“No! You cannot go there,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Someone carrying my bags is worse than the limo.”
“Miss Clementine, please.” He shakes his head. “You cannot bring all this alone.”
“Thank you, Scott. But I really need to do this on my own. You wait here and look after the bags while I bring everything to the house, okay? Just park the limo somewhere far away from this street first.”
He sighs, not moving an inch.
“Please,” I beg the man in his fifties, who has been my driver since I was a kid. “I’ll wait for you.”
He checks his phone for something and murmurs, “This will do.” He turns my way and adds, “Give me ten minutes and please don’t go anywhere.”
As I’m waiting for Scott in the street, surrounded by all my stuff, a fat raindrop falls on my cheek.
Where is he?
I look around furiously but can’t locate Scott anywhere. The sky suddenly turns dark as it starts to drizzle.
Crap!
I glance around once more before grabbing the handle of my suitcase and start rolling it toward the house at the end of the street, my new home.
By the time I reach the white-iron main gate, dragging my luggage with one hand and two paper cake bags in the other, I’m out of breath and wet.
Why does this happen to me?
I peer around and thank goodness find a bell below the house number. I press and wait, as the heavy downpour blinds me. When no one answers, I press the bell a few more times in haste.
Where is everybody? Am I not at the right house?
I glance at my phone, raindrops falling on the screen as my GPS shows me at the location Oscar shared with me two days back.
This is the right place.
I put the bags down and try to open the latch.
“Please, please, please,” I chant. I look over my shoulder, in the direction of the traffic signal. The neighborhood seems nice enough and I hope my bags are still on the road.
“Hey?”
My head jerks toward the house at the sound of the heavy voice.
Thank God! Someone came.
A blurry image appears as I struggle with the rusted latch.
“Where are you going?” When the man approaches me, I automatically get under his big black umbrella.
“I’m… I’m Clementine,” I reply to the guy dressed in black jeans, a brown jacket, and a navy-blue polo T-shirt. “I’m the new tenant.”
His annoyed gaze is locked on my face as my heart hammers with nervousness.
I wanted my entry to be elegant and graceful, but here I am, drenched, with my coat sleeve stuck on the rusted iron latch and my wet luggage scattered on half of the street.
“Why are you walking in the rain?” He frowns before squinting his eyes. “Where is your driver? Oscar called, stating that your driver is supposed to drop you with your things.”
Darn it! Why didn’t I think about that?
His irritated gaze fixed on my face forces me to take a step back and I scrape my wrist on the sharp edge of the latch.