Unwritten Rules

First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2011

Copyright © M.A. Stacie, 2011

The right of M.A. Stacie to be identified and the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright
Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Writer’s Coffee Shop

(Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635

(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

Paperback ISBN - 978-1-61213-022-4

Paperback ISBN - 978-1-61213-022-4

E-book ISBN - 978-1-61213-023-1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

Cover image by: Sophieso

Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/mstacie

M. A. Stacie has tried out a few different jobs, never quite finding the right fit. After her second son was born, she discovered writing. While then being a needed outlet, she now feels rather unproductive if she hasn’t written something each day.

M. A. Stacie is a voracious reader, much to her husband’s annoyance, because books al are over the house. When she is not reading or writing, she enjoys knitting, listening to loud music and playing the Wii with her two sons. M. A. Stacie is a native of Manchester, U.K. and continues to live there with her husband and children.

For my three amazing men.

Without your patience this would not have happened.
For Maylin, my bottled positivity.

I saw him every day.

I watched. I wondered.

I saw him each morning when I returned from my run as he col ected his mail from the metal slots in the foyer. My brain processed his actions and mannerisms without me even realizing it. I knew it would take numerous tries before he could get the key into the lock. His cheeks would tinge pink in embarrassment. He wouldn’t utter a word or make eye contact.

Each day we stood almost shoulder to shoulder, occupying the same space, breathing the same air, but we remained strangers. I didn’t even know the color of his eyes. He intrigued me. He wouldn’t look my way; his hair obscured my view of his face. The redness to the back of his neck was al that gave away his nervousness as he quickly col ected his mail before disappearing back up to his apartment.

I asked some of the people that lived in our

apartment building, wondering if any of the other residents knew about him, but the information was limited. Mrs. Kindle, who lived in the apartment across from mine, told me he’d lived in this building longer than she had. She moved here just over two years, and in al that time she hadn’t heard him speak a single word. She was convinced he was mute.

Two mornings ago I’d discovered that she was

wrong.

He had said, “Hi.”

His voice had been the perfect pitch to get my heart pounding. It was a reaction I was thoroughly ashamed of. He’d spoken one word, and I’d acted like a teenager, blushing and stuttering. I hadn’t even managed to get two actual words out before he turned and fled back upstairs. Then yesterday, I was positive his lips had curled into a smal smile when he saw me approach the wal ful of metal mailboxes. I retrieved my mail and turned to talk to him, but he’d already gone. His feet were just as silent as the rest of him.

Though our interactions were odd, I looked

forward to them, and Sundays became my least favorite day of the week.

There was no mail.

I shook my head free of my musings, panting from the exertion of the jog as I entered the building. I hunched over and rested my hands on my knees as I tried to catch my breath. My red curls flopped in front of my face, sticking to my sweat dampened skin. I’d woken up late and pounded through my run with alarming speed, al so I could get back here in time for my elusive neighbor’s daily appearance.

I stood, trying to check myself out in the glass of the front door. From what I could see, I didn’t look as exhausted as I felt. There weren’t any wet patches on my tight top and shorts, but just to make sure I looked decent, I pul ed the elastic tie from my hair and let it tumble around my shoulders. Nerves swirled low in my stomach as I realized just how creepy it would be for him to find me waiting around the mailboxes. I opted to do some smal stretches, hoping the breeze flowing through the front door would tone down the blush on my cheeks.

Al the while I waited.

I paced the hal way, checking my watch on each return step. I was thankful there was no one else around to view my wanton foolishness. The fact that I had been waiting for fifteen minutes, just to check someone out while they col ected their mail, would get me locked up. The police had a name for people who did that.

On that thought, I felt it.

It started out as a smal tingle across my skin, as if my hairs were al standing at attention upon his arrival. My heart thundered in my chest, and my palms began to sweat as I reached out to open my mailbox. He came to stand beside me, heat radiating off his skin. The tang of his cologne fil ed my nostrils, making me light-headed. I had to resist the urge to inhale deeply; to rest my head on his shoulder and revel in the scent at the crook of his neck.
Oh God, help me!

My hand shook as I flicked through the envelopes in an attempt to prolong my time with him. I was pathetic; this was pathetic. Words failed me. My inability to speak to him threw me off kilter. I’d never struggled to speak to anyone like I struggled with him.

I turned toward him, taking in his profile. He hadn’t shaved, so his chiseled jaw was rough with stubble. His shaggy, dark-brown hair was wet as if he had just showered. I noticed a hole in the lobe of his ear; a piercing with no jewelry. This didn’t surprise me, because a few weeks ago he was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt. I found myself salivating at the two inked stars he had flashed on each col arbone.