My living situation is unique. It's special. It's...probably going to be changing in the next year or so. Or whenever we sell the old house. I highly doubt whoever moves in there will want some nearly thirty something scrounging around in the apartment over the garage. I'm neat, I'm courteous, but I also know it's not an ideal situation.

I could have stayed with Rock in his rancher next door, but I'd craved some sort of independence after high school. Also, he scared Evan, just a bit, and it was easier to play house without my Uncle breathing so heavily down our backs. Rock may still be next door, but there's a thatch of trees and a good thousand feet between dwellings.

Evan and Rock just never really saw eye to eye. They played nicely during family events, and town festivities. Two pillars of the community. The foundation, and the up-and-comer. But they were never chummy. I'd never catch the two of them, shootin' the shit in the backyard. Or standing gazing lovingly over the insides of some old car, coffee mugs in their hands, acting like they'd just discovered how the wheel works. They just never spoke the same language. The only thing they had in common, was me. So it's safe to assume that when Evan dumped me, my uncle had his shot gun out and ready before I'd even left the church.

I fold up the square of paper Rock has given me. Questions to ask the contractor, whenever he arrives. Three weeks ago, we'd put our feelers out, looking for someone to fix up the old house. Someone with experience in historic renovations. Someone with a lot of free time. And most importantly, someone willing to work cheap. We even threw in a free place to stay, as an incentive. The house may be dated, and a bit worse for wear, but it's still sound and livable. If you like slightly creepy, decade long abandoned farm houses.

It's a niche market, okay?

Rock says it's his project, but honestly, it's been mine. He's just the money behind it. He is the one that has pushed it forward, but I've been the pilot...putting this plane together while it's in the air. No one in Brush River was up for the job. All the people Rock had asked to start had balked at the idea. They knew the enormity of the task. They knew the sentimentality of the house. When I say my mother was saint-like, I mean it. Her death effected the whole town.

So, we'd advertised in the Brush River paper, as well as the next town over, Marshy Point. After that turned up nothing much but a few restless college kids, and a really creepy call from someone named "Vampire Dan", we put our ad on the internet. A surefire way to eliminate any other creeps and ne'er-do-wells. Right.

We had some takers, right off the bat. Three candidates that actually had some knowledge on restoration, and were licensed to do the work. Then one of them backed out, not ready to commit to such a long project. The other one seemed interested until apparently his girlfriend told him she was pregnant, and they had to move in with her parents. I got the whole story in a long, run on sentence filled email that I quickly read with huge eyes and then never bothered to reply to.

The last guy, Sam Emerson, has yet to flake on us. He is, in fact, anything but flaky. He's even so normal, that perhaps I should be worried about that. Our interactions so far have been completely uncomplicated. He returns emails promptly. Texts back easily and politely. He has multiple references, all of whom checked out and raved about his work. And when my Uncle talked to him on the phone on two occasions, Rock said he was soft spoken, confident and had a good sense of humor. He's also willing to work for dirt cheap, and live in the house as part of his payment.

So, winner winner. Possible chicken dinner? If he wants, I'll consider making him one, in lieu of payment.

After a week or so of back and forth, we'd finally come to an agreement and made a decision on a starting date. Today. And so, after stopping back at the Spoon for a few hours, mostly to rant and rave to Libby, Henry, and anyone else who will listen (mostly the Real Housewives), about Mr. Donkey, I make my way back to the Old House. I'm in a pretty stellar mood by the time I get home. It's been an eventful day so far, and I can only hope and pray that Sam Emerson is as boring, dependable and normal as he sounds on paper.

All I know right now, is that Sam Emerson is late.

It's twelve minutes after one, and there is no sign of him.

I pace around the front yard of the house, kicking newly fallen leaves and examining the scruffy condition of my boots. I gaze up at the Old House, looking over chipping paint, a broken front railing, and a screen door that badly needs to be fixed.

There's a little bit of shame that washes through me. Shame that I let her house go to shit. Shame that I took all the things that reminded me of her, and mostly shut them up in the house and locked the door.

It's going to be a challenging few months.

But right now, what I really need, is for Sam Emerson to get here so I can thrust it all on him, and then continue my uninspiring, unheroic descent into my shame filled life.

