Page 9 of Curse the Flame

I scrunch my nose and scroll right past that one.

A summer breeze blows in through the open window. On the air, I scent heat and pizza and a hint of dirt. The heat is easily explainable. It’s the end of July in New Jersey, and I’m just grateful that the stink of the dumpster on the edge of the parking lot doesn’t reach my living room window. The pizza comes from the cross flow; the back of my condo overlooks a pizzeria that I patronize more than I should. It’s not an NYC slice, but New Jersey is pretty damn close, and since I prefer to have fresh air blowing over cranking up the AC during the day, I’ve gotten used to the waft of pizza grease and hot cheese.

My stomach grumbles slightly. Hmm. It’s lunchtime. Maybe I should head on over and get a slice or two…

Gripping my phone, I unfold my legs, climbing out of the couch. I shuffle over to the window, prepared to close it. While I’m home, I’ll let the breeze in; that, coupled with my living room fan keeps me cool enough when, honestly, I’ve always liked being warm and toasty. If I’m leaving, though? So the suburbs have a better rep than downtown Manhattan. Doesn’t mean I’m going to leave the window open so that any weirdo or creep can sneak up the fire escape or, I don’t know, scale the siding to let themselves inside the condo.

I frown when I see the latest sacrifices to the garden gods. As much as I enjoy nature, I can’t say it enjoys me all that much. My mother, when she was alive, had a green thumb. Me? Mine’s more black. Maybe it’s because my absent-mindedness means I forget to water them as much as I should, and while I leave them in direct sunlight on the windowsill, that might be too much sun.

At the very least, my poor dried-out attempts to start an herb garden are an obvious clue that I messed something up again.

Darn it. After I had to throw away the cactus Elisabeth gave me as a housewarming present because I accidentally knocked it over and cracked the pot and, well, the cactus, too, I thought some mint and sage would work.

With a sigh, I have to admit that I had too high of hopes for my own private garden.

Water, I think. Maybe if I give them a little water, it’ll bring them back to life. Probably not, but it’s worth a shot, right?

I’m about to head to the kitchen to grab a cup of water when, suddenly, my phone rings. I give a start, mainly because I’d blanked on realizing that I was holding it in my hand already. Forgetting the plants for a moment, I glance down at the screen.

It’s my landlord.

Mr. Z.

I don’t know him by anything else. His legal last name must have been on the month-by-month lease I signed for July and August, but if it was, I never noticed it. Don’t know what his first name is, either. His wife has this quirk where she only refers to him as ‘husband’, and he introduced himself as Mr. Z so Mr. Z he is.

He’s a very… interesting man. And if his wife wasn’t so incredibly—and obviously—protective and possessive of him, I might even admit that he’s super attractive. He’s got this silver fox thing going on. His skin is bronzed, his eyes a pale color that had me staring when I first met him in person. His hair is actually a paler shade of silver, though when you look at the rest of him… his face, his powerful, muscular build… you realize he doesn’t look as old as he first appears.

Then, of course, you look in his eyes and think that maybe he’s seen some things.

And then there’s his wife. Elisabeth. She’s a stunner, too, and she seemed to warm up a little once she realized that I wasn’t going to hit on her husband. Not me. Not goody two-shoes, sweet Willow. She tsk-ed at first, but during the tour of the apartment, she seemed more concerned that I would be living on my own without a chaperone.

A chaperone. Seriously. I had to show my ID and prove that I’m twenty-eight, even if my height and size and my short wavy blonde hair means that I do look younger than I am.

Since then, they’ve visited twice to make sure that I’d settled in all right and that I don’t need anything. I thought it was sweet, if a little unnecessary. It’s bad enough that Daphne is convinced I’ll keel over if she’s not there to protect me. I’ve known her my entire life. I don’t need a pair of married strangers worrying about me, too.

Should I answer? Considering I’m thinking about sticking around once the summer ends, I probably shouldn’t avoid my landlord like I do my friends when I’m not in the mood to talk.

I swipe the screen, then put the phone on speaker. I hate having the phone up against my ear when I’m talking to someone, and since I’m alone and not bothering anyone, I’d rather be comfortable.

“Hello?”

“Willow.”

My landlord’s voice booms out of the phone. He has a rich, deep tone with a hint of an accent that I haven’t been able to place. Something Mediterranean, I think, which would definitely work with his tan.

“Hey, Mr. Z. How are you?”

“You’re unhappy.”

I blink. Okay. I wasn’t expecting that. I’m Willow. I’m bubbly and chipper and even when I’m committing herbicide and debating whether I should risk my livelihood and quit my job, I purposely keep a smile on my face. “What was that?”

“I said that you’re unhappy. I don’t like to see one of my charges unhappy.”

Now, of the two of us, Daphne is the paranoid Ackerly. She says it’s because she’s got an anxiety diagnosis and pills to help her shut her mind off at night. Me? I think it’s because she’s a lot more observant and less oblivious as I am.

Crap. See… I never once thought there might be cameras in the condo I’m renting.

I gulp. “You can see me?”