The Landlord (Steamy Shorts #26)

Chapter 1

DAMIEN

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

Jesus. Five times, really? Is that supposed to give me a sense of urgency? The hell.

Knock! Knock!

The persistent knocking at my door interrupts my Saturday morning ritual of fixing things that don't necessarily need fixing. What can I say? I like keeping myself busy.

Today's victim is my ancient flat-screen TV that flickers like a strobe light but still works, damn it. I refuse to give up on it and buy a new one on principle.

The delivery guy is already gone by the time I open the door, leaving behind yet another package addressed to "A. James, Apt 4B" sitting on my doormat.

I pick up the box with a sigh that's more habit than genuine frustration. Light, about shoebox size. Fourth one this week for my lovely neighbor who seems to order from online shops on a daily basis. The delivery people for this building need their eyes checked.

"Lazy bastards."

How hard is it to tell the difference between D. Finch, 4A and A. James, 4B? We're literally across the hall from each other.

"D. Finch" and "A. James" aren't even close alphabetically. My handwriting on the mailbox labels downstairs is also precise and clear—a point of pride, by the way. But somehow, packages for 4B keep landing at 4A like homing pigeons with faulty navigation systems.

Doug, my five pound terror of a chihuahua, yaps from inside my apartment, his warning bark that someone has dared approach our door.

"It's fine," I call back, carrying the package inside. "Just another misdirected delivery for Ms. James. Nothing new. Just another typical day."

The TV sits in pieces on my coffee table, circuit board exposed and looking more and more like it belongs to the trash and not worth being salvaged.

The flickering would drive most people to Best Buy for a replacement, but the picture quality is still excellent.

Just needs a soldering touch-up on a loose connection.

Things aren't meant to be thrown away at the first sign of trouble.

That's what I live by: if something could be fixed, then it should be fixed. I am many things, but I am no quitter. Besides, I love me a good challenge.

I set the package by the door. I'll take it over once I've fixed this connection. No rush. It gives me an excuse to knock on her door later anyway.

Not that I'd admit that out loud.

Two months. That's how long it's been since Alyssa moved into 4B.

Two months of pretending I don't notice when she leaves for errands or returns home.

Two months of catching glimpses of her in the lobby, her arms often laden with packages of yarn in every color imaginable.

Two months of watching her smile shyly when our paths cross, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that matches some of her softer yarns.

Two months of convincing myself the landlord transferring from the ground floor to the fourth just to be next to her is no big deal at all.

Not weird or creepy. Maybe I just wanted a better view, like the brick wall next building.

Or maybe I genuinely enjoy receiving packages not meant for me.

Whatever.

Doug jumps onto the couch beside me, carrying so much attitude and tenacity within that tiny body, and eyes the package suspiciously.

"Don't even think about it," I warn, picking up my soldering iron. "It's not mine … or yours."

This TV has survived three apartments and at least five technicians who insisted I upgrade. The last one—Bryan, I think—said it reflected my "stubborn refusal to move forward." He wasn't entirely wrong, but neither the TV nor I appreciated the assessment.

I focus on the circuit board, making the delicate connection while trying not to think about the woman next door. The woman whose packages give me excuses to knock on her door. The woman I moved from the ground floor apartment to be near.

That particular decision wasn't my proudest moment. When the fourth-floor apartment became available two weeks after she moved in, I convinced myself that I needed to be closer to the roof access for maintenance reasons. Pure practicality.

The soldering iron slips, nearly burning my finger.

"Shit." I pull back, shaking my hand. That's what I get for being distracted, which happens more often than I care to admit. And the only reason my mind strays is her. Always her.

Doug perks his ears, then jumps off the couch. When I don't hear the tell-tale click of his nails on the hardwood, I glance over my shoulder and find him rounding the box.

Holy fucking shit.

The little traitor is at the package, sniffing around its edges.

"Doug, leave it."

He looks at me, the picture of canine innocence, then deliberately turns back to the package. Something about it has captured his interest. Probably smells like that orange tabby cat Alyssa stops to pet in the lobby. Mrs. Simone's demon spawn that thinks the entire building belongs to it.

The way Alyssa crouches down to scratch behind its ears—her whole face lighting up, talking to it in a soft voice she probably thinks no one can hear—makes it hard to dislike the cat entirely.

But Doug hates it. And by extension, he's decided Alyssa is questionable at best. He doesn't trust anyone who likes cats.

Actually, no. He doesn't trust anyone who's not me, period.

I shake my head and return to the TV, reconnecting the last wire. The soldering iron hisses against metal. The apartment falls oddly quiet.

Too quiet. I'm immediately on high alert. A quiet Doug is a Doug up to no good.

I look up again. Doug is gone.

So is the package.

"Doug!"

I set down the iron and turn around. Doug has dragged the package into the center of the living room and managed to tear a hole in one side.

He sits proudly beside his handiwork, surrounded by torn cardboard and plastic packaging, tail wagging against the floor, looking extremely pleased with himself.

"Damn it, Doug. What am I supposed to tell her now?"

I approach the package, intending to salvage what I can of the cardboard, and start going through excuses. Jesus, maybe I can just tell her the truth, save myself from stumbling over my words. That's when I notice what's poking through the hole.

Flesh-colored silicone shaped like an eggplant. Long, rubbery.

Is that…? No way.

My brain short-circuits for half a second. I crouch down to get a better look, hoping I'm wrong, even as my heart races and my pulse pounds in my temples. I'm not. Doug has managed to expose exactly what I think it is.

A dildo.