I peak around the side of the house and I can see the big, two car garage that sits much further back on the property. Over the garage, sits my apartment. A sparse place. Two bedrooms. A small kitchen and a cozy family room. Nothing special. Just a place for me to sleep. I spend 90% of my time at the Shaky Spoon or at Uncle Rock's. There's no point in sprucing the place up. For a long time, I had thought it was just a stepping stone for me and Evan. A place we could go, to be alone, and do all the things that college-age kids wanted to do. I had thought we'd eventually buy a house together (one right off Main Street, but close enough to see the river). Instead...Evan opened a practice in the next town over, Marshy Point, and he took my best friend, Andrea, with him.

So much for that.

My blood boils a bit, and I take a few cleansing breaths to bring my blood pressure back down.

I check the time again, and see that it's nearing 1:30. Maybe Sam is a bust. Maybe I got catfished. Is that how that works? Of course, I'd be the only loser in the world that doesn't get catfished by a significant other, but instead by a super polite, too good to be true contractor.

I start to feel a little itchy, wondering if I am being stood up. And not even for a real date.

Just as I consider throwing myself off a cliff (there's no real cliffs in Brush River, so the sad things is is that I'd have to like...dig myself a ravine first), I hear the rumble of a car. We live in a pretty remote part of town, on a road that basically only leads to Rock's house and then to the Old House. It must be Sam Emerson. Hooray! I won't die a lonely old hag with no contractor. Wait... I'm getting confused.

I frown, watching as one of The Rust Depot's banged up, but dependable shop trucks comes rumbling down the road. It can't be Rock. He only ever drives his car.

The road sits above the house, which sits at the bottom of an incline, so I watch as the pick up slows down and stops at the top of the hill. Curiouser and curiouser. If it had been Rock, he would have come barreling down the drive way, classic rock music blaring as he honked the horn at me. Definitely not my uncle.

It takes a minute, but I watch as the door to the truck opens, and a pair of long legs step out. He's wearing boots, dark leather ones that go well with his dark jeans. A worn dark green plaid shirt, rolled at the sleeves, with a thermal shirt underneath finishes the ensemble for best "lumberjack/bad boy on the run." I've seen this outfit before, and it wasn't long ago.

"You have got to be kidding me." I say, my voice echoing through the quiet trees around me.

Mr. Donkey, in all his handsome, dick-ish glory, stands staring at me, arms crossed over his broad chest, scowling slightly. I notice, for the first time, that he has tattoos on one arm. I can only see a bit of them, peaking out from under the rolled sleeve of his flannel. Could he be more cliché?

"Please don't tell me you're Sam. Please don't. Please just tell me you followed me from 519, and you're here to road rage murder me. It'd be so much easier than trying to find another decent contractor. Please." I say, with a sharp look at him, though I'm kidding. I don't want to be road rage murdered, obviously. But, god, I don't want him to be Sam either.

"Your Uncle had told me that Max would be coming with the tow. I assumed Max was a man. I wasn't expecting...you." He speaks. His voice is calm, somewhat amused, and still has that deep, obnoxiously charming accent. I want to ask him where he's from, but I don't want to know. Because he's going to be out of my life in about two minutes, and why waste the breath?

"Well hello! Welcome to the world! It's 2015. Women can vote. They can have jobs. And sometimes, girls can have boy names, and boys can have girl names. Words are tricky, I know." I scrunch my nose at him, and wait for him to become enraged or at least to curse at me. I get a kick out of making donkeys bray.

"We got off on the wrong foot." He raises an eyebrow at me, and I'm surprised enough for a minute that I don't answer right away. He's calm, and he hasn't risen at all to my bait.

"That's one way to put it." I grin at him, all teeth. Sam nods and has this tiny smile on his face, which makes me take a harder look at him. He doesn't seem mad, or even annoyed. Just...amused? Maybe he's special.

"I don't think this is going to work." I jut my hip out and cross my arms over my chest. A defensive stance if I've ever seen one. Donkey starts walking forward, and I take an instinctive half step back. He walks down the hill, down the drive way and comes to a stop about three feet from me.

Sam's big. From far away, I'd almost forgotten. He's not as tall as I'd first thought, but he's around six feet. And he's broad. You could climb him like a tree, and swing from his shoulders like a crazed monkey.

For some reason, I'm thinking about bananas all the sudden.

"Can we try this again?" His voice breaks me from my banana reverie. I look up at him. The sun is shining perfectly on his face, and I can see the brown scruff on his jaw and cheeks. It's darker than the sandy brown fur on his head. I call it fur because it just begs to be petted and tamed. That came out wrong.

"Um." I say, intelligently. I shift my weight on my feet and blink.

