Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy Page 4

  “She doesn’t look crazy,” Nate remarked. Declan flipped past a Seinfeld episode, the channel descriptions still in Chinese, and ignored the comment. She had chosen, out of every possible photo in her life, to represent herself with a pig. A pig that was licking her. It was the definition of crazy.

  “She’s actually pretty cute.”

  “Great,” Declan drawled. “You find out who she is. Maybe she could be your next train wreck of a relationship. A psychotic trash thief seems right up your alley.”

  “As much as I appreciate your crazy cast-off, I’ve got my hands full.” Nate opened the door to the fridge.

  “As long as they aren’t full of Benta Aldrete,” Declan muttered. The Brazilian had finally signed off on their contract before catching a plane back to New York, with threats to return in another month for site visits. Their new project was made more complicated by the fact that she was negotiating between three different parcels, each which would require different building footprints. She wanted to see their sketches for each parcel, which would help her decide which location to move forward with.

  It was a gigantic waste of money on her end but would give them some much-needed income. Assuming, of course, that Nate didn’t fuck everything up for them.

  “I’m telling you, she’s perfect.” Nate shut the fridge, two beers in hand.

  “You need to stay away from her, at least until this project is over. Six months, okay? Then you can go up to New York and go nuts on her.”

  “You’re acting like I will fuck this up. Women love me. You know this.”

  It was annoyingly true. He won hearts as often as he broke them, smoothing every parting with a slick smile and flash of that dimple. He was, as Declan had experienced himself, impossible to stay mad at. And the women kept coming back for more, even after he’d broken their hearts.

  “Benta isn’t most women,” he reminded Nate. “You screw her over and she’ll cut your balls off and deliver them to our office in a glass jar. Assuming she doesn’t put it on her mantle instead.” He found a late-night talk show and stopped, waving off the beer that Nate offered him.

  Nate winced, one hand moving in front of his crotch. “Dude. Why would you say something like that? They can hear you. Besides, I’m not screwing her over. I can barely get a reaction out of her.”

  “I thought you just said that women loved you.”

  “Fine. Most women.” He settled into the other end of the couch, setting the extra beer on the end table. Declan passed him a coaster. “She’s just proving a little harder to crack.”

  “Well, stop cracking. We need this job.”

  “What we need is to figure out what we’re going to do about Autumn Jones.” He pointed to the laptop, still open on the coffee table. “I think you should invite her to be your friend.”

  Declan snorted. “Right.”

  “Come on…” Nate drawled. “Just hit the button. See what happens.”

  “I’m not hitting the button.” Invite her to be his friend? The woman already had boundary issues. She was going through his household trash for shit’s sake. Why the fuck would he ask her to be his friend on Facebook? Talk about inviting trouble.

  Nate chuckled as he lifted his beer. “Come on. If you’re not going to let me pursue the love of my life, let me live vicariously through you.”

  Declan shook his head. “The only thing less likely than Benta Aldrete being your soulmate is me inviting this crazy lunatic to be my Facebook friend. In fact…” He rose. “I’m going to bed.” He closed the laptop, killing the image of Autumn Jones and that ridiculous pig. He stretched back and sighed with satisfaction as the bones in his back popped.

  “Come on! It’s not even eleven. You’re like my fucking grandpa. It’s a Friday night. If you aren’t going to invite hot pig girl to be your friend, at least go out with me.”

  Declan shook his head and headed down the hall for his bedroom. He glanced into the guest room that Nate once lived in, back when their lives revolved around parties, women and the occasional class. He almost missed having him as a roommate, the constant presence, restless energy, and soundtrack of eighties music and female guests. Almost.

  “You’re boring!” Nate called out from the living room, the insult bouncing across the worn wood floors.

  He closed the door to his bedroom and rubbed his hands over his face. He needed a shower, something to cleanse away the feeling of being … violated was too strong of a word, but there was still something invasive about knowing that she had been so close. He stepped to the window and adjusted the blinds, looking out on the driveway. His cans were back in place, lined up and lids closed, just as they were every night. Maybe he should start keeping them in the garage.

