Over the Fence (4 page)

“Relax. I don’t own a ladder,” I assured her, unsure why she panicked.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself, that’s all. It’s almost done.”

Wow—she was a bad liar. I didn’t believe that excuse for a second, especially with the nervous tremor in her voice when she spoke. Although I was puzzled over why seeing me would make her panic, I let it pass.

The aromatic smoke from the barbeque filled the air when I heard the lid being lifted. I got up and moved closer to the fence.

“You’re killing me here, Kourt. Can I call you Kourt as long as I say it with a K? Or do you hate nicknames?”

Her laugh was even more endearing than her giggle. It was low, warm, husky and made me smile hearing it.

“Since you’ve already given me two of them, I better get used to it.”

“I won’t use them if you hate it.”

She sounded shy. “No, I like them. They’re nice ones. As long as they’re nice, I’m okay with it.”

My brow furrowed. She’d been called some not nice ones? Simply the thought of that made me angry, and I gripped my beer bottle a little tighter.

“Only nice ones, I promise. You can call me Nat if you want—my mom always did.”

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat when I realized I hadn’t let anyone call me Nat in years. Yet, I was okay with letting her use it. I shook my head before the memories started back up.

“Gnat like a bug? A pesky ant who keeps trying to take your food on a picnic?” She giggled. “It suits you.”

I barked out a laugh. She was funny and I enjoyed her fast comebacks. “Whatever, Chefgirl. Now, dinner? I’m dying here.”

“You’re a big boy,
Nat
. I’m sure you can wait five more minutes.”

I groaned, leaning my head on the fence. “I had no idea ribs took this much work. Are they all like this?”

She hummed. “These ones are worth it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll find out.”

Ten minutes later, I was literally moaning as I tore into the food that appeared on the top of the fence. As soon as I heard the thump of the ladder being leaned on the wood, I dragged my chair over, snatching the plate before Kourtney had barely set it on the rail. Returning to the table, I groaned at the full plate, piled high with thick, sticky ribs and steaming, roasted corn—the aroma mouthwatering. I knew, without a doubt, there was enough food on my plate I would have leftovers. No cafeteria lunch for me tomorrow.

“Are you there?” I asked between mouthfuls.

“Yes.”

“These are fucking incredible. How do you make them?”

“Planning on having a go, are you, Nat?”

I laughed. “Trust me, no. That wouldn’t end well. But tell me.” I wanted to hear her talk. I liked the sound of her voice and enjoyed listening to her. “I’ve never tasted sauce like this. It’s delicious.”

“I made it.”

I smirked into my plate. “Of course you did. Do you stay up all night cooking?”

“No. I just like to cook. And having someone to cook for again is fun.” Shyness crept back into her tone. “I guess I’m showing off a little.”

“Showing off?”

“A bit.”

“Feel free to show off anytime. If this is your A game, bring it on. I like it.” I stopped eating, eyeing my huge plate with suspicion. “You didn’t give me all the food, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m eating, too.”

“Okay. Keep talking.”

“As fascinated as I’m sure you are with cooking techniques, I think you’ve probably heard enough,” she insisted sarcastically.

“Nah—your cooking terms are cool.” I took another bite and swallowed. “God, I fucking love these ribs.”

She giggled. “I’m going to leave you alone with your . . .
ribs
now.”

I dropped another clean bone on my plate. “I don’t imagine you know how to make souvlaki, do you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

I groaned. “I think I’m seriously turned on right now, Kourt.”

She laughed out loud. “Over souvlaki?”

“Over the ribs, your sauce and yes, the promise of souvlaki,” I answered seriously. I never joked about food.

Her reply was laced with sarcasm. “Good thing God gave you hands then, Nathan. They should help alleviate your, ah,
problem
—when you’re finished eating, of course.” She was struggling not to laugh. again. “I hope, after you wash your hands, you and the Palmela sisters have a good night.”

I gaped at the fence as I heard her door shut. I started laughing because, really, she was fucking brilliant. I laughed so hard, I almost missed the dessert plate sitting on top of the fence.

Almost.

The Thursday of a long weekend was quiet in the building. Often in the summer the smaller offices shut down and stretched it into a four day break, as was the case today. I loved it, since it gave me a chance to catch up with the never-ending paperwork, and I could sneak away early on occasion.

My head was bent over a pile of forms I had to fill out when the clearing of a throat from my door made me look up. One of the building’s tenants was leaning on the doorframe languidly. “Between your unruly hair and long beard, you’re beginning to resemble a demented leprechaun, Nathan. Too busy to shave?”

Running a hand over my face, I grinned at her description. She was right; I needed to go to the barber, but kept putting it off. Sylvia only visited when she wanted something. That something being me. Both of us were single, unattached, and happy to remain that way—neither one of us were interested in a relationship. We got along well, but aside from the occasional evening together, we didn’t seek each other out. It had been a while since she’d come to see me.

“I’m always busy. In this case, though, simply lazy. It’s on my list.”

She sashayed in, dropping gracefully into one of my visitor’s chairs, crossing her long legs. One foot swung slightly as she leered at me, her short blonde hair gleaming in the light. “You always have a list. What about later—are you busy then?”

“I’d like to be.”

“Dinner . . . or just fucking?”

I smirked, my body tightening at her blunt words; a reminder of how long it had been. Usually, I was enough of a gentleman, I bought her dinner first. I licked my lips as I studied the graceful lines of her body. “Both—as long as my ‘demented leprechaun’ look doesn’t frighten you off.”