"Hi. I'm Sam Emerson. I was an ass earlier. I was angry at my car, and at a situation that had nothing to do with you, and unfortunately you're the one I took it out on." He waits, looking down at the ground for a moment. I wait too.

"Despite first impressions, I want to work with you on this project," He raises an eyebrow, "I think." He smiles, genuinely. Perhaps one of the first real smiles I've seen. Something in me clenches. Down, girl.

"I'm sorry. I am. I hope you accept my apology." Sam Emerson holds out a hand. A big, slightly rough hand that is connected to a rather tan and toned forearm. That fucker. It's like he planned the whole thing, annoying accent and tanned arms and all.

But...I'm really not a heartless bitch, though I may play one on tv.

I put my hand in his, and we shake, slowly. Like we're both wondering if, at any moment, the other one will snap, and begin gnawing on the other person's arm.

"Hi Sam. I'm Maxine Trink. Also known as Max." I give him the eye, and he nods. We've established my name. Moving forward. "Also known as an occasional tow truck driver. Also known as...a bit of a hot head..." I drift off, realizing I'm rambling. Sam is still shaking my hand, his eyes locked on mine. He's not smiling, but he's not scowling anymore.

"I accept your apology." I manage. He nods, and then let's go of my hand and that is that. No more touchy touchy.

" So is this it? This is the house?" He walks away, his feet crunching through the first batch of fallen leaves. It's barely September, so more will fall soon, blanketing the whole area in fiery orange and red. It takes me a minute to switch gears. I take a breath, moving into business mode.

"Yes. This is it. You can see it's...it hasn't had much upkeep." I watch him walk around. He grunts softly in reply. It's weird to have a stranger here. Brush River isn't exactly a bustling tourist destination, so newcomers are few and far between. I don't know the last time I brought someone here. And I don't know that I've ever brought anyone into my mom's house. Not even Evan.

Sam takes the front stairs two at a time, and then begins walking around on the porch. It's a big, (used to be) white porch, that wraps around to the side and back of the house. He doesn't say much, but I can tell he's observant. Making note of things as he takes everything in. Despite his stupid comments earlier in the day, there is intelligence behind those eyes, and I can easily see it.

"Do you know when it was built? It looks like there's a lot of original features." He asks, pausing at one of the front railing pillars. I walk up onto the porch after him, somewhat hesitantly. Memories are a strange thing. And they can really put you on your ass if you're not careful.

"Early 1900's. It's been in my family the whole time. But after my mother died..." I fade off and take a second. It's both hard and easy to talk about her to a stranger. Sam doesn't know anything, so I could tell him anything. He doesn't look at me with the sappy, honey laced pity that people in town do. It's just a fact to him. A woman died, and her house was left to die too.

"We are looking to fix it up and sell it." I say quickly, and look up at him with a fast smile.

He's looking at me, but he doesn't say anything. He nods and then goes back to looking around.

"So, what do you think?" I ask absentmindedly, pulling my keys out of my back pocket. Sam is pulling at a piece of the siding, which looks like it wants to give way under the gentle pressure of his hands. He turns then, to look at me with those dark eyes of his. Completely unreadable.

"Looks like a hell of a job." He says with a slight lift at the side of his mouth. Not quite a smile. I purse my lips and nod, and lean against the front door.

"A hell of a job in a good, exciting way? Or a hell of a job as in like...let's just paint this thing red and call it El Diablo's House?" I ask, not quite able to hide the concern (and the teasing) in my voice. Sam doesn't laugh, doesn't even crack a smile at what I've said. Either the man doesn't have a sense of humor or he really just doesn't find me funny. There's a first for everything, I guess.

Sam takes his time answering.

"Good, exciting way." He says finally, ignoring my last comment. He walks over then and tilts his head to the front door.

"Let's go in." He says. A statement, not a question. I nod, and then turn and slip the key in the lock. There isn't any resistance, but when I turn and push, I get nothing. I twist the key the other way, and push with my hand, but still nothing. It's been a long time since I went in this house.

I turn the key once more, feeling the lock disengage, and I shove with my shoulder this time. Nothing.

Sam hasn't moved, but stands back, watching me.

"You sure this is the right house?" He quips, and I shoot him quick daggers with my eyes. So, he does have a sense of humor.

"We don't go in the house often. Uncle Rock said it sticks..." I trail off, and then shove again with my shoulder, wincing slightly as the heavy door does it's best impression of a wall. Thanks, door.