  He scanned the dark road, the streetlights illuminating his neighbor’s mailbox, a kid’s bike lying beside it on the grass. Would she come back and return his trash? Did she do this every week? He eyed the driveway and considered putting a motion-activated light on the spot, maybe one that came with an alarm. That would serve her right, to sneak up to his cans and be assaulted by a whooping alarm and blaring spotlight.

  Unfortunately, that would also wake up every person on their block, including that little old lady across the way, who made an excruciatingly painful trek to the mailbox each morning, her crooked body shuffling along the driveway. Twice, he’d offered to help, and both times, she’d glared at him and muttered something under her breath as she continued toward the box.

  He closed the blinds and made his way to the bathroom, the sounds of the living room television faint and comforting. As much as he appreciated how peaceful life was without Nicola, there were the moments where the house felt empty.

  Turning on the shower, he pulled his shirt over his head, the faint smell of his cologne dragging over his face. He’d gotten dressed up for his date, yet was going to bed with thoughts of a different woman entirely.

  Autumn Jones. It felt odd, having her name. Her address. That photo. Despite the pig, she had been pretty. A different beauty than Margaret’s angular features—or Nicola’s surgically enhanced pout. This woman looked happy. Normal—which was terrifying in itself, and only reinforced his belief that Facebook was a false view of everyone’s lives.

  Fully undressed, he stepped into the shower and angled the spray toward himself. As his hand settled on his cock, he tried to picture Margaret, her eyes on him, her mouth soft, kissing him. Her hands trailing down his chest. Thoughts of Autumn Jones invaded his mind, pushing the image of Margaret aside. All he could picture was that selfie with the pig, and that was an erection killer.

  He let out a groan and released his dick, reaching for the bar of soap and raking it across his chest. Maybe he should get a restraining order. Force this woman out of his life. Maybe he should move. Hell, this house was full of memories of Nicola anyway. It’d be nice to have a fresh start, away from all of them.

  Closing his eyes, he put his head under the spray and tried to sort out the mess in his mind.

  8

  Mr. Oinks fell off the bed, a common occurrence, and one that created a strangled noise somewhere between a squawk and an oink. I leaned over the side of the bed, my hands swinging through the air, and found him, hooking both hands under his belly and hoisting him back onto the bed.

  It wasn’t a graceful act. Mr. Oinks used to be on the light end of a micro mini pig, which was to say that he was comfortably in the fifteen-pound arena. Now, he was inching up in size, and getting him up on the bed would soon require a firm stance, proper squat and a back brace.

  “You’re getting fat,” I mumbled. He settled onto the bed and grunted, his nose rooting through my blankets until he found an edge and belly-wriggled his way underneath. He settled into place, his back hooves sticking out from the edge of the comforter, and I laughed, slipping my hand under and finding his ears, giving them a quick scratch.

  I lay there for a long moment, the morning light beginning to trickle across my bedroom wall. Today, I had to swing b
y the craft store and I was taking Ansley’s kids to the park. If Declan’s house was vehicle-free, I’d return his trash before I picked up them. I reached over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. From underneath the cover, I felt warm breath puff along my calf. I called out a warning to Mr. Oinks and moved my leg away.

  That’s the only problem with a pig. They think everything is food, and strawberry scented leg lotion? That’s their crackpipe.

  I had two texts from Ansley, both sent within the last hour.

  My baking attempt has turned into a clusterfuck. I’ve got a ruined pie for your pig if you want it.

  I smiled and opened her second text.

  I cannot believe my life has turned into the sort of situation where I am sending texts like this. Why am I trying to cook pies? And WHY DO YOU HAVE A PIG?!

  There was a series of emojis that combined barfing, eye rolls and lots of facepalming. I hit reply.

  I don’t expect you to understand the finer things in life. You own a jetski for piglet’s sake.

  Her response came quick.

  Don’t spit pig slang at me or I swear to God, I’ll stop stocking the house with Sunkist.

