I’ve heard of some crazy-ass ideas to make money, but never in my life have I heard someone say they’re an organizer. “Like a maid?”
“No. I suck at cleaning,” she says, staring down at her phone screen again, tapping away at the glass. “I take what they have and make it accessible and easy to use. I declutter their life a bit and make sure everything has a proper place.”
“People pay you for that?” I ask, and it comes out harsh and judgmental. But obviously, I’m not rich enough to understand paying someone to move my shit around my place.
“Yeah, and they pay well.”
“Huh. Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter. “You must be good.”
“I’m the best in the city.”
“I wouldn’t say my place is organized, but I know where everything is when I need it.”
“Then you’re organized.”
“The garage isn’t, though, but that’s because my brother never puts anything back where it should go.”
“You want some help with that?” she asks, making me glance her way again.
“I don’t think I could afford you.” Her car had been cute but pricey, and her clothes aren’t giving me thrift-store vibes. The woman is classy and way out of my league, but that doesn’t stop me from going out of my way to spend more time with her.
“I’ll give you a helluva discount for saving my life and helping me get a new car.”
I forgot about that. I’ll have to beg Randall to give the girl the family discount and not screw her over like he usually does with his other customers. “It’s a deal,” I tell her, but then it hits me. Liam will be at the garage, and he’s the last person I want around her. Sharla or no, the man loves women, especially pretty little things like her.
“I have some time week after next in the evening.”
Liam’s on vacation soon. He and Sharla are going to Vegas to party it up like they don’t do that every day here in the city. It’s just an excuse to drink and gamble nonstop without anyone thinking they’re lushes or degenerates. Vegas has a way of making everything that’s bad somehow look good.
“That’ll work.”
“Perfect,” she says, tapping away on the screen again, “What’s the garage’s name so I can put it in my phone?”
“Winston Brothers.”
“Got it,” she says as I ease onto Halstead near the station. “It should only take a few days.”
“You haven’t seen the garage.”
“You haven’t seen my skills.”
God, I like her attitude. Unlike after the accident when she was a jumble of emotions and a hot mess, when she talks about her work, she’s confident and self-assured.
“I’m Oliver, but my friends call me Oli.”
“I like that,” she says. “I’m Lulu, and sometimes people call me Lou.”
“Lou,” I whisper her name, and I like the way it sounds on my lips.
“Here we are,” I tell her as I stop in front of the station, taking a spot on the street to avoid paying the ridiculous prices to park in a city lot. “You still good with doing this now?”
“As good as I’ll ever be, but I don’t remember anything besides you on top of me.”
I remember it too, and I haven’t been able to think of much else on the entire ride to the station. There is something about this chick that sticks under my skin and has my mind wandering to all the possibilities that will never become reality.
“I don’t think they need to know about that,” I tell her, killing the engine of the truck.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. “But you’re a hero,” she says with so much seriousness, it makes my chest squeeze a little bit.