The next thing I know, Sam slides up next to me. His body is warm, and I can practically smell the woodsy outdoorsman oozing off him. Like he rubbed those tiny pine tree car fresheners all over himself. Or maybe a real pine tree. I picture him pulling whole trees out of the ground by the roots, and rubbing them on his back like a shower loofah.

Sam takes the door knob in his hand, turning and with one brief lurch of his big shoulder, the front door swings open. Good job, door. Make me look like a weakling, why don't ya?

He steps back and gestures to the open doorway, in a "ladies first" motion. I don't bother to look at him, not feeling the need to congratulate him on being able to open a door.

Stepping into the house is a bit like stepping into an old photo album. All the furniture is gone, and most of the decorations, but the basic feeling is still there. The wallpaper, the light in the afternoon, the set up of the rooms. It brings back memories in a great, slightly torturous wave. I'm thankful that Sam immediately starts ambling through the first floor on his own. It gives me time to get myself together, to push the cobwebs from my mind. We had so many wonderful memories in this house. Just bookended by terribly sad ones.

"The inside is in better condition than the outside." Sam calls from the dining room. The first floor is set up in a circuit. A formal living room, dining room, family room and kitchen all surrounding the staircase and a small bathroom in the center. You can make one big circle, walking through each room.

I follow the sound of his voice, and find him flicking a light switch in the dining room.

The light sconce on the wall turns on, pops loudly, and then is off. We both jump slightly in surprise.

"Well, that's a good sign." I sigh. Sam raises an eyebrow at me and then turns and keeps walking through the house. We end up in the kitchen, which is the next room, sandwiched between the dining room and family room. The kitchen needs the most work. It's an old farm house kitchen, which hasn't been updated since my mother was a girl.

"You lived here?" Sam asks, taking in the space. There's hardly any counter space. An old porcelain farm sink is the main appliance in the room. No dishwasher. An ancient stove that may or may not work. And just a space where a fridge should go. The old floor is discolored where the old fridge used to sit.

"Just as a child." I say, and then push forward. "This room obviously needs the most work. Besides just cosmetic stuff...it needs new floor, new counters, new lighting." I watch him as I speak. I can tell he's listening, because he nods every so often, but he's focused on the room. His somewhat sleepy eyes taking everything in.

"All the other rooms, it just looks cosmetic. The wood floors need refinishing. A new coat of paint on the walls. Fix those electrical problems." He leans against the sink. His accent is intriguing, and it's a bit hypnotic to listen to him speak. He speaks softly, almost at a murmur at times. As if he doesn't quite care if you can hear him or not. When he does make eye contact with you, there's something disarming about it. A bit intense. I wonder if he ever laughs. He barely smiles.

"Where are you from?" I ask, my mouth working without my brain's permission. A little party trick I know.

He studies me for a second, and reaches up, brushing a hand over his jaw. There's something intimate in the movement, and I shift slightly. Sam doesn't answer for a few seconds, as if he's deciding if he wants to answer at all. His mouth twitches slightly, and he studies me with those dark eyes of his. It's very evident to me that I don't know this man. At all. I've known him for all of ten minutes. And the first time we met, he was a royal prick. And now I'm standing with him in an old, isolated farm house, with no other living humans around for miles. Good move. Smart move, Trink.

I blink. Strangers are weird. Male strangers even weirder.

"I grew up in west London. Hammersmith." He speaks finally, and I feel a little bit less like he's about to devour me alive.

"Oh." I shift again. I have no idea where that is. He could have said "Hogsmeade" and I would have nodded and said "Yes, yes, tell me more."

"I've been traveling for about three years. All over the world. Picking up odd jobs. Brush River sort of fell in my lap." He says, and gives me a small smile. Less murder-y. I like it when he talks, it makes him seem warmer. But he doesn't seem to do it often.

"Where have you been?" I ask. He crosses his arms over his chest, and I watch the muscles flex.

"Everywhere." He gives me a wider smile this time, and his whole face seems to change. He looks almost boyish. "All through Europe at first. Germany, Amsterdam, Berlin. Paris. Scotland for a good long time. There was a girl there." He raises an eyebrow, and we both sort of laugh. Well, I laugh. "I was in Australia for some time. Gold Coast, mostly. But I did some backpacking there. South America, but not for long. And I've been all over the US. Before here, I was on the West Coast for awhile. Washington, Oregon, bits of California." He gets a slightly lost look to his eyes, and I can tell he's remembering each place he's been. I want to know more. I want to know a lot more. But I'm not sure what's appropriate to ask.

