A moan yanks me out of my sleep, and it takes me a second to realize it was my own.
I stare at the ceiling, and the frustration is instant because I can already tell I won’t be able to fall back asleep. But I want to so badly because I want to finish that dream.
And let Hans finish me.
Groaning, I drag the bedspread over my face and press the soft fabric against my eyes. As though I might visually smother myself back into unconsciousness.
Maybe I need to hire someone to come sage my house. Or maybe I just need to go out into public more. Or join a dating site. Because this crush I have on my hot neighbor is getting out of control.
I know it’s my brain playing tricks on me, but it was like I could feel his presence all afternoon. And I blamed the empty zucchini cookie container. But when I came up to bed, I swear his scent was blanketed across my room. As though I was conjuring him with wishes and hopes.
I squeeze my thighs together and groan again.
I can’t even bring myself to scream into my pillow because that smells like him too.
Which is crazy. Because I know it doesn’t. It can’t.
Giving up, I toss my bedspread off and climb out of bed.
I slowly walk through the dark to my window and pull the curtains back, seeing that the sun has barely started to rise.
I look across the street, wondering if Hans is in there now, but I can’t tell. I can never tell when he’s home.
The drapes or blinds or whatever he has over his living room windows aren’t blackout ones. Often, I can see a glow inside, but after the first few months of living here and trying to figure out his schedule, I came to the conclusion that the lights in his house are on random timers. Or at least some of them. And I only know about the random timer lights because my dad always tells me to get them. He worries about me as a female living alone. I appreciate that worry, I do, but I spend a lot of my time at home, and having lights randomly popping on and off would drive me crazy.
Crazier than I’m already going.
Feeling a little too much like a creeper, I step away from my window and try to put thoughts of Hot Hans out of my mind. And the only way to do that is to start my day.
With my hip leaning against the kitchen counter, the aroma of brewing coffee fills the house, and I feel a little of my sanity returning.
I’m scrolling through my phone, deleting emails, when I come across one telling me my self-purchased birthday present arrived yesterday. Or at least one of them. The other one should be delivered any day now.
Not caring that I’m still in my pajamas, since I won’t see anyone anyway, I head to the front door and slip on my sandals.
It’s been hot this summer, but the early morning air isn’t stifling. I take my time making my way down the driveway to my mailbox.
I was in such a hurry to get on that call yesterday that I forgot to check the mail.
I spare a glance at Hans’s house, wishing I knew the layout, specifically wondering if his bedroom window is the one on the far front corner, next to what has to be his living room, or if it’s on the back side of the house. I’m assuming the single narrow window closest to the garage is his kitchen, so the house must go garage, kitchen, living room, bedroom—possibly plural—and bathroom.
Okay, wow, time to get a hobby.
I almost chuckle at my inner voice.
Getting a hobby has never been my issue. It’s sticking to a hobby that’s the problem. Bringing me back around to the point of this outing.
Pulling open my mailbox, I sigh when I see that the box is clearly too big for this rusty old thing, but the mail delivery person jammed it in there anyway.
“Would it have killed you to bring the box to my front step?” I grumble, knowing damn well my ass wouldn’t have walked it up to the house either.
I work to wiggle the box out, one corner, then the other, getting it caught on the lip around the opening of the mailbox.
I wiggle it some more.
The one hobby I’ve found that I really like to do is baking. So I bought myself personalized recipe cards, multicolored pens, cute little food stickers, and other things I don’t want bent or wrinkled. It would be great to just mash the corner of the box to release it, but I can’t. I need to finesse it.
When finessing doesn’t work, I give it another hard tug, and finally the box slides free, scattering a handful of envelopes onto the ground in the process.
“Crap.”
I tuck the box under my arm as I bend down to pick up the rest of my mail.
