Evening Bags and Executions(20)

And yet I still saw no reason to rush back to the office. I remembered a really cool jacket I’d walked past on my way to the handbag department in Macy’s, so I decided to go back and take another look. I tried it on and, really, it looked fantastic on me. What could I do but buy it? Then I found an awesome pair of jeans and a sweater that would look great with the jacket, so I had to buy them, too.

By the time I made it back to the office a good chunk of the afternoon had passed with me doing very little—that benefitted L.A. Affairs, that is. I called Marcie—she loved the pics of Sheridan’s house I’d sent—and we decided on an evening to go shopping.

Just because I had to—not because I really wanted to—I phoned the staffing agency about another housekeeper for Mom. The woman there—whose name I immediately forgot—suggested that in light of the recent incident—which was code for my mom being totally unreasonable and firing that other girl for no good reason—that perhaps I should interview the potential housekeepers before subjecting—my word, not hers—them to Mom. I agreed.

I managed to hide out in my office until five o’clock rolled around, then left. Since I wasn’t scheduled to work at Holt’s tonight, I went straight home. I was supposed to go to class tonight but decided to blow it off. Somehow, even during my time in breakup zombieland, I’d kept up on my assignments, so I figured if I could complete my college course work while in a breakup trance, actually going to class wasn’t essential.

I got my Macy’s shopping bags from the trunk and walked upstairs, trying to decide what to do tonight.

“Hey,” someone said.

I froze.

A strange man was sitting outside my door.





CHAPTER 7


He was taller than I expected when he stood up, right at six feet. I figured him for maybe thirty, with blond hair that brushed his collar and a day’s worth of stubble on his face. Nice looking, with a rugged build, though not the kind that came from hours in the gym. He had on faded jeans and a navy T-shirt that was about three washings overdue for the charity donation bag.

I didn’t recognize him and he didn’t look like he was there to sell something, so I wondered just what the heck he was doing here.

“Haley?” he asked. “I’m Cody Ewing.”

He stepped forward and offered his hand. I don’t like to shake hands with men. Their who’s-got-the-strongest-grip caveman-inspired handshake was usually painful—and it ticked me off that they couldn’t seem to realize I was a female and this sort of display of masculinity wasn’t necessary.

I took Cody’s hand with my standard I’m-a-girl-you-idiot two-fingered grasp. His touch was gentle, thankfully, and he gave me a little smile.

Hmm. Not a bad smile.

“Marcie’s mom sent me,” he said, and gestured to the toolbox by his feet. “I’m the handyman.”

Then I remembered that Marcie had told me she’d send somebody to get my apartment back in shape, and I totally panicked.

Oh my God, my apartment was a complete mess. Now that I was out of my breakup fog, I knew it was a disaster worthy of its own reality TV episode, and I didn’t want anybody seeing it and knowing I’d actually lived that way. I couldn’t have someone clean it up—until I’d cleaned it up first.

“Thanks, but now’s not really a good time,” I said.

“I should have called, but I lost my cell phone,” he said, and gave me a yeah-I’m-a-dummy grin.

“Let’s make an appointment for—” I quickly reviewed my mental calendar and said, “A couple of weeks.”

Cody seemed to contemplate my suggestion for a few minutes, nodding thoughtfully, then said, “You don’t want me to see your place, right? Because you think it’s too messy. Right?”

How had he known that? Men didn’t usually know that sort of thing.

“Have you got junk piled up shoulder-high or higher?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Is there a path through all your stuff leading from room to room?”

“Of course not,” I told him.

He leaned closer. “Did something die in there?”

“Gross!”

Now he was kind of making me mad.

“Come in. You’ll see,” I told him.

I unlocked my door and led the way inside. He ambled in behind me carrying his toolbox and stood in the middle of my living room looking around.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe I should come back in a couple of weeks.”

“It’s not that bad,” I insisted.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said.

If he’d seen worse lately, I hoped he’d had a tetanus shot before coming to my place.