Ellen sputtered coffee. “Pay for it?”
Hailey raised an eyebrow. “Fixing roofs and leaking sinks and such, that’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”
“No.” Ellen shook her head for emphasis. “No. That’s not what I meant. You know very well that’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe I’ll just buy myself some tools.”
“Tools?”
Ellen looked intrigued now. When Hailey figured out why, she tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling with an exaggerated expression of disgust. “You have such a dirty mind. I mean tools tools. You know, for fixing the roof and such.”
“Oh,” Ellen muttered. “Okay. Never mind, then.”
“Well, you’re right, there are things a woman can use a man for if you want to be old-fashioned and dependent and stick to traditional roles—but he is definitely not necessary. I’ll just go forth and purchase a cute little toolbox of my very own. I mean, it’s not like there’s any good reason why I shouldn’t be able to fix the roof myself.”
Ellen was looking confused now. “Which roof are we talking about, anyway?”
“A rhetorical roof.”
Ellen nodded. “Right. I think I had one of those once. It did leak. But you know, a toolbox isn’t going to whisper sweet nothings and cuddle you while you sleep.”
Hailey shook her head. “The cuddles come at too great a price. This will be great. I’ll make new friends, I’ll start taking classes and find myself new hobbies, and I can stop worrying about my love life, stop dreading every weekend—whether I have a date or not.” She leaned on the small desk, gesturing earnestly. “Over the holidays I started thinking—why am I doing this? Dating makes me miserable. I’m happiest when I take a break from all that. Unfortunately I never get away with it long, before someone has set me up, and I always agree to go, thinking this time it might be different. Why do we do that? Why are we so hung up on this ridiculous idea that there is a perfect guy for us somewhere out there? Where does this true love myth come from?”
“Don’t. You’re making me depressed.”
“Exactly. Just the thought of there being no Mr. Right has us depressed. So we get desperate and take all kinds of crap, just to avoid the horrible, terrible, paralyzing thought of being still single at thirty. I’ve had it. I’ve trusted too many liars, wasted too much time on losers. It stops here.”
“Hailey, you’re being ridiculous. Okay, so you’ve been unlucky with some of your boyfriends…”
Hailey sent her a look.
“Okay, all of your recent boyfriends,” Ellen amended with a grimace. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a decent guy for you out there. Somewhere.”
“Ah, the elusive someone somewhere sometime. Maybe mine is in Alpha Centauri, born approximately in the twenty-fifth century?”
Ellen pointed at Hailey with a pencil. “I’m serious. There’s someone out there for everyone. More importantly, your bad luck with guys does not mean there’s something wrong with you.”
That was the point, wasn’t it? There was something wrong with her. Simply a dysfunctional pattern, she hoped, not a personality flaw. Something she could work through, habits she could break. That was what this year was all about. If there was a gold nugget out there, she’d never find it if she kept her nose in the mud simply out of desperation. “I just need some time to myself,” she said, her tone low now. “Away from the dating scene. I need a chance to break free from this evil cycle—then I can start afresh.”
“Hailey…”
“Don’t you see? It’s necessary for me to get out of my current dysfunctional pattern. Embrace possibilities. Can-bes instead of must-bes.”
Ellen rolled her eyes, but Hailey could nevertheless detect a glow of sympathy and understanding. “I will support you in this, but Hailey, you’re definitely watching too many talk shows.”
CHAPTER ONE
THE house was locked and abandoned. She’d knocked for ages—and then finally resorted to trying the door-knob.
She’d flown halfway across the world—and come to a locked door. Now what? Jane had told her someone would greet her here.
This wasn’t a good sign, was it?
Maybe “someone” was simply late. She pushed her suitcases to the side and sat down on the step. Jane wasn’t answering her cell phone, so she dug in her purse for the printout of her last e-mail to double check the street name and number. Yes. She was at the right place, and the right time had come and gone twenty minutes ago, but nobody was here yet.
She sent Jane a text message, then stuffed the phone and the diary back into her purse.
She’d wait awhile.
Then she’d panic.
At least the house looked nice. And the street was pretty and quiet—if you didn’t count the noise of children yelling. Of course, for a schoolteacher that was mere background noise.
Hailey was so mesmerized watching the children rush back and forth on their bikes in the street that she nearly screamed when a shadow fell over her.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. You must be Hailey?”
She squinted up at him. He looked like a tall and menacing shadow from this angle, but at least the voice wasn’t menacing. This was probably “someone.” “Where did you come from?”
“Next door. Jumped over the fence, so you probably didn’t see me coming. I’m Jordan Halifax.” He shifted to the side and she could look at him. Still tall and menacing and scruffy—in what she and her girlfriends in her previous life would have called a hot way. “Jane asked me to check on you when you arrived.”
They made sexy men in Alaska too. Dammit.
But she wasn’t seeing sexy. Nope. Not for another five months. See no sexy, hear no sexy, speak no sexy. She squinted until he looked like an undefined shadow again. Safer that way. “Hi. Jane said someone would meet me here, and I guess you’re it.”
“Is there something wrong with your eyes?”
Hailey blinked, and he came into focus again. “Sorry. It was the sun. Do you have my key?”
“The key? No.”
“What?”
“The key is always under the pot.” Jordan nodded at a terra-cotta pot next to the door. “Didn’t Jane tell you about it? Just push the flowerpot a bit to the right, and you’ll find it.”
Key under a flowerpot? Seriously? What was this, a place out of time?
She pushed at the pot with the heel of her hand. It scraped on the old scarred concrete, but yes, there it lay. A house key. A bit rusty, showing it probably spent most of its time outdoors.
Jordan shifted his weight as if to leave. “Well. All set? Any questions?”
She held up the key to show her new neighbor, and pointed at the offending terra-cotta pot. “I can’t believe this! This is not good. It’s an open invitation for any serial killer to enter your home!”
“Really?”
“Yes! How do I know somebody hasn’t made a copy of this?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at her as if she was the crazy one. “You can always change the locks, I suppose. If it makes you feel better.”
“I