Not just any dildo. This is anatomically correct, complete with veins and—Jesus Christ—it's not small. I know because it's close to my size. Humbly speaking, of course.

I sit back on my heels, staring at the thing while my mind tries to reconcile this item with the woman who lives next door.

Alyssa, who blushes when I hold the door for her.

Alyssa, who ducks her head when our eyes meet in the hallway.

Alyssa, who wears oversized cardigans that swallow her tall frame and makes herself small despite being nearly six feet tall.

Shy, quiet, introverted Alyssa.

That Alyssa ordered this impressively sized piece of equipment. For her to use. For her to put in her…

Fuck.

Heat spreads through my body in a way that has nothing to do with the nearby soldering iron. An image flashes unbidden in my mind: Alyssa, those blue eyes half-closed, those full lips parted, using this very toy. Her back arching, maybe one hand fisting the sheets, her toes curling.

My jeans suddenly feel too tight. I shift, adjusting myself as blood rushes south with embarrassing speed. This reaction is completely inappropriate. She's my tenant, for Christ's sake. And here I am, getting hard over her private purchase that Doug has so inconsiderately exposed.

But the mental image persists. Her long fingers wrapped around the silicone. Those little sounds she might make—

"Enough," I tell myself out loud, my voice rough even to my own ears. Rough and gravelly with want.

Doug tilts his head, looking between me and the package with smug satisfaction. Like he's exposed some great secret. Something he can use against Alyssa.

I jab a finger at him. "You're a menace, Doug."

He wags his tail harder and gives me the equivalent of a smirk.

I need to fix this. I could repackage it, pretend I never saw its contents. Take it over with an apology for Doug's behavior. But the damage is done—the box is torn beyond repair, and the evidence of my dog's crime is literally sticking out.

Besides, the thought of her wondering if I saw, if I know, seems worse somehow than just owning up to it. Let her be embarrassed once and move on, rather than worry every time she sees me in the hallway.

We are both grown adults here. She's twenty-eight, I'm thirty-eight. There's nothing wrong with her wanting some action. It's totally normal.

At least, that's what I tell myself as a much less noble plan forms in my mind.

After all this time of watching her hurry past, of collecting her endless packages, of engineering reasons to be in the hallway when she comes home .

.. maybe it's time she gets a little uncomfortable.

Maybe it's time she noticed me as more than just the building owner who fixes her leaky faucet or hand delivers her packages with care.

"Come on, menace." I scoop up the mangled package and its contents, grateful that the toy at least came in sealed plastic that Doug didn't puncture. Small mercies. "Let's go see Ms. James."

Doug's ears perk up at "go," but flatten when I say Alyssa's name.

He knows exactly who lives across the hall and has made his feelings abundantly clear.

The first week she moved in, he barked for twenty minutes straight when she dropped off cookies as a thank-you for helping carry her yarn shelves.

He keeps baring his teeth when he so much as sniffs her.

So yes, he essentially treats Alyssa the same way he does Mrs. Simone's cat.

"Stay," I say, pointing to his bed. He gives me a betrayed look but complies, curling up with a dramatic huff.

I cross to my door and pause, looking down at the package in my hands.

This is possibly the worst idea I've had.

But something about the thought of her face when she sees what Doug discovered—the blush that will spread across her cheeks, the way she'll stammer—sends another rush of heat through my body.

It's not kind. But I've spent two months being kind, being professional, being a gentleman, being the perfect neighbor and landlord who craves even just a smile or a glance my way.

Now or never. The worst that can happen is she'll move out of here. Fine.

I step across the hall and knock before I can talk myself out of it.

Footsteps approach the door. Light, hesitant. I hear her check the peephole, then a pause, then the slide of the chain lock and a deadbolt.

The door opens, and there she is. Hair piled messily on top of her head, wearing one of those oversized sweaters that makes her look somehow both cozy and vulnerable. Blue eyes widen at the sight of me standing at her threshold.

"Damien? Is everything okay?" Her voice is soft, concerned. She looks past me to my open door. "Is Doug all right? Are YOU all right?"

Of course she asks about the dog that hates her. That's Alyssa—the woman who leaves treats outside Mrs. Simone's door, who knitted a scarf for Mr. Ramirez from 3A when he mentioned being cold during his night shifts.

The same woman who apparently has a secret drawer of sex toys, and she just purchased a new one to add to her collection.

The incongruity hits me again, and I have to force myself to keep a straight face.

"Doug's fine. Too fine, actually. I got another one of your packages." I hold out the mangled box. "He got to it before I could bring it over. I'm sorry."

No, I'm not. Not really.

Alyssa looks down at the package. For a moment, nothing registers. Then her eyes widen as she sees what's poking through the torn cardboard. Her face drains of color before flooding crimson, the blush spreading up her neck and across her cheeks in a wave that's almost mesmerizing.

"I … that's not … I did n—" She freezes completely, eyes glued to the dildo.

I extend the box toward her, my expression carefully neutral despite the heat still pulsing through my body and a snort threatening to come out. I know she's horrified and embarrassed, but this shit is just too funny. You can't make up stuff like this.

"Might want to slow down on the online shopping," I say, my voice deliberately casual. "Or at least give additional instructions to the delivery guys about sending the packages to the right door."

She stares at the box, mortification written across her face, unable to move or speak. And suddenly, watching her stand there paralyzed with embarrassment, I realize I've made a terrible mistake.

Because my self-control is starting to fray thread by thread, and I want nothing more than to pull her to me and taste her lips.

Fuck.