"That's pretty impressive. So you're a traveler, then?" I say. Sam nods and shrugs.

"I guess you could say that." And just like that, the conversation is over. He doesn't even have to say anything verbally. His body language says it all. Sam moves away from the sink, and keeps going on his self guided tour of the house. I take a second, but then I follow behind him.

We go up the stairs, and make short work of the three bedrooms upstairs. Again, mostly cosmetic things. The bathroom needs a complete overhaul, but that's the most work upstairs. We stop in the master bedroom. It's the only room in the house with furniture in it.

"Rock had the furniture brought in for you. I know it's not a lot but, anything else you need, you can let us know." I shift to the side as Sam brushes past me into the room. My uncle had a queen bed, on a simple iron bedframe brought in. Along with a small dresser and a nightstand with a lamp. On the small dresser, there's a little television, which looks like it may be from the 80's or early 90's. I look at Sam, to gauge his reaction, though I've already learned that he's a pretty closed book.

"This is good. It's better than a lot of places I've stayed." He gives me a nod. For some reason "prison?" is the first thing that pops in my mind, and I cringe. I wonder if Rock did a background check on him. Doubtful, as my Uncle believes the best in everyone.

It's not that Sam seems like a criminal. Besides the car incident, he's been just as he'd appeared in his emails and texts. Polite. Succinct. Easy going. There is just something about him. Something quiet. Like he's not trying to impress anyone, and doesn't care about the repercussions of that.

"Okay well." I look around the room. The sparse furniture. The light yellow walls, accented on one wall with floral wallpaper. My mother's old room. I am suddenly longing to be out of the house. The stifling rooms, and the overwhelming memories, and back in fresh air. I turn and beeline it for the hallway, the stairs, and the front door. I don't quite care if Sam's behind me, but I'm pleased to find him follow me out of the house.

The fresh air is what I need and I take a few deep breaths, rubbing my hands on my jeans.

"So, are we good, then? You want the job?" I ask, trying to hide the fact that I'm having a mild panic attack. Sam is watching me, but of course, he's not saying anything.

"I know it's a lot of work. But we are willing to pay you a decent amount, and you'll have free rent for however long. Rock said maybe three months it would take you? Before it gets too cold." I am rambling, idiotically. My heart is beating erratically. I can feel the keys to the house in my pocket, and they feel heavy.

"Three months sounds about right. I'll work on the exterior first, that way when it does get colder, I can start on the inside." Sam says. I nod, flashing him a manic smile. I pull the keys from my back pocket, and begin fumbling to get the spare house key off the ring.

I can't remember the last time I had a panic attack. Not even after Evan left. It's been years. Perhaps right before we'd gotten a pretty serious hurricane about seven or eight years ago. Rock had been out of town. Evan had been in college. I'd been home alone, and I'd been paralyzed with the fear of it.

I keep fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking slightly as I try to wrench it from the ring. Memories of that goddamn storm, coupled with being in my mom's house, and having this insanely good looking possible murderer staring at me, I feel as if I'm going to just implode into a black hole of neurosis.

"Max." Sam's voice is deep, and weirdly calming. Probably a trick he uses to lure his intended victims into sedation. I look up at him, freezing. He is standing much closer than I'd realized. The afternoon sun is glinting off his sandy hair, and in this light, his eyes are much lighter brown. Like chocolate with flecks of green and gold.

"I really am sorry about this morning. You seem uneasy around me and I don't blame you—" He looks down and I blink rapidly at him.

"No, it's fine. It's just...." I trail off, biting off some word vomit that doesn't need to make an appearance just yet. Or maybe ever.. "Coffee, lots of coffee." I murmur. Small smile from him.

"I've been traveling for a week to get here. My truck gave out on me back in Virginia. I didn't want to miss our meeting and the best I could come up with was that piece of shit you saw me with this morning. It got me to a town about twenty minutes from here—Marshy Point?" He says with a lift in his voice. I nod. Oh, I'm familiar with Marshy Point. "It broke down there about four days ago. Had to stay there at the only hotel B&B in town, before I was finally able to get it fixed. Made it two miles from here, and then it broke down again. So when I met you this morning, I was... not in a good mood." He gives me an apologetic smile, and once again, his face is transformed. I feel a kick in my stomach. My nerves and anxiety softens it's grip on my insides.

"I've never been told I'm a particularly...friendly person." He shifts and shoves his hands in his pockets. "But I don't go out of my way to insult people, like I did to you this morning." His jaw clenches. "So, I hope you'll forgive me for that. I've got a feeling you could teach me a thing or two about cars...and coffee, apparently." His mouth twitches. I pause.

