Reroute - UNEXPECTED LOVE BOOK 1

CHAPTER ONE SNEAK PEEK

There is no time or place in which anything I’m doing can ever be deemed remotely appropriate. A woman simply shouldn’t hide inside a dryer to escape her ex-boyfriend, especially not inside a dryer full of her next-door neighbor’s unmentionables. But here I am, holding my knees to my chest, praying that Sam grabs his things and leaves. Dating the guy two floors down from me was probably a mistake, to begin with, but now I wish I’d never even met him while I try not to sneeze from the lint.

Sam opens the washing machine and pulls his clothes out while humming a commercial jingle. It’s getting stuffy in the dryer, and I’m rethinking every mistake I ever made with this guy as I lose precious oxygen. Surrounded by my next-door neighbor Edwin Loughton’s boxers, my life has reached a new low. One pair has little cacti printed all over them, which pretty much fits his prickly personality, but it’s also sort of sweet in a my mom got me these for Christmas kind of way. I don’t know if his mother got them for him or not, but I’m making up scenarios in my head to kill time when the door flies open.

Since I’m partially leaning on it, I fall headfirst out of the dryer along with half of the clothes. Edwin stares down at me with a scowl that could scare the pants off the most dedicated serial killers, but after two years stuck living beside Mr. Grumpy McSnarky Pants, I’m used to it. In fact, not only am I used to it, but he knows he has zero effect on me, so he grumbles and asks, “Do I even want to know why you are in the dryer?”

I glance around and notice that, mercifully, Sam is nowhere to be found. “Hiding from Sam.”

Edwin’s black hair is always impeccably combed, which annoys me in ways I cannot explain. His clothes are never wrinkled, he’s always clean-shaven, and even now—on a Saturday afternoon of doing nothing but laundry—he is more pulled together than I can ever hope to be. But I managed to evade Sam, so there’s nothing Edwin can do to put me in a bad mood.

“Well, can you get out of my clothes so I can rewash them?” His scowl deepens.

I shove off the floor and start picking up the clothes so he’ll have fewer reasons to shoot me dark looks. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Whatever,” he barks, then shoves his cactus boxers and a few shirts into a washing machine.

“I can pay for—”

“It’s fine.” He shuts the washer door and starts it before sighing as loudly as any human possibly can, sending a soul-bleeding glare my way, and huffing out of the laundry room… passing Sam on the way out.

Sam grabs the car keys he’d evidently forgotten on the folding table and glances up. Immediately, his eyes land on me and go all sappy. “Calliope, how are you?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets with that sheepish, soulful stare plastered on his face.

There was never any problem with physical attraction. Sam is the quintessential boy next door with his sweet demeanor and polite attitude. Don’t get me started on his adorable accent, but he is not someone I can spend the rest of my life with for many reasons.

He’s still waiting for a reply, so I grab my empty basket and move it close to my washer before tucking hair behind my ear.

“Uh, good. Um… I gotta go,” I say and jet past him like a mouse evading a cat.

If I hurry, I can stumble down the stairs, and the momentum from the fall can propel me halfway down the hall while I ready my keys to let me into my apartment. I might suffer a broken leg or ruptured spleen, but those are worth the chance I might escape this conversation. I can’t deal with Sam’s puppy eyes. They’ll suck me in, and I’ll be caught up all over again in a relationship that has as much chance at longevity as a gallon of milk left on the counter overnight.

I make it down the stairs before he calls after me, but I ignore him and run toward my apartment. This is all fine and dandy, but uncoordinated people should never run, and I am the founder and president of Clumsy Girls, Inc. Of course, just as I round the corner and dart down the last half of the hallway with my apartment and sweet escape just in front of me, Edwin opens his door, and I kiss it with the loudest skull crack in the history of faceplants.

“Ow,” I squeak and slide to the floor, blood pouring from my nose.

“What are you doing?” Edwin asks, but at least there is some concern in his tone.

I don’t want to let go of my nose because if I do, it’s only going to hurt worse, but Edwin tugs on my hand, so I have to.

“Ow,” I whine again while he turns my head back and forth by my chin like it’s a handle.

“I’m sorry. I was running from—”

“Sam, yes. That man is going to get you killed. Here, let me help you up.” Edwin doesn’t wait for me to take his hand. Instead, he hauls me up from behind, then escorts me to my door. “Where is your key?”

I manage to finagle it out of my pocket, but I also smear it with blood. Mr. Perfect winces but accepts the key and shoves it into the lock. There’s a thunking behind us on the stairs, probably Sam, so I rush inside and slam the door… on Edwin. It bounces off of his face, and he sighs again.

“Frankly,” he growls, “I’m not sure how you manage to keep yourself alive.” He rubs his forehead with that awful scowl while shutting the door.

I’m a bit too surprised that he followed me in to ask him why he did, but I’m more surprised when he nods toward my kitchen.

