Let me Love You
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Rushmoor78
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18.6K
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32
Vanessa likes her world quiet, controlled, and blissfully free of anyone trying to charm their way past her walls. Then her new neighbor shows up with a grin that is far too warm and a confidence that rattles her steady stride. Every encounter knocks her a little off balance, and his teasing spark feels annoyingly good. He sees the shadows she carries, yet he steps closer instead of backing away. As their playful clashes grow into something softer, Vanessa feels the light tugging at her edges. Letting him in might be messy, risky, and wildly inconvenient… but it also might be the first thing that feels right in a long time.
Chapter 1: Break-In
VANESSA
Water gushes from the burst pipe under my kitchen sink. So much water that I’m drenched in seconds.
“Motherfucking shit balls!” I yell, pulling cleaning products out of the way, swiping rubber gloves and other cleaning cloths, trying to find the shutoff valve.
“This can’t be happening,” I spit, gasping as water hits me in the face, making me blind.
“Turn, you stupid son of a bitch.” I twist as hard as I can, but it’s no use. The valve is stuck, and I’m running out of time. The whole house will be flooded in a matter of minutes.
“Arghh. Fucking fuckedy fuck,” I scream as my hand burns from pain trying to twist and pull the damn thing.
The back door opens with a loud bang, the plaster behind the handle staying intact, but what the ever-loving fuck is this stranger doing, bursting into my house?
“Move. Let me help.” He drops to where I’m kneeling, and I scurry back away from him, my back hitting the fridge.
“Jesus Christ. This thing is stuck.” He pulls some fancy little tool from the belt on his pants, and less than three seconds later, the water stops. Silence descends between us. Nothing but the drip, drip of water.
His cool blue eyes land on me, and I’m frozen in place.
“There. That should do it,” he huffs, running his hand through his soaked hair. He looks back at me, his cool gaze lingering on my mouth, and then he smirks, his own mouth open slightly.
“Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my house?” The anger in my voice has him wincing.
“Sorry. I heard the commotion, saw the water, and just ran over here. Thought knocking could wait.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“You have no right to come into my home. To touch my things. Go and be a hero someplace else.”
I finally stand, and he follows suit.
“Excuse me. I just helped save you from thousands of dollars’ worth of damage,” he says with a grunt, putting his hands on his hips.
“I’m not thanking you. I have it handled,” I huff and put my hands on my own hips. I don’t know who he is or where he comes from. But dear lord, he is attractive.
He’s tall and has sandy blond, almost brown hair. His eyes are the bluest I’ve ever seen. But he looks oddly familiar.
“You do, in fact, not have it handled. That valve has probably been there since 1955, when these damn houses were built.”
“Get out. I don’t know you and refuse to argue with a stranger who barges into people’s houses,” I fire back, and he laughs.
“Next time I should just let you flood your home. Don’t call me when that happens.” He shrugs like he’s doing me a huge favor.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Get out. Don’t come back.”
“I’m leaving, but like I said, don’t call me when it happens again.” Who does he think he is?
“I would never call you. I would rather drown in a flood. Just get out and don’t show your face around here again,” I yell, pointing to the door.
“That will be hard for me to do.” He grins, and I stiffen. “I’m Callum. Your new neighbor.” He winks and walks out the back door, stopping to shake water from his hair.
“I don’t care if you’re the queen of England. Don’t come back, you hear?” I yell after him as he spins to face me.
“You have some real issues, lady. I was being friendly and neighborly. Then you kick me out,” he says, scoffing.
I roll my eyes. “I sure do. Bye, Callum.” I slam the door and hear his laugh as he lingers on my porch. I lean my back against the wood, my heart beating a mile a minute.
“I’ll drop by tomorrow and fix it for you,” he yells through the door.
“You’ll do no such thing,” I yell back and wonder why he’s still here.
“I’ll even do it for free, even though you yelled at me and kicked me out.”
I don’t reply because I don’t want him to come back.
“See you around, Neighbor,” he finally yells, chuckles, and stomps away.
New neighbor. This must be some kind of sick joke. I listen to the sounds of next door. There it is. The beep, beep, beeping of a moving truck.
“Great, new neighbors, just what I need,” I grumble, watching as the men climb out of the van. Laughter ensues, and the men start to noisily open doors and yell to each other.
There’s another van on the drive, smaller and black with orange writing on the side. Petersons. Where do I know that name from?
I don’t wait around to see who else climbs out. I need a shower, even though I’m already soaked.
***
Coffee in hand, I open the front door and make my way over to my favorite chair. It’s round and has the thickest padding. The fabric is yellow and has white daisies on it. I got it from a reclaim store when I moved in.
Next door is a hive of activity. Men walking around, boxes and furniture held in their hands. Laughing, yelling, and whistling. I close my eyes, hands around my mug, and try to block it all out.
The man who came to my rescue is standing there, looking at me. He can only be described as strikingly handsome. Arrogant asshat. His wife is a lucky lady indeed. Not that I care. I don’t. I have no desire to get close to a man. I have no desire to get close to anyone.
He waves and smiles. When his arm drops and he realizes I’m not going to wave back, or smile, or call him out on his bullshit, he walks back inside his house. His shoulders move up and down, and I know he’s laughing at me.
“Keep laughing, you asshat,” I grumble under my breath.
Mrs. Babinski had lived in Callum’s house since 1987 with her husband Bill. She died last year, and the house has been empty ever since. Her daughter used to come by once a month, but then that stopped too.
I love this neighborhood. The people, not so much. But then again, I don’t really like anyone. My need for isolation has now been disrupted, something my heart doesn’t seem to like. I really need to get on with some work, so draining my drink, I climb to my feet and walk back inside. Working from home has its quirks.
Once I’ve finished dinner, I fill the jug and wait for it to boil. I suppose I need a new valve, and I suppose I’ll have to find someone to fix it. Or I could just fix it myself. How hard can it be?
Around nine, I go up to my room and prepare for bed. I moved here when I was eighteen. I had nothing and no one. I went to a local community college, passed my advanced English lit class with flying colors, met Beth, got a degree, and chose to become an editor.
I make the mistake of looking out the window. Callum is now talking to a man who looks exactly like him, waving his hands around like a madman.
“I bet you’re telling him what an awful human being I am,” I mutter to myself.
Both men look in my direction, and I quickly whip the curtain closed. Why am I even staring down after him? Sure, he’s good-looking, but he’s an ass. Why am I having this reaction at all? This is not like me. I’ve never been interested in men.
There are too many demons chasing me. Too many nightmares chasing my dreams. I shut my blind and step back.
“God fucking damn it. Why now? Why is he here now?”
I scold myself as I walk into the bathroom. Beth would tell me to embrace it. She would tell me to open my heart and take a chance. But just the thought of doing that terrifies me.
I can’t keep standing here daydreaming, my toothbrush paused. I hope I can get some sleep, even if it only amounts to a few stolen hours. I know I’m not going to get him out of my head. He slides inside and makes himself comfortable.
A big part of me craves that connection. I chance a look out the window again, and he’s still there, looking up at my window. What does he see? Can he see my broken pieces? Because that’s what I am. I am simply broken.
