Chapter 2
ALYSSA
Iwant to die. Right here. Right now. Just spontaneously combust into a pile of ashes and let the wind carry me away through the hallway window.
There is a sex toy staring at me from a mangled package in my hot landlord's hands.
A sex toy I did not order. And definitely have zero plans of using.
My hands clench at my sides as I stare at it, unable to meet Damien's eyes. The plastic packaging gleams under the hallway lights, mocking me. I can feel heat radiating from my face, spreading down my neck, probably turning me the same shade as Mrs. Simone's tomato plants.
Diana. This is Diana's fault. I'm going to murder her the next time I see her. Last week over margaritas, she insisted I needed to "loosen up" and promised to send me a "little sweet surprise." When she winked, I assumed she meant yarn or maybe a gift card for that fancy tea shop I love.
Not ... this. This humiliation made physical.
I will throw away our decades-long friendship and forget Diana ever existed. I will totally unspool the sweater I've been knitting for her.
And what makes it infinitely worse is that it's Damien holding it.
My ridiculously attractive landlord who I've been crushing on since he helped me carry my yarn shelves upstairs when I moved in.
The man whose forearms I've memorized while watching him fix the hallway light fixture.
The one whose rare smiles make my knees wobble embarrassingly.
The man I sometimes hear moving around his apartment through our shared wall late at night, making me wonder what he looks like when he's not in jeans and those white t-shirts that stretch perfectly across his broad shoulders.
The man whose face I think of whenever I read those historical romance books.
That man is now staring at me, holding a dildo he thinks is mine. Technically, it is, but I don't want it. Not today, not in a million years.
"I didn't..." My voice comes out as a squeak. I clear my throat because I've suddenly lost the ability to speak. "That's not mine."
Damien lifts one eyebrow, his gray eyes flickering between me and the package. Is he ... smirking? My grumpy, serious landlord is actually smirking at me. Huh.
"Package has your name on it," he says, his deep voice rumbling through me.
"I know, but I didn't order ... that." I gesture vaguely at the box, still unable to look directly at it. "My friend Diana—she said she was sending me a surprise, but I thought..." I trail off, realizing I'm just digging myself deeper.
Damien's smirk grows more pronounced. "Some surprise."
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, mortification threatening to swallow me whole. "I'll talk to her. This won't happen again."
"Don't apologize. Everyone has ... needs." He shifts his weight, and I notice his knuckles are white around the package. "Though I have to tell you, the real thing is so much better."
My breath catches. Did he just…? Is he saying…?
Our eyes lock, and something electric passes between us.
I feel it all the way to my toes as the world around us slides to a stop.
The hallway suddenly feels ten degrees warmer, and I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing, how the collar of his t-shirt is slightly stretched out, revealing the hollow of his throat.
How his eyes have darkened slightly. He flashes me a hot glance, and in response, my core pulses and throbs.
My lips part involuntarily, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Oh my God. It would be so easy to—
A sharp bark breaks the moment. Doug. That tiny demon is standing in Damien's doorway, looking ready for battle.
Damien glances over his shoulder and sighs. "Down, Doug." He turns back to me, extends the package. "Here. Sorry about the damage."
My fingers brush his as I take the box, and I shiver. Sensations fizz through me, and I just know I'm on the verge of going mad from wanting. It's like these past two months have been building up to this moment.
All because of a dildo, thank you very much.
"Thanks," I tell him, clutching the package to my chest and already thinking of wrapping it in extra layers of paper before throwing it.
Damien nods once, then turns and heads back to his apartment. I should close my door now. Should retreat to lick my wounds and plot Diana's slow, painful demise. But I can't seem to make my feet move or my hand close the door.
Instead, I'm watching the way Damien's jeans hug his ass as he walks away, remembering the way his voice dropped when he said "the real thing is so much better." The implication that he could be that real thing for me sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't immediately notice what's happening. One second Doug is sitting by Damien's door, the next he's a white blur streaking past Damien's legs—
—and straight into my apartment.
"Doug! No!" Damien calls, but it's too late.
The chihuahua darts between my legs and disappears into my living room, his nails clicking on the hardwood floors.
I freeze, my eyes darting between my apartment where Doug has vanished and Damien who's now hurrying back toward me. I cannot think, too overwhelmed by competing priorities: chase after the dog that hates me, throw the sex toy in the trash, or continue staring at Damien like an idiot?
"I'm sorry," Damien says, reaching my doorway. "He's never done that before."
"It's okay," I say automatically, though it's not. Doug has made it very clear since day one that I am his nemesis. He growls every time I walk past their door. What's he going to do loose in my yarn studio?
I take a step back, intending to go after him, but Damien moves at the same moment, and suddenly we're both in my doorway, chest to chest. He's so tall that I have to tilt my head back to look at him, even though I'm not exactly short myself.
This close, I can smell his soap and something woodsy that might be sawdust.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"I'll get him," he says, his voice low. "He might be a little ... territorial with you."
That's putting it mildly. Last month, Doug snarled at me for a solid five minutes because I had the audacity to use the elevator at the same time as him.
Damien steps fully into my apartment, and I follow, suddenly hyperaware of how my space looks through his eyes.
The yarn everywhere, organized by color in the cubbies he installed for me.
My filming chair positioned by the window.
The half-finished blanket draped over my couch and Diana's sweater under it. Does it look messy? Childish? Too much?
"Doug," Damien calls. "Come here."
