3. He’s Smoking Hot
“D o you like blondes, redheads or brunettes?” Mrs. Caporali asked from the kitchen, wiping her hands clean of flour.
Marty circled around her as she carried a new tray of sugar cookies from the oven to a cooling rack. Being that the apartment was no bigger than a matchbox, I was able to keep eyes on my mischievous old pup, my ears like sonar to his jostling collar.
“Brunettes. I’m a total sucker for them,” I answered from her bathroom, screwdriver clenched between my teeth.
She gasped.
She always gasps.
“I have eleven granddaughters just for you!” She clapped her hands together, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Each is a varying shade of brunette. I have dark brown, honey brown, chestnut, auburn, toffee, caramel…”
Marty finally sat in front of the oven, hopelessly staring through the little, dark window that blocked him from the fresh batch of raw cookie dough that Mrs. Caporali just tossed in. How many batches had she planned on baking, anyway? She already force fed me three; the green frosting and sprinkles caked on my tongue.
“Brilliant bronze, milk chocolate, savory pecan, cedar…?” she pointed to Marty’s paws as visual comparison.
“How about dark espresso?” I interrupted, balancing on a ladder to fix her broken smoke detector—her third one this year.
“How dark are we talking?”
Jingle Bells bounced over the radio, filling the space to her unanswered question.
I thought about it for a moment, carefully considering the answer, because I took it very seriously.
How could I explain to Mrs. Caporali that her granddaughters’ hair couldn’t be darker, or lighter, than the girl who lived next door to her apartment?
How could I even articulate that?
How, without a stutter in my voice, could I share that the perfect shade of color was second to the cheeks it rested on, or the cute little ears it laid over, or the very head it grew from?
God, even the word espresso as a descriptor was so unfitting—worthy of being kindle to a fireplace—because the color itself could only be encompassed with something as unique as the person it belonged to.
Elena Ortiz.
The back of my neck dripped in sweat just from the thought of her, and admitting that to someone as gossipy as Mrs. Caporali would be a total nightmare for me as a professional in this building.
“Her hair needs to be dark. Obsidian and shiny. Silky and curly,” I finally said, twisting wires together.
“Curly?” She announced with surprise, digging her hands into the pockets of her red apron.
She rocked back and forth on her heels, flipping through some mental rolodex where she stored all her granddaughters.
My phone rang in my tool belt, saving me from her impending elevator speech.
“One moment,” I said to Mrs. Caporali before answering my phone. “Hello?”
“If you get me anything for Christmas this year, please let it be a genie lamp…” Tiffany, my older sister sighed through the phone, her voice rushed as always. “I’m ready to wish Hank away! Can someone— anyone —please just send that man back to whatever polo-wearing, golf-club-swinging, Viagra-using HELL he crawled out of?! Did I tell you he got the promotion over me? Me, Nick! Me! Can you believe that?”
“You mean your ex-husband—the man who originally hired you for your current job—got a better position at the same company you both work at?”
This was the third time she told me about the promotion. At this point my ear was just a punching bag for her rage filled rants. She hated her ex-husband so damn much.
“He’s going bald, you know… I love it,” she said with as much Christmas glee as she could muster, before something crashed on the other end of the phone. “BOYS! What did I tell you about bikes in the house? Only at your father’s!”
I tried really hard not to groan.
“I’m guessing Santa came early this year?”
“Hank surprised them like some hot shot. I hope he burns his tongue on hot cocoa. Boys, say hi to your uncle Nicky.”
A myriad of shouts and bike brakes screeched through the line.
I pulled the phone away from my ear momentarily.
“They’re excited to see you tonight,” she muffled.
Something popped on Tiffany’s side.
“What’s that noise?” I asked.
“What noise?” she slurped.
“Are you drinking wine right now?”
“Just a light moscato. Something to soothe the headaches. BOYS!”
I dropped my phone, and it tumbled to the floor.
Marty barked.
