out of a small drawer in the end table, and puts one under my glass and the other his. “Besides, if you deal with the grass quickly, then the HOA might let you slide on a few of the other violations for a little while.”
“Like the shutters?” It’s my turn to lift a brow.
He sighs. “Okay, yeah. The shutters are going to cause a problem soon enough—if they haven’t already.”
“Oh, they definitely have. But I have a plan to deal with that.” The plan is pretty simple, actually. It involves me, a ladder, and a couple of cans of all-weather paint in the most boring gray I can find.
It’s a far cry from periwinkle violet, but it’s guaranteed not to piss off the HOA and will keep me from racking up a bunch more fines, and that is all I care about right now. I can afford the dumpster and the earrings I’m wearing, but only if I don’t have a ton of extra fees I suddenly need to pay off.
“Why don’t you want to handle the grass first?” he says, his voice taking that ultra-patient tone one uses for small children and lost animals. “It’s an easy job and will give you a quick win.”
The dude is obsessed with Kentucky bluegrass or fine fescue or Bermudagrass or whatever the hell kind of grass lives in between all the weeds that have taken over my front lawn.
“Maybe I don’t want a quick win,” I shoot back at him.
He rolls his eyes. “Everyone wants a quick win. And a dumpster, while probably necessary, is pretty much the antithesis of quick or win.”
Honestly, if he didn’t look so cute trying so hard to be something he is most definitely not—in other words, nice—I might have found his continued fixation on my grass amusing. But there is no chance I’m going to give him the satisfaction of doing it on his timeline. Partly because I am sick to death of a man telling me what to do or think and partly because mowing the grass just isn’t feasible right now. The only mower I found in Aunt Maggie’s garage is an old-style push mower without a motor. I cannot replace it with a mower that was built in this century, at least not until I get a regular paycheck.
“You know, the lawn mower is older than dirt and in the garage, stored behind about ten thousand magazines in about twenty different piles. So if you want me to mow the grass, you’re going to have to step up and help me figure out how to get a dumpster so I can throw away the clutter and clear a path to the world’s oldest mower. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure the lawn will just keep growing forever.”
Yeah. Take that, Mr. Grass Man!
Whew, I’m all flush and giddy off that little speech. That’s right. I can do things my way.
This time, his sigh is more like a groan—a dark little sound from deep in his throat that sends another frisson of something unexpected down my spine. Attraction or annoyance? It has to be the latter, because I refuse to let it be the former, which would be great if I believed it, especially since my hand shakes a little bit as I pull out my phone and prepare to take notes.
Nick doesn’t notice, or if he does, he’s too staid—or too much of a gentleman—to mention it, for which I am eternally grateful.
Instead, he focuses on the dumpster. “The first thing you’ve got to do is request the forms. The email address you need to use is at the beginning of the HOA documents—which you should read, by the way.”
“I plan to read them,” I say, defensiveness creeping into my tone. “I just haven’t had time yet, and I want to get a jump on ordering the dumpster.”
“Do you even know how to order a dumpster?” he asks.
“Of course I know how to get a dumpster!” There has to be an app for that. “I’m not completely helpless, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” He rubs at the bruise on his forehead. “After you get the forms, you need to fill them out, and you have to take pictures of where you want to put the dumpster while it’s on your property. Once that’s done, you submit the forms, and you should have an answer in two to four weeks.”
“Two to four weeks?” My voice squeaks as anxiety takes hold.
With all the stuff I have to sort through,