  I snorted in response, and I swear on Jesus, that wasn’t intended to be a pun.

  ontday ebay tupidsay. Ouyay ovelay unkistsay ootay.

  I sent the pig-Latin then sat up in bed, kicking the covers loose and looking at Mr. Oinks. “You in the mood for pie?”

  “You shouldn’t have fed him pie.” Two hours after Mr. Oinks’ ingestion of Ansley’s pie, the vet peered at me over his distended pig belly. This guy had really pretty eyes. Bright blue.

  Mr. Oinks groaned, and my concern reared its head, pushing thoughts of the sexy vet off the table and into the trash pile. “I thought pigs liked pie. He likes… well, he likes everything.” What I didn’t say, but seems entirely noteworthy, is that I had a friend who visited Exuma and fed an entire island of pigs HOT DOGS, which they gobbled up with enthusiasm, and didn’t seem at all unhealthy from it. And at the farm I’d purchased Mr. Oinks from, I’d watched them upend an entire trash can of slop that seemed to contain every food known to man, and hadn’t received a single word of warning about pie. I’d shared pizza, subs, lasagna, scrambled eggs, and half of every one of my sister’s culinary attempts with him, and he’d never so much as grunted in protest.

  “It was the rhubarb.” Dr. Diablo straightened, hanging his stethoscope around his neck. “It’s extremely toxic to pigs.”

  Toxic didn’t sound good. Mr. Oinks looked at me and I could feel his pain, not in the same magical guardian angel way, but in a horrible, I-am-a-terrible-parent and my-pig-blames-me-for-his-stomach-ache pain. I patted his side tenderly. “What could happen?”

  “Well, right now he’s having some oxalic acid poisoning. That’s what’s causing his muscles to twitch and his panting. Also, his heart is racing.” He reached for my hand and placed it higher on his ribcage, holding it there. “Feel that?”

  I could. Underneath my palm, Mr. Oinks’ heart was jumping, a rapid bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. I moved closer, my fingers curving around his warm skin, and I could feel the edge of a hysteria attack pushing closer. Toxic. My alarm ramped up. “Could he—is he going to die?” I should have brought Ansley with me. She’s better with stuff like this. When Roger’s colon got blocked last spring, she was the one who spoke to the doctors, she was the one who received the terrifying news that surgery was immediate and life-savingly necessary. I was in charge of bringing us magazines, flipping the channel on the TV, and bitching at nurses for extra Jell-O. I can’t… I can’t lose Mr. Oinks.

  With everything in my life, he’s the only real thing that I have, the only thing that depends on me.

  “I don’t think he’s going to die.” He lifted his hand off mine. “It’s good that you brought him in right away. Pumping his stomach was the most important thing, and now that that’s done, we can get good fluids in him and get him back on his feet.”

  I don’t think he’s going to die. Not the most reassuring guy on the planet.

  “If you can afford it, I’d like to keep him here overnight, possibly until Monday.”

  “I can afford it.” I straightened. “Just…” I waved my hands in the air. “Stomach transplant, whatever. I just need him to be okay.”

  He laughed. “An overnight stay or two, and he should be good as new.” He eyed me. “Just no more rhubarb.”

  I nodded, crossing myself. “None. Ever. I swear.”

  “And once we’re through this, I’d like to sit down with you and discuss a better diet for him, assuming that you’re interested in prolonging his life as long as possible.”

  “Yes!” I crouched beside the table and looked into Mr. Oinks eyes. They drooped slightly and I leaned forward, kissing him on the forehead. “I’ll take notes and everything. Organic diet, low-carb, keto-happy, whatever.”

  Dr. Diablo smiled, stepping back and opening the door to the lobby. “Just make sure that Emily up front has all of your information. We’ll give you a call in a few hours and let you know how he’s doing.”

  “Okay.” I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around Mr. Oinks, pulling him carefully into my chest. “I love you,” I whispered. “Be good.”

  He didn’t respond. Not that I expected a “Sure, Mom, see you later!” or anything, but his lack of movement, that heart still pounding in his chubby chest… I felt sick myself.