I lick my lips. It's an instinctual thing. He's standing close to me, and he hasn't stopped looking at me. And all the sudden I just want to...do really awkward, inappropriate things to his mouth. God. I'm like walking hormones all the sudden.

"I'm sorry about your luck with the cars." I breathe. "And you were an absolute ass this morning. But thank you for the apology. I appreciate it. I do." I nod. Relief flashes through his eyes, but then it's gone. And he's back to the closed book.

"What B&B? Fox and Hound?" I ask, feeling my stomach flip. I want him to keep talking. It's strangely calming.

"Yes." Sam nods. "You've been there?" He asks. I nod. There's only one B&B in Marshy Point, so I'm not quite sure why I'm asking. Evan's family owns it. I've been there on a few occasions, but obviously not recently. It's within walking distances to Evan's fancy schmancy new practice.

"Yeah, in the past." I swallow. "Again, sorry for your luck. But you're here now. So...that's good." I quip softly, before placing the keys in his hands and giving him a quick, bright smile. He looks at me quizzically, but takes the keys.

"I'll get started tomorrow." He answers. And I nod, and walk away because I don't really trust myself to do anything differently.

****

Uncle Rock is grilling steaks, and I'm doing my best to finish off a bottle of red. Mickey at the local Brew 'N Sip had recommended an expensive cabernet with hints of chocolate and roots and old leathery elf shoes, but I splurged on the $12 house wine with the little Italian pizza man on the label. Tasted about the same.

"Are you breathing in between gulps of that juice, or are you just inhaling it into your lungs as well?" Rock gives me a stern look and I shoot him back a lovely Trink scowl.

"Lungs. I'm part fish. Plus, I had a rough day. Sort of your fault, too." I say, though my tone is light. He laughs and shakes his head. It's a mild evening. The light is perfect, and we are taking advantage of one of the last good grilling days before the cool weather really sets in.

"It all turned out for the best, right Max? Don't be so negative." He sighs heavily and chuckles under his breath. Rock is still wearing his work "uniform", more like life uniform, though I've changed into yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt with the words "The Rust Depot" emblazoned on the front. High fashion, indeed.

I nod and take another gulp of wine. Does sort of taste like juice. Juice that's gone terribly bad.

"You're right." I nod. They should put wine in juice boxes. That way it'd be more socially acceptable to drink it during any time of the day.

"What do you say? Want to invite our new neighbor to dinner?" Rock nods his head over to the small thatch of trees that separates his property from the Old House. We can just make out the faint outline of the house, and if I look hard enough (though I'm not), I can nearly see the light on in the top floor. It's strange to see the house being used again, but oddly comforting.

"No." I quip. He laughs.

"He really rubbed you the wrong way, huh? We don't have to hire him. We can find someone else. Really." Uncle Rock flips a steak, and then points the metal spatula at me. "You say the word, and he's gone. Back from whence he came." Rock pauses and frowns. "From whence did he came?"

I laugh and roll my eyes.

"I don't know. England, apparently. Though he sounds like a bit of a drifter. Not really belonging to one place." I think back to all the places Sam said he'd been. Australia. Germany. Paris. South America.

I've never been outside of the US. And barely off of the eastern side of it.

"I did a background check on him. Nothing came up." Rock plates the steaks and sets the bigger one down in front of me. Ah, good Uncle. The best Uncle. I smile at him, and then pour him some of my precious grape juice. He's more of a beer drinker, but sometimes I like to bring him to the dark, fancy side with my expensive wine. Hah.

"Aw, you really did a background check? Or you just had Greg Porter at the precinct run a report on his name?" I wink at Rock, who frowns at me.

"Greg knows what he's doing, Max. So I did have him run a report, but I also had a legitimate background check. I didn't want some crazy man living within a few feet of my niece." Rock starts cutting up his steak. He sighs happily as he eats a piece roughly the size of my fist, and then keeps talking.

"I think he seems like a good man. An honest worker. He told me about the shit he went through just to get here on time. All because he didn't want to break our meeting date. And he has a good, firm handshake. I like that." Rock laughs as if he's just said something extremely funny and I can't help but smile.

"Right. A good firm handshake always rules out the murderers, psychos and all around crazy pants." I grin. Rock nods and shrugs his shoulders.

"Worked for me so far."

"Well, then we might as well stick to the tried and true." I say, topping off my glass and finishing the bottle.