“You need ice.” He yanks my freezer open and rummages through the ice box, then sighs. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t know how to express anything but exasperation at this point. “Your icemaker is turned off.” This seems to be an affront of the highest degree, but I say nothing while he continues to rampage through my freezer entirely uninvited before pulling out a bag of frozen corn.

I’m pretty sure the day cannot get any worse from here. I’ve hidden in a dryer, fallen out of a dryer, slammed my face into a door, and now my grumpy neighbor is scolding me for not having ice. The only other thing that could happen to make it worse would be lightning striking me. I decide I’ll stay inside until tomorrow even though the sky is bright and sunny without a storm cloud in sight. A girl can never be too sure.

“Here, sit up here,” Edwin says, tapping the counter.

“Uh… what?” It comes out nasally and congested from the copious blood clotting inside of my poor, swollen nose.

“On the counter. Hurry before you end up with black eyes.”

The other thing about Edwin? Patience is not a virtue the man possesses, so when I hesitate a second too long, I find myself being lifted by the waist and plopped down on my own kitchen counter two seconds before a bag of frostbitten corn is smashed on my face. I don’t even have a chance to question how he lifted me with such little effort before the cold contorts my face into something from a horror flick.

“Ow,” I say for the third time, sitting on my counter like a properly scolded and medically treated child. I had been wrong. This is worse than getting struck by lightning.

I sit for a while, desperately trying not to cry while working through the details of everything that just happened in the span of fifteen minutes. I don’t know what Edwin is doing because the bag of corn is too big for me to see around, but I know he is still in my kitchen by his regular sighs and grunts of utter annoyance. No one asked him to stick around and help me, so indignation burns in my chest. I’m just about to throw that bag at him when I feel something brush over my knees.

I lower the bag to see what he’s doing. As I focus, he takes the bag from me and presses it on my nose again. He’s gentle enough, but the sensation of cold on my face is muted by the feel of his hand IN MY HAIR! He manages to slide his fingers through the tangle of waves to cup the back of my head, supporting my neck while keeping pressure on my nose.

When I woke up this morning, I planned to work and get things settled for my upcoming conference trip. At no point had hide in a dryer or smash my face been added to my already long to-do list, but here I am, utterly humiliated by life again.

I should have faced Sam and dealt with the situation like an adult, but it was so hard to break the guy’s heart. Sam had been fun, a much-needed respite from the business types I had been dating for way too long. Men with no desire to commit, especially to a woman who does not have the same desire to climb the ladder of success that they have. Of course, I like my job and want to succeed, but in the long term, all I want is a husband who wants to move to the country, have a few kids, and live a simple life. Sam had wanted those things, but he wanted them all the way over in England, where his family lived, and he had not considered even a little how much I’d miss my family in the process. He had also severely underestimated my distaste for goats and had already planned a nice life herding the little beasts. I wanted a country life, not a job shepherding livestock.

Dating Sam had been idiotic for so many reasons. In fact, dating every man I had ever dated had been silly, and now that it’s causing me actual physical harm, all I can think is that I should ban myself from dating anyone for at least a year. One whole year of recalculating my life, evaluating every aspect, and rerouting back to the path I really want… whatever it is.

Edwin removes the bag and inspects my nose. He chews the inside of his lip and steps back, drops the bag in the sink, and wets my hand towel. “This might hurt a little,” he whispers, then wipes the blood from my lip and chin before delicately brushing the towel over my nose. “Too late. You’re already bruising.”

I want to say something about that, complain that I’ll look like I went a few rounds with a professional boxer, but all I can do is stare into an endless sea of navy blue. It’s odd, really, because I know Edwin is hot, but knowing a random fact about a person you see in passing and then examining it up close are two different things. He stands in front of me, still dabbing and swiping blood while chewing on his lip, when the craziest thought pops into my head.

I wanna mess him up. I just want to run my hands through his hair and ruffle it all up, then untuck that stupid collared shirt and roll up the sleeves, ditch the sweater vest, and get him a pair of sneakers, for Pete’s sake. He’s so neat and tidy, and I just… want to mess him up. Doing that would probably get me thrown out of the apartment complex for assaulting my neighbor, but the urge is so, so strong.

“There. It’s stopped bleeding.” He tosses the bloody towel on the counter and looks back at me, his gaze connecting with mine. For a second—a blink in some alternate space-time continuum where I’m an even bigger idiot than I thought—I think maybe a guy like Edwin is more my speed. Responsible, reliable, and probably resilient enough to manage my insane life. Even as I ponder it, he realizes our closeness. His eyes go wide, and he steps back. He clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets, but not in a boyishly cute way like Sam does. It’s cool and collected, bringing him back into that standoffish persona I know so well.

“Thank you,” I say, staring at my hands in my lap. I should not have to feel this awkward in my own apartment, but the truth is that it’s par for the course for me. If I’m not making a fool of myself, I’m probably dead.

