The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,25
we didn’t box those. But you have chicken enchiladas and veggie fajitas. Come on.” I stand up, stacking the boxes and picking them up.
Indy doesn’t argue again. She just shoulders her bag with her laptop and picks up an appetizer of guacamole and chips and follows me into the autumn day.
“It’s this way,” she says and I fall in step beside her as we walk toward her place.
“This is convenient. Living so close to all these restaurants and shops.” I scan the little market and coffee shop we walk past.
“I love living in the West End. Actually, I am obsessed with my place. Wait ‘til you see it.”
I glance at her, surprised by the statement. Indy seems a little removed from all the luxury and highbrow lifestyle that easily impressed Courtney. We round another corner and Indy walks faster, pointing to an old, lone building. “That’s it,” she squeaks.
The second I see her apartment building, I know immediately why she loves it so much.
“You live in a tenement building?” We cross the street.
“Not just any tenement building. The Last Tenement! This is literally the last one standing even though these streets were once filled with them. The West End is rich with history, with the story of how many immigrant families got their start in Boston; it sucks that they knocked them all down.”
I stop outside of Indy’s door and stare up at the four-story apartment building. She’s right, a throwback to an earlier time, it is an overlooked piece of history of Boston’s West End tenements and immigrant roots. Indy’s place sticks out like a sore thumb amid the newer high-rises and ongoing construction.
A billboard plasters one side of the lone apartment building advertising a new exhibit at the Museum of Science. Behind me, dust kicks up as construction rages on, and across the street, the rich sounds of a saxophone pierce the air, the musician lost to the music, his eyes closed.
This place is a hidden, glittering treasure in a sea of normal. “I can see why you love it so much,” I tell her truthfully. Courtney would have scoffed if I ever proposed living in a place like this. Hell, I probably would have overlooked it too. But seeing the way Indy stares at her apartment building and sees beyond the old brick and narrow windows makes me realize just how much Courtney and I were missing.
I follow Indy inside. The apartment building, although clean and well-maintained, still holds on to the scent of a bygone era. Small black and white tiles cover the ground as refurbished mahogany curves over the entryway. Glancing up at the narrow stairs, I like that there isn’t an elevator.
Accustomed to my teammates’ and my luxury apartments, Indy’s place is a reminder that sometimes, less is more. Steeped in history and simplicity, I feel welcomed before we even push into her apartment door on the second floor.
She holds her arms out wide, as if to show off her space. Grinning at me, she announces, “I know it’s not much, but it’s home. Welcome.”
The ceilings are low, the space is cramped, but stepping into her space is like diving into her personality. Neat bookshelves line the walls with artfully placed knickknacks serving as separators and bookends. A simple leather couch sits in the living room and the decorative pillows are all in varying shades of beige and tan with a throw tossed over the back. Artwork hangs on the walls in perfectly spaced frames. While her apartment is neat and orderly, it’s welcoming. Her kitchen doubles as a workstation and I grin when I note her stacked piles of folders and notebooks as well as a little cup with pens and highlighters.
She shifts from one foot to the other before removing the takeout boxes from my hand and placing them on the kitchen counter. “Would you like a coffee?”
“Sure,” I agree, not wanting to leave. “I like your place,” I add truthfully, my gaze landing on the window that overlooks the street, allowing a beam of natural light to stream inside.
She gives me a disbelieving look.
“I’m serious,” I say, gesturing to her living room. “You live in a living piece of history.”
“That’s my favorite part.” She prepares her French press.
“There’s something to be said for simplicity. For using the space you have,” I tack on, suddenly very aware that my 2,000-square-foot-plus Beacon Hill brownstone is ridiculously wasteful for a bachelor who currently lives alone and spends weeks at a time not sleeping there.