A/N: Rewriting Chapter 1 because I don't have what I started on this computer… bleh. I was thinking "Maybe I should wait till I get more reviews for the prologue." But I really don't feel like making myself wait, and in the meantime, it's moving farther down the page anyway, so my chances of people seeing it become less, and much as I love feedback… I'm becoming antsy to write more. Lol

On a side note… what the devil is a "gork?"

Part 1

Chapter 1

He hated funerals.

Paul walked into his grandfather's house—or rather, what used to be his house—pulling off his suit jacket and yanking at his tie as he went.

It wasn't as if it had been unexpected. Hell, everyone had expected Dr. Slaski to die at least a year ago. Figured, Paul thought, smiling faintly, the man had been too stubborn to die until he was good and ready. It had worked out well, at least—they had had more time to get to know each other better, to make amends for the past.

Paul stood in the front foyer, looking around. He was going to have spend his final summer before leaving for college cleaning up his grandfather's things so that the house could be sold at the end of the summer. He supposed it was probably better that he was the one doing it; if his dad did it, he would end up throwing out whatever he found on shifting. Paul never knew when he might need it. Or Suze might want to take a look at it some time.

Deciding to start in the attic, Paul made his way upstairs. He passed the various rooms—his bedroom, the bathroom, his grandfather's room, a study, his father's old room—until he finally reached the doorway at the end of the hall. It led to a set of stairs leading to the attic.

The attic smelled of mildew, and most everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. When Paul glanced back, he could see his footprints on the floor. He made a mental note to do something about that very soon. He crossed to the far side of the attic and flung open the window, taking a deep breath as fresh air rushed in.

Paul turned to survey the room. There were boxes everywhere, some labeled, others left blank. There was a dresser in one corner and an old bed—minus the mattress—in another. He opened the box nearest to him and peered inside. It was filled to the brim with papers and notebooks. This was going to take awhile.

He was just beginning to sift through the boxes when he heard the doorbell ring. Sighing, he turned to look out the window. Not that it was much use; all he could see from there was the top of someone's head.

Tossing down the notebook he'd been holding, Paul left the attic and hurried downstairs. He didn't really want to deal with anyone right then, so he took his time getting to the door. It would be just as well if whoever it was gave up and left before he got there.

As it happened, they didn't give up. Paul swung open the door and all he could manage to do for a moment was gape.

Later—much later, when just the thought of her stopped being so heart-wrenchingly painful—Paul would think back on the first time he ever saw Emma Davis and remember the first thing he thought when he saw her.

She was beautiful. Or at least, she was to him. She stood there on the front porch, smiling brightly at him, in her ankle-length skirt and with her light brown—or was it dark blonde?—hair hanging around her shoulders. She didn't wear any make-up, though Paul thought later that it might have actually taken away from how she looked, if that were possible.

"Paul Slater?" When he nodded, coming out of his daze, she stuck out her hand. "I'm Emma Davis. I heard about your grandfather." She gave him a sympathetic look—genuinely sympathetic, not like the looks other people had been giving him today.

Paul finally realized he was supposed to shake the hand she offered. God, he was slow today. "I… yeah. Thanks." A beautiful woman was standing on his doorstep, and what happened? He started stammering like an idiot. "You knew my grandfather?" She nodded. "How?"

She smiled. "We had a few things in common." He let her into the house—maybe letting a stranger in wasn't the smartest thing, but she didn't exactly look like serial killer in that skirt. "What are you going to do with this place?"

"Sell it, I guess." Paul shrugged, feeling a bit odd, standing there, watching this girl walk around his house. Well, who wouldn't? He'd met her two seconds ago, and now she was his house, looking like she had been there a hundred times before.

Which maybe she had. He didn't really know what kind of company his grandfather had had before Paul had come to live with him.

Somehow they ended up in the attic, and Emma wandered around, peering at some of the labels. She seemed completely unphased by how dirty and dusty everything was. Paul smiled wryly, leaning against the doorway. If he'd brought Kelly or Suze up here, they would have been freaking out about what was probably happening to their shoes. And they definitely wouldn't be bending down like Emma was right then, letting her skirt drag on the floor.

She straightened suddenly and turned to look at him. "Where's your broom?"

He blinked at her. "My what?"

"Your broom. You must have one. Where is it?"

"Uh… I think it's in the kitchen, but—" He watched, surprised, as she hurried past him, and disappeared down the stairs. What the hell…?

A couple minutes later, she reappeared, broom in hand. And then she started sweeping attic floor.

"What are you doing?"

She smiled at him. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

That was a good question. "You don't have to do that, you know. I was going to—"

She shrugged, cutting him off. "I know." She just went on sweeping, chatting animatedly as she did so.

The second thing Paul thought about Emma Davis, once he got over the initial physical attraction, was that she was a bit unusual. The fact that she walked around in long skirts—which, he found out later, was her normal, everyday attire—aside, she was unusually friendly. Even to a guy she'd just met ten minutes ago.

He wondered later if that wasn't what got her in trouble in the end.

But he liked listening to her talk while she worked. And after awhile he joined her in cleaning things up, still listening to her. By the time it was time for her to go home, the attic looked a hell of a lot better than it would have if he had tried to do it alone. So, when she asked tentatively if she could come back tomorrow, he didn't even stop to think before he said yes.

It was an odd way to start a friendship. Maybe it happened because he was curious about how she knew his grandfather, or maybe it was because she managed to charm him within the first few minutes of knowing her. Whatever the reason, there wasn't any turning back.


A/N:-P Odd meeting. Ah, well. Had to happen one way or another. And it's convenient for later. lol