She lifted one shoulder. “I can work with it.”

“Okay.”

“It’ll have to be your place, my roommate is home sick.”

“I’ll change the sheets.”

“How thoughtful.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I knew she wouldn’t care—it wasn’t as if she ever spent the night. It wasn’t that kind of relationship—if in fact it was any relationship at all. I ignored the fleeting thought that lately I wanted that kind of relationship—something deeper than a physical release. The truth was, I was getting tired of waking up to an empty bed, and being alone all the time.

I pushed aside my melancholy thoughts, turning my attention back to her. I knew she liked Thai food. “Lemon Grass?”

“Sounds good.”

“I want to get a fresh shirt before we go—this one has ink on it from an uncooperative printer.”

“The blue color is nice—it matches your eyes.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m a sure thing, Sylvia. No need to get all complimentary on me.”

She laughed at my comment. “I’ll leave my car here and come with you.”

I nodded. Maybe we’d have dessert first.

Sylvia walked around my living room, her long nails tapping out a fast beat on the bottle of beer she held. “You’ve done so much with the place, Nathan.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine.”

It was terrible. I knew it and chose to ignore it most of the time. I had a place to sit, somewhere to sleep and the fact it wasn’t cozy and inviting rarely made any difference to me. Although lately, it seemed more desolate than usual. My only concessions to comfort were the huge chair in the corner I preferred to sit in, and the large flat screen TV that provided most of my entertainment.

A knock at the door made me frown. “I’ll be right back. Grab a seat.”

“Take your time.”

Thinking it would be some random kid at the door, looking to sell me something I didn’t want, I dug in my pocket for a five so I could quickly get rid of them. I was surprised to find Mrs. Webster on the other side of the door, smiling at me.

“Ah, Nathan. Good, I caught you home. Not a bad time, I hope?”

It was impossible to be rude to Mrs. Webster. She lived down the street, on the corner, and no matter how I tried to ignore her, she always came over to say hello if I was outside. Her grandson Kyle, who lived with her, cut my lawn and shoveled my driveway. Both were tasks I hated, and it gave the kid some spending money. He reminded me of myself at that age—tall, and lanky—not comfortable in his own skin yet.

I forced a smile on my face. “Not for you, Mrs. Webster. Do you need something?”

“Kyle’s out and Ricky has himself stuck up a tree again. He’s just out of reach and I knew with those long arms of yours, you could get him for me. If, of course, it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Damn cat was always getting stuck in a tree, which was how I first met Mrs. Webster. I was washing my car when she appeared, hands wringing, asking me to help. I had followed her down the block and climbed the tree to rescue her precious Ricky, handing him to her quickly so he’d stop scratching and hissing at me. She’d been so grateful; she insisted I come inside for cookies. At the time I’d been happy to agree, since I loved cookies.

Mrs. Webster, however, as I discovered, was a terrible cook. I was barely able to choke down one, and the bag of them she sent home with me ended up being eaten by the birds.

I stifled a sigh and nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

I called to Sylvia, telling her I would return soon, then I followed Mrs. Webster down the block.

Swinging myself up onto the same tree, I reached for the little spitfire cat, handing him down to her. He swiped his angry paws at me, not happy at being disturbed. Mrs. Webster clucked her tongue at him calling him naughty, the whole time stroking his fuzzy head. I narrowed my eyes at him as he lapped up her attention. She was the one who made me pull him out of the tree and all I got were growls and attitude. I suspected Mrs. Webster could have gotten him down herself, using the small stool I’d seen her scramble up and down on in her kitchen, so I wasn’t surprised when she asked me a nosy question. “Have you met your new neighbor yet? Kourtney?”

“With a K,” I added without thinking.

“Oh, you have then! What a lovely girl she is!”

I shook my head. “We’ve chatted over the fence, that’s all. She was kind enough to share her dinner one night.”

She clucked. “I keep telling you to come let me cook for you. Kyle barely eats at home.”

I managed to keep a straight face. Kyle had told me once if I thought his grandmother’s cookies were bad, I needed to stay clear of her dinners. He ate at the restaurant where he washed dishes more often than not.

“I’m pretty picky, Mrs. Webster. Mostly, ah, vegetarian,” I lied, figuring if I was forced into a meal with her, at least she’d make salad. The truth was I rarely ate vegetables. I liked meat—with a side of meat.

She frowned. “A strapping young man, such as you, needs to eat more than vegetables. How tall are you again, dear?”

“About six foot, three.”

“My late husband was a short man.” She sighed. “I always liked taller men.”

I bit back my smile. She’d told me that fact many times.

“She’s very shy.”

I blinked at her.
Who was she talking about?

“Kourtney. She’s very shy. But so sweet.”

I had rather figured that out myself, but I simply agreed, catching on to her plan. Meddlesome old woman—I wouldn’t be getting to know my neighbor any better than I did now. She was far too nice for the likes of me. The kind of relationship I could handle was sitting on my sofa waiting for me. “I, ah, have someone waiting. I have to go.”

“Of course. Thank you. Come for dinner soon!”

I nodded and turned, hurrying back to my place. Inside, I could hear voices and I followed the sound to the backyard. Sylvia was sitting at the table and chatting, it seemed, to the shy Kourtney. Her empty beer bottle was beside her on the table, and a second bottle was in her hand.