  “I’ll take good care of him.” The vet smiled at me, and it was a nice one. His grin was a little crooked on one side, like that cocky kind where the guy knew that he was hot, and knew that you realized he was hot, and maybe, if you played your cards right, then he’d kiss you? That kind of smile. It’d been a while since I’d gotten that kind of smile.

  I nodded, thanking him again, and headed for the door. As I passed him, my shoulder brushed against his coat and I felt, through the rhubarb fear and the guilt, what just might have been a spark.

  9

  “Get up.” Declan reached down and poked at Nate’s chest. He didn’t react, and Declan straightened, moving through the living room and collecting empty beer bottles. “NATE,” he repeated. Moving to the kitchen, he dumped the bottles in the recycle bin, grimacing at the reminder of Autumn Jones’s trash theft. Picking up the can, he carried it into the living room, tossing more empty bottles in, each hitting the others with a loud crack of glass.

  A loud curse came from the couch. “Could you be any louder?” Nate rolled over, pulling the cracked leather couch cushion across his face.

  “It’s noon.” Declan tossed the final bottle in. “Get your lazy ass up.”

  “Shit.” Nate moved the cushion off his head and squinted up at him. “How long have you been up?”

  “A couple of hours.” Long enough to hit the hardware store and grab a set of outdoor cameras. He’d pulled his ladder from the garage and mounted them at the corners of the house, both aimed at his trash cans. He’d also picked up a few window sensors and armed each ground-level window. If and when Autumn Jones came back, she’d have to fly in on a hoverboard through the chimney, or else he’d know it.

  Nate slowly sat up and pressed on his forehead with the palm of one hand. “Shit, my head is killing me.”

  “Yeah.” Declan looked down at the trash. “Best I can tell, you finished off another four beers after I went to bed.”

  “One of those fucking housewives shows came on. I needed the alcohol to cope.”

  Declan grinned. “Sure.” Nate had likely binged on episodes until dawn then passed out. “You know, you can just change the channel. Or turn off the TV.”

  “Yeah, but then I would miss all the catfights.” He stood up slowly, then carefully made his way to the kitchen. He opened the cabinet above the microwave and grabbed the bottle of Tylenol, popping it open and shaking out a handful of pills. “You already eat?”

  “I was going to head over to MoMo’s now. Figured you’d be hungry.”

  He grunted in agreement, grabbing a g
lass and filling it with water from the tap. “Hell yes.”

  Declan returned the Tylenol to the cabinet. “Let’s take your Jeep. I want to keep a car in the drive, just in case.” In case she came back. What a stupid thing to have to think about. Cameras. Keeping his blinds closed. Protecting his house. It was all probably overkill. But last night … the more he’d thought about his missing trash, the more his feelings about her had changed. She went from being a harmless, almost entertaining annoyance, to something more ominous. Creepy.

  He mused over the feeling as they drove, Nate’s attention focused on checking out college girls and finding a parking spot near the popular pizza spot. Once they ordered at the counter and found a table, Declan broached the subject.

  “Creepy?” Nate tilted his head at him. “Come on. You afraid of a girl?”

  “She knows where I live. It’s stepping over the line.”

  “And you have her address,” he pointed out. “Look, of course, she knew your house. According to you, she follows you everywhere. You can’t be surprised by this.”

  Nate had a point. Had he ever sat down and thought about it, Declan would have assumed that she’d had that information, just like she knew where he worked, the gym he used, and the sandwich place in Midtown he liked. But he’d never seen her near the house, and had lived under the pleasant delusion that she only stalked during business hours, and went away to her family or job or whatever during the rest of the time. He mentioned this and Nate squinted at him.

  “So, you’ve never seen her at night?”

  Declan considered the question. “I don’t think so… Wait—our softball games. I’ve seen her there.”

  Nate frowned. “Why didn’t you point her out?”

  “It was only once. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it.” Also, he hadn’t been positive it was her. It was hard to tell. The softball park was full of cute blondes in baseball caps, heads down or sunglasses on. And she was typically hiding behind something, her half-hearted attempts at subterfuge almost comical in nature.