalk of my Victorian farmhouse-turned-duplex feeling better, looking forward to a glass of wine and a hot bath.

The cute little yellow clapboard house with its wide front porch belonged in the middle of a twenty acre farmstead. But it did fine here, too, at the corner of an old-fashioned city block halfway between downtown and the river. The place suited me, and renting out the other half gave me a financial safety net—about the size of a minnow net, but when every drop of money mattered, even minnow nets counted.

I walked through the beveled glass front door into the entry hall both apartments shared, then unlocked my door. I tossed my ballet bag on the hall table—though there wasn’t a hall, just the living room with the shabby chic tables and overstuffed couch and chairs I’d found at yard sales. I was glad I’d traded all my New York furniture for Margot. Glass and chrome and modern sectionals wouldn’t have worked in a yellow farmhouse.

On my way to the kitchen, I gave a passing head scratch to the fat Siamese making like an overly yeasty loaf of bread on the back of the couch. “Hey, Chester. Hard day waiting at home?”

Chester purred and drooled. Lizzie spread herself belly down on the kitchen’s white tile floor. I popped a frozen dinner into the microwave, poured a glass of wine, and sat at the oak farmhouse table I’d scored for twenty dollars at a junk store. The faint sound of my neighbors talking leaked through the kitchen wall.

My serenity evaporated. It seemed that everyone else in the world had someone to share their lives with, while I had no one.

The microwave dinged, but I wasn’t hungry any more. I poured the rest of my wine down the sink and tossed the overheated food in the trash. Lizzie looked up, her gaze sliding toward the garbage can.

“Don’t even think about it.” I turned off the kitchen light and slumped into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth furiously—enamel erosion, receding gums, tooth sensitivity, I didn’t care. I scrubbed my teeth as if they’d done something wrong then went to bed.

*

On Friday, with the first week of classes behind me, I dressed in laddered tights, a strappy leotard, and Homer Simpson boxer shorts, then walked to the studio. Lizzie had declined to come with me. She had her dog door into the fenced back yard, so she could do what she wanted.

At the studio, with my iPod playing One Republic, I cleaned, I sang, I danced. Because having every Friday off is something to be grateful for.

When the studio sparkled, I rewarded myself with a relaxing stretch. Sliding into a split, I held the arch of my pointed foot in both hands and pulled gently to increase the tension. Sweat rolled between my breasts and down my back. My muscles were blissfully wrung-out, warm and elastic. Even my left ankle felt strong yet pliant. No matter what was wrong with my life, this, at least, was right. Life is good, I told myself, even if you’re not having sex with anyone other than yourself.

“That’s gotta hurt.” Ian’s voice, the deep rumble, the lovely purring sound on the ‘r’, shot goose bumps through every follicle. My nipples drew into hard little points that poked into the floor. I turned my face toward the velvety sound.

He prowled the room like he owned the place, marking his territory just by walking around with all those X-filled pheromones. He’d already done this to me over the phone. Even after the call, I’d felt him sending invisible waves of testosterone up through the floorboards. In person, all that in-your-face manliness was ten times more potent. And oh, goodness gracious, he was a sight to behold. Who cared what a dick he’d been on the phone?

Hoping to affect him at least as much as he affected me, I pressed my palms against the floor and eased into a center split, both legs straight out to the side. Showing off, yes, I’ll admit. And showing a complete lack of maturity, to boot. But I didn’t care. I hoped he was imagining how good I’d be in bed. I hoped he ached with disappointment because unless he sweetened up a little, he’d never get a chance to do anything but wonder about the incredible sexual positions my extreme flexibility would allow.

And I really did hope he’d sweeten up so we could be friends. Or more than friends. Maybe friends-with-benefits friends.

“Mr. Buchanan.” I said his name in a voice like day-old iced tea without a bit of sugar. “What can I do for you?”

He slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans—easing some strain? I hoped so.

“I’d like to apologize for being a little testy on Monday.” His voice was low, deep, cajoling. Just short of seductive. “I shouldn’t have called to complain. I hope we can start over.” Leaning down, he extended a hand, expecting me to shake it. “I’m Ian Buchanan. Your new landlord.”

Say what? “You mean, you own this building?”

“Yes.” He sounded almost