“You’re welcome.” He pushes off the counter and heads toward the door, glancing over his shoulder. “Watch where you’re running the next time.”

I hop off the counter and cross my arms. “Or you could be more careful opening your door.”

He huffs and says, “Calliope, I could have neon lights on my door warning you to stop, and you’d still run into it. This isn’t the first time you’ve injured yourself being ridiculous.”

And just like that, all the hotness drains away, and I’m left staring at a jerk.

“Maybe that’s true, but you don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

His eyes go even wider, and his mouth falls open. “I wasn’t! I was merely stating the reality of your situation. You are a hazard to your own health because you have the situational awareness of a three-year-old.”

I gasp and stand straighter. “You… why you… ugh! Why do you have to be so mean?”

“How is telling the truth mean?” he asks.

I step forward, ready to give him a good tongue lashing because, yes, one should always tell the truth, but he can do it in a way that doesn’t insult me to my face. I know I’m clumsy. I know I’m an absolute disaster on two legs, but I’m also sure that if I had four legs, I’d fall four times as much—more legs to get tangled up with each step. However, anger and Calliope do not mix, especially when I’m not paying attention to where I put my feet, perfectly exhibiting Edwin’s point. One step, and I trip over the edge of my area rug and plummet toward Edwin.

Midfall, I realize his assessment was not only correct but that I’m about to break every bone in my body because my feet tangle in the tassels on the rug, and I’m somehow twisting like a contortionist as I go down.

“Calliope!” Edwin shouts, then lunges forward and catches me.

How humiliating.

My face smashes against his chest, and I smear blood all over his sweater vest. My nose is pouring blood again, and I give up. I’m going to die at the hands of my own clumsiness, and that’s all there is to it. He’s probably scowling, but at least I don’t hear any sighing as he lifts me to a standing position and pinches his fingers over the bridge of my nose. My entryway looks like a mini-murder scene, and so does Edwin’s front side.

“Back up into the kitchen. You have a bag of frozen peas we can use this time,” he says. Now his voice is soft and tender, dare I say, regretful? 

In the kitchen, he wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me back onto the counter. He presses a towel to my nose and rummages in my freezer again, this time scoring another veggie to end my suffering. I want to curl in a ball and disappear, but that’s difficult to do when a man has his hand tangled in your hair –again—and is pressing legumes to your face in a messy attempt to slow the blood flow.

“I’m sorry for what I said. It was unnecessarily rude,” he admits. I pull the peas down long enough to make sure it’s still Edwin, but he shoves them back and says, “It won’t stop bleeding if you don’t hold these on. I’ll go get some real ice from my freezer. I’ll be right back.”

Edwin releases my head and steps away, dragging me with him by my hair.

“Ow!” I squeal and drop the peas. My hair is tangled in the button on his shirt cuff, so he stops and winces.

“Sorry. Sit still, and I’ll untangle it.” He shoves the peas back on my nose and gets to work, detangling me from his shirt. Honestly, someone kill me now.

Edwin steps closer to inspect the knot of dark hair around his button. Soft huffs of breath caress my ear while he works, and I smell him. He’s coffee and something spicy, which is a nice change from Sam’s woodsy scent. I like it, but this is Edwin, and Edwin’s smell does not make up for his stern and judgy personality.

“There,” he whispers. “I didn’t realize you were caught. I apologize.” It’s an oddly sincere apology for getting someone’s hair stuck to your clothing, but I nod and rub my sore scalp.

“It’s alright. I think my nose stopped bleeding,” I say and remove the peas. He grasps my chin and checks it over, then nods.

“It seems so.” Once again, he’s standing in front of me, staring down at me. He grabs the towel and wets it again, then cleans my face as if it’s something he’s supposed to do. I let him because I’m not sure I should attempt to do it myself at this point. I’m not even sure breathing is safe after the events of the last half hour.

Edwin swipes a few more times and observes the damage. “It will probably bruise a little, but perhaps not too badly.” He glances down and catches my gaze, clears his throat, and steps back again.

“Uh, I can pay to have your clothes cleaned,” I say, pointing to the horrible mess on his shirt and sweater vest, even on his pants.

He looks down and scowls, then says, “It’s alright. I’ll head home now if you think you can stay upright?” By the tone of his voice, I know he doesn’t realize he just insulted me again, but what can I do?

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say with a moody edge.

“Well, then, goodnight and be careful, Calliope.”

I still have to pack and sleep before my early flight, and since I’m sure I will look like absolute junk in the morning, all I can muster is my own scowl as he shuts the door. Even that facial expression is painful, so I commit to showering and packing rather than worrying about what Edwin thinks of me.

One year.

I’m swearing off men for a whole year and focusing on figuring out what I want out of life, what God’s plan is for little old me, and maybe when the year is over, there will be a decent guy around to sweep me off my feet and make a wife out of me.

And the mystery writer’s conference is exactly the best trip to get me started.