George gives us that. He’s either old and seen too much to care about a bunch of pro athletes, or maybe he’s a fan of the Raleigh Rough Riders and doesn’t care about hockey. We show him our appreciation in large tips and not being complete slobs.
Chapter Two
Paisley
* * *
It has been a day. Actually it has been a week. That kind of bone-weary, exhaustion-settling sensation that occurs at the end of the first week back to work or school after an extended absence kind of week.
I barely have the energy to scan my key fob that gets me access to my private and well-secured loft building in the epicenter of Charlotte. Waving to the afternoon manager takes herculean effort but I manage the task and give Pierre a faux-happy hello on my way to the elevator banks.
Thank goodness for my uncle Trent, though. He elected to take a three-year position in the Philippines, creating new centers for the tech company where he’s based in Charlotte. His moving out of the country and not wanting to sell his fancy loft in his upscale building gave me the opportunity to housesit for him while I attend graduate school and do my student teaching at an inner-city school.
Trent refused to allow me to contribute any money for rent while he’s gone which means my meager finances stretch a lot further. Plus, since it’s in Uptown and close to everything, including my school, my car is currently being stored at my parents’ house through the school year.
By the time the elevator reaches my floor, the tenth floor where there are only two apartments, I’m dragging the nylon bag that carries my lunch leftovers and the leather office satchel my parents gave me as a gift. I should take more care with it since I know it cost a lot, it’s hard at the moment to care.
My eyes are barely half-open, my hair styled so nicely earlier this morning in an attempt to look decent my first weeks of school is now tangled. Sweat is dripping down my spine and probably staining the blouse I’m wearing in that same attempt.
Not that it matters or went noticed. Most graduate students still dress in rumpled sweats and tees, not caring about their appearance. We still spend hours in class, more hours in the library doing research and even more hours writing and researching after hours. I was always taught to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, and I want to excel in teaching, not slump my way through school.
I might not have come from money, but I do come from a family with a lot of pride and honor in who we are.
I unlock my door and enter, dropping my satchel inside the door. After flipping on a few light switches, I drag my feet to the kitchen and plop down my lunch bag. My mouth is parched since I forgot my water bottle on the kitchen counter this morning when I left. It’s ninety-eight degrees outside and my last classroom of the day faces west and has broken blinds. I just spent hours where it felt more like one hundred and twenty. Every minute I spent in my chair increased my exhaustion exponentially.
But it’s Friday. Four o’clock. I have survived my first two weeks of my second year and now I have the entire weekend to do nothing but study, research, do laundry, and clean.
“Thank goodness,” I mutter. I empty the earlier forgotten water bottle, refill it, and as I’m chugging the water in my desperate need to rehydrate from all the sweat I lost today, I pull open the freezer to decide on tonight’s dinner.
Frozen fire-grilled steak and rice bowl? Enchiladas? Spinach ravioli?
“Ugh.” I close the freezer door and pull up Uber Eats instead. I’ll eat the frozen meals when I’m desperate or when my bank account is on its last breath before a stipend check arrives. I’m not quite there yet.
After I order my meal, I head to my bedroom where I strip out of my skirt and blouse into a much more comfortable pair of yoga shorts and a tank top with a built-in bra.
In the bathroom, I wash off my half-ruined makeup and reapply moisturizer. My hair that looked so cute this morning, curled in loose beach waves now looks like I spent hours rubbing balloons all over it before jumping into the dryer without a dryer sheet. And that’s with it being pulled up halfway through the day into a bun.
Thanks North Carolina, for the humidity that never quits. I pull my hair back into a low and loose ponytail.
The corner soaking tub silently calls to my tired limbs and I promise myself after I get food in me, I’ll spend the rest of the evening taking a bubble bath while having a glass of wine and reading my new romance novel. I’ve been waiting all week to dive into it.
“Soon, dear friend.” I lovingly pat the edge of the tub on my way out. I’m a bubble bath lover to the extreme and weeks like this are exactly why. There’s nothing more relaxing than soaking in hot water until the knotted stress at my shoulders and lower back from sitting all day long melt into the tub.
The very idea and reminder that I get to spend days relaxing pushes a pep in my step as I head back down the long hallway to the living area.
Trent’s home is absolutely gorgeous. Not only does it have a stunning view of Uptown, but the horizon casts a beautiful glow at sunrise when the sun rises above the endless trees in the distance. I’m lucky to have an uncle who loves me enough to offer me up his place instead of having to commute into Charlotte from a suburb, the only place I could afford rent, or live in a cramped apartment with other grad students. Living with my girlfriends in college was one thing, but they’re now all starting their careers while I continue to get a Master’s in Education, and I don’t want to be studying while they’re out having fun.
Essentially, life is good, better than I ever expected I could have growing up the daughter of a plumber and a dental hygienist. And it will be fantastic once my sushi and noodle bowl arrives.
Give me all the carbs. I’m a hungry girl.
A loud thump echoes from the hall and my brows furrow before my feet quickly take me to my peephole. Yeah, it’s possible I’m a stalker, but my neighbor across the hall is to die for gorgeous.
He’s young like me and I’ve seen him wear a pinstripe suit looking mouth-watering sexy. It’s a debate I have with myself whether he’s sexier in the suit carrying a weekend bag when I see him come and go or if it’s the black athletic pants, skintight T-shirt he wears while carrying a large duffel bag that’s even more glorious.
Honestly, the man is too beautiful for words, and while I’ve never gathered up the courage to say hello to him, I can’t say I don’t semi-stalk his departures and arrivals whenever I hear his door close.
By the time I get to the peephole, there’s a blur of movement in front of my door and then my cell dings with a text. I grab it quickly only to roll my eyes. Pierre is super nice, but he’s not exactly the best doorman in our building. Which means the blur of movement outside my door is the delivery man.
I should be notified before they reach the elevators, but Pierre gets distracted easily.
Without thought, I open my door, thank the boy who looks only a year or two younger than me for my dinner and give another wistful look at my neighbor’s now closed door.
Someday I should gather up my courage to go say hello. Maybe ask him for a cup of sugar or an egg. Bake some cupcakes for him or find some excuse to introduce myself instead of the hellos we exchange as we cross paths in the hallway or elevators.
He always seems to be leaving when I’m returning home or vice versa.