“How about wavy?” Mrs. Caporali asked, sucking on a sharpened, peppermint candy cane. “My granddaughter, Dorothea, has very wavy hair. In fact, I’d consider it curly.”
“Seems like a stretch if I’m being honest.” I arched a brow.
Mrs. Caporali was as cunning as a used car salesman, but as patient as a monk. You’d think after two years of trying to persuade me on this that she’d give up by now. I was such an idiot to think that.
“She’s stacked, you know…” Mrs. Caporali picked up my phone, eyebrows wiggling. “You could use her bosoms as a shelf for your tools! She’s got a great pair for all your future babies.” She demonstrated, her hands held out, cradling the weight of imaginary double-Ds.
My eyes widened.
“That’s good to know…” I took my phone back, blowing powdered sugar off the screen. “I have a lot of tools though. Let me think about your proposal.”
Was she serious?
The last thing on my mind was babies, especially with my nephews screaming on the other end of my sister’s call.
“Who was that?” Tiffany asked.
“A tenant,” I whispered. “I think she keeps breaking her smoke detectors to get me over to her house. She’s not even hiding the evidence anymore. The hammer she used to smash the last one is still in the bathroom sink.”
“She must have the hots for you.” Tiffany snickered.
My nephews oohed and whistled behind her.
“I think she’s trying to pawn me off to her granddaughters… A harem for the holidays.”
“Oh… gross!” she echoed into her wine glass. “Listen. Can you bring some dinner for the boys tonight?”
“Dinner? Wait… I thought you were making a ham?”
“Plans changed.”
“How so?”
“Hank’s bringing that blonde bimbo, Barbara, over for Christmas dinner.”
Oh, god. Not Bimbo Barbara.
My heart sank at her tone. I was already dreading this evening.
“Why don’t you tell him no, Tiff?” I suggested kindly.
She didn’t take it well.
“You can’t be serious!”
“Why not?”
Tiffany took a long breath.
“And how would I say that without sounding totally scorned, Nicky? Like… no Hank, you can’t bring that tapered waisted floozy you cheated on me with to our family dinner, you scumbag. ”
Marty’s ears perked from Tiffany’s voice.
I nodded approvingly.
“Your wording is a little harsh, but I think he’d get the point.”
Tiffany disagreed.
“Listen, I’m not giving that man the satisfaction of knowing I’m upset.” The sound of wine poured through the phone, followed by chugging. “This is a moment to show off my killer culinary skills, something his tits with legs probably doesn’t know a thing about. We’re having bacon-wrapped tenderloins with mushroom chutney.”
“Mushroom what ?”
“Ch-ut-ney…” she repeated slowly. “Don’t worry. It’s delicious. But the boys are gagging at it. Nick, you know I can’t have Hank bring his secretary, slash, blowup-doll here without me trying to show off how happy I am without him. Even though that’s not true. God… I just hate seeing the two of them together at work.”
Tiffany’s dreaded office romance plagued every family gathering since they split up three years ago. It wasn’t just messy, it was a relentless tug-of-war that pinned my nephews in an all-out battle over whose affection could be won first.
Could you imagine if I ever made the same mistake?
Sure, I didn’t work with anyone in the building, but the tenants were essentially my customers. I saw them every day, sometimes multiple times in a single day.
Marty barked at the oven, tail swishing back and forth on the floor. I gave him a quick shush .
He was already in trouble after this morning, and damn it, I couldn’t believe he actually chewed up Elena’s package today.
No. Not just chewed it up… but soaked the damn box with all his slobber! My palms started to sweat the moment I saw those pink balls slipping out of her sticky parcel, my heart beating double time when I pried it out of Marty’s growling mouth in a fit of panic. Shit… actually, it wasn’t just my palms that sweat, but my temples and nose, too.
Had Elena noticed the embarrassing amount of collected beads running across my forehead, dripping down onto her wooden floors? Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but my mind conjured up a much crueler memory than what most likely happened.
My face felt so flushed just thinking of it, my stomach a warm pool of adrenaline that swirled at the thought of Elena ever playing with that inadequate pink dildo.
