Protecting His Windflower

Two

Five o'clock PM. Right on schedule, Emily thought to herself as she stepped onto the pavement, glimpsing at the mass of low clouds in the distance. Clicking the key fob in her hand to lock her sky blue hatchback, she turned to the North as a breeze picked up. The view of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, standing tall and mighty, greeted her. A symbol, she had read, of perseverance and determination. It seemed fitting that she felt compelled to take up residence in the spectacular city.

The fog made its way into the Bay, creeping ever so slowly toward the entrance of the Golden Gate. It would glide through the narrow channel beneath the towering bridge and blanket the entire city in a thick, pillowy, grey mass. Growing up in Seattle, Emily was used to dark, damp skies and welcomed the coolness that freshened the air. Her only reservation about her new residence was the ominous presence she felt growing stronger.

Turning toward the historic Victorian home that she now lived in, Emily gasped before letting out a huff of air in annoyance. The front window to her flat swayed open in the gentle wind. A window that had continuously been opening even though she was adamant about ensuring it was closed and locked before leaving. Emily made a mental note to stop by the caretaker's unit that evening and ask if he could take a look at it.

A heaviness bared down on her as she climbed the steps to the front door of the old building. The house sat sandwiched between two other row houses in the center of the block. It was a typical architecture style used in San Francisco to build more large, single-family style homes during the nineteenth century.

The charming, two-story Victorian home had been converted into two separate residential units years ago. She lived on the main level of the building while the caretaker, who she hadn't yet met, lived in the top unit. Her front, living room window was flush with the house, but the unit above had a rounded, larger window with beautiful carving detail framing it. The traditional Victorian era, steep pointed roofline adorning the top, drew her eyes up to view the majesty of the home. It was evident that the house had once been painted in bright colors of royal blue, gold, and amethyst. But time and the salty air of the city had weathered its vibrance.

Dark oak wood paneling stopped a third of the way up the walls. High ceilings showcased the same chestnut crown molding woodwork. Faded tan paint created a stark contrast between the walls and ceiling. And, a heavy, rounded wooden framed staircase greeted Emily as she passed the threshold. Above the front door, the stained glass window cast a colorful warm glow in the morning while the sun shone through—a once elegant and formal entry now worn by time and lack of care.

The door to Emily's flat was on the right. The large staircase leading to the upper level sat halfway down the hall. A second set of stairs, through a wooden door, led to the basement.

She lifted her key and inserted it into the deadbolt when a man coming down the stairs caught her eye. He was tall, maybe six feet, with dark hair and a closely shaved beard framed his strong jaw. Dark rimmed glasses accentuated intensely blue eyes. Though his all-black attire added to his brooding mystery, he smiled and waved as he walked toward her.

He paused, hesitating for a split second when their eyes met as he finished the last few strides to her. His gaze warmed her insides, sending her heart into a gallop and flipping her stomach until her breath caught.

The man towered over her as he approached, coming to a stop only a couple of steps from her. "Hi. I'm Liam Wesley. You must be Emily Taylor."

The sound of his voice was hypnotizing. It was smooth and deep, sending the butterflies in her stomach into a frantic frenzy. "Yes. I am." Emily cleared her throat while tucking a lock of curls behind her ear. "I just moved in a couple weeks ago. Are you the caretaker that Phil mentioned?"