Was it wrong that I found it so incredibly hot that she had a sex toy shipped to her house? She made it clear that it was just for work—whatever that meant—but that didn’t stop me from imagining all the ways she’d use it; moaning in her wrought iron bed, her thighs spread open with her panties yanked down to her ankles.
Did she like it fast?
Slow?
I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to get ahold of my senses, but was overwhelmed with the thought of Elena’s perfect little tits, shaking in an orgasm, her back on that cute yellow couch of hers—a couch I wanted to pull her down into and kiss her just how Mrs. Caporali probably wanted me to kiss one of her granddaughters.
I’d kill for that moment.
I’d kill for less!
I’d take Elena right into my mouth, and bite that sweet, puffy?—
“You like em’ tan, don’t you?” Mrs. Caporali popped up again, my ladder rattling from how hard she made me jump.
“Jesus!”
“Dorothea is fair-skinned. Is that a deal breaker?” she asked, her hand cupped over a phone, cord stretching all the way back to the kitchen. Marty was tangled in it.
“Are you talking to your granddaughter right now?” I asked, bewildered.
“I have her on hold. She can get a spray tan by twelve if you want to come over for dinner at seven?”
“Tell her you already have plans!” Tiffany panicked on the other line. I’d forgotten she was on the phone, because all I could think about was Elena.
I hated being pulled in every-which-way, my nephews screaming, Tiffany cussing over spilt wine, and Mrs. Caporali looking up with hopeful eyes.
It was pure insanity.
And to make it worse, despite all these invitations, a part of me felt guilty, because I wanted none of them.
I had all these people around me, but the only one I wanted was the girl next door who was alone for Christmas.
What the hell was that about?
Why wasn’t someone by her side at all times? Holding her. Celebrating with her. Kissing her under mistletoe and drinking coquito.
Why couldn’t that be me?
I already knew why…
“Nick!” Tiffany shouted over the phone.
“Yes! I’ll pick up food for the kids…”
“Great! Oh, god… Hank’s here, I have to go. Bring wine. LOTS of wine!”
Tiffany hung up, but Mrs. Caporali still had her granddaughter on the phone.
“Well?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling so she wouldn’t see.
“Mrs. Caporali…”
“Call me Beatrice. I’m practically your future grandmother-in-law.”
I took a deep breath and smiled. Very nicely.
“Beatrice… I’m sorry, but I have dinner plans tonight. And for the record, I like a woman who’s short, tan, has dark curly hair and bright brown, beautiful eyes…”
Mrs. Caporali—Beatrice—rested her elbow on the ladder, her candy cane stuck back into her mouth like a cigar.
I could tell she was contemplating.
“Well, hell. You should just date that cute lil’ Puerto Rican girl next door!”
Just then, from the other side of Beatrice’s bathroom wall, the sound of shower water sputtered into life—Elena’s shower specifically.
This building was so old, so thin with ancient bricks, that every audible creaky pipe could be heard with ease. I plastered my eyes right onto the wall, knowing only feet away Elena was naked.
First, I felt like some pervert, unable to stop myself from imagining Elena Ortiz covered in slippery wet suds. She was so fucking beautiful.
Second, I felt like a total asshole, because the truth was, I could’ve fixed her sink weeks ago.
What the hell was I even doing?
I knew it was wrong, but I needed any excuse to keep seeing her again—to be around her—to hear her accent, to drink her coffee and, god… to smell that peach, pineapple spray she wore anytime she answered the door.
She was a thousand miles away from any family, and damn it, a pathetic part of me wanted to give her even the tiniest slice of what she might’ve been missing back in Puerto Rico.
Truth was, I wanted to break the pattern of holiday chaos. I wanted a new tradition. I wanted Elena…
Could the same be true for her?
Don’t be stupid, Nick. Think of Tiffany and Hank.
I cringed.
If it was one thing I knew, it was that falling for someone you worked around would never end well.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I finally answered Mrs. Caporali, my final words punctuated by the screeching smoke detector I just installed.