A growl emerges from somewhere near my bedroom. Great. He's probably peeing on my bed in revenge for some perceived slight.
"I'll check the bedroom," I say, setting the package down on my coffee table and trying to act like I'm not still dying of embarrassment.
I move toward my bedroom, my heart racing for multiple reasons now. Embarrassment about the dildo. Anxiety about Doug. And a persistent, throbbing awareness of Damien in my space, taking up room with his broad shoulders and oozing sex appeal.
I flip on my bedroom light and scan the room. No sign of Doug. But my yarn basket has been knocked over, balls of soft merino rolling across the floor.
"Not in here," I say. "But he's been here."
I turn to leave and nearly collide with Damien, who's appeared in the doorway. My hands come up instinctively, pressing against his chest to steady myself. His heart beats strong and steady under my palm.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. He's all muscles, and I need to pull away, but I can't. I want to keep touching him. How is his chest so hard?
"Sorry," I whisper, pulling my hand away reluctantly.
"Don't be," he says, his voice equally soft. Something in his eyes makes my breath stutter. With the way he looks at me, as though he's peeling off every layer of clothing, it makes me feel like the floor under my feet is gone, and I'm just sliding through the space, with nothing to break my fall.
Nothing, except…
Another growl breaks the moment. We both turn to see Doug under my bed, only his beady eyes reflecting visible in the shadows.
"Doug," Damien says sharply. "Out. Now."
The dog doesn't move.
"He doesn't usually disobey," Damien says, sounding genuinely puzzled. "I'll need to get down there."
He drops to his knees beside my bed, and I swallow hard at the sight. His t-shirt rides up slightly as he bends, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the waistband of his boxer briefs. I force myself to look away before he catches me staring.
"Hey buddy," he says to Doug, his voice gentler now. "What are you doing? Come out of there."
The growling intensifies.
"I think he hates me," I say. "He always has."
Damien glances up at me. "He's protective. Takes a while to warm up to people."
"It's been two months."
"He's ... thorough in his assessment."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Damien's lips curve into a real smile—not a smirk, but something genuine that transforms his face. My stomach does a little flip. God, he's way too handsome for my sanity.
"He'll come around," Damien says, turning back to the bed. "Doug, seriously. Out."
The dog remains stubbornly in place.
Damien sighs and sits back on his heels. "I might need to move the bed."
"It's fine. I mean, he can't stay there forever, right?"
"You'd be surprised how stubborn he can be."
As if to prove the point, Doug retreats farther under the bed, disappearing completely into the shadows.
Damien stands, and I'm once again reminded of how tall he is, how he fills the space. In my bedroom. Where my bed is. The bed I've sometimes imagined him in during long, lonely nights.
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've seen before when he's frustrated. "I'm really sorry about this. And about—" he tips his head in the direction of the living room, where the package sits.
"It's not your fault. Either thing. Doug or the ... package."
"Still not how I imagined getting invited into your place for the first time. Of course, not including the times I carried your things and installed your shelves."
My heart stutters. He's imagined being invited in? Damien thinking of being in my apartment?
I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly, there's a crash from the living room. We both rush out to find Doug has somehow climbed onto my coffee table and knocked over a mug of cold tea. The liquid is dangerously close to seeping into my yarn.
"Doug!" Damien's voice has an edge I've never heard before.
I dash to the kitchen for a towel, grateful for something practical to focus on. When I return, Damien has Doug in his arms, but the dog is squirming and barking, clearly not ready to leave.
"I've got him," Damien says, adjusting his grip as Doug wriggles. "I should go before he causes more damage."
Part of me is relieved—the part that's still mortified about the dildo and flustered by Damien's presence in my apartment. But another part wants him to stay, wants to see what would happen if we picked up where we left off in the hallway.
"Okay," I say, mopping up the tea. "Thanks for bringing him out."
Damien nods and turns toward the door, Doug still struggling in his arms. I follow, ready to close the door behind them and collapse into a puddle of embarrassment.
But as Damien reaches the threshold, Doug makes one final desperate attempt at freedom. He twists violently in Damien's grip, his small body writhing with surprising strength. Damien adjusts his hold, finally getting Doug under control.
"Come on, you little escape artist," Damien says, stepping fully into the hallway with Doug secured in his arms.
I follow them to the doorway, my hand on the door frame. Damien turns back to face me, and for a moment we just look at each other across the threshold.
"I should—" he starts.
"Yeah," I agree quickly, though I'm not sure what either of us was going to say.
I'm about to close the door when Doug suddenly erupts into violent motion again. This time, his struggles are successful. He slips from Damien's grip like a furry eel and hits the floor running.
Straight back into my apartment.
"Doug, no!" Damien lunges forward, but Doug is already past me, his tiny legs carrying him toward my living room at breakneck speed.
Panic seizes me. The thought of being alone with him, who might destroy my apartment or hurt himself out of spite, overwhelms every rational thought in my head.
I don't think. I just react.
I throw the door wide open and run straight to Damien, launching myself into his arms without any consideration for dignity or propriety or the fact that I'm wearing pajama pants and no bra under my oversized sweater.
His arms come around me automatically, catching me against his chest. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, clinging to him.
Damien's hands settle on my back, one between my shoulder blades, the other dangerously low on my spine before he lowers both to grip my thighs. I can feel the heat of his palms through my sweater, the solid strength of his chest pressed against mine.
That's when I realize what I've done. I'm wrapped around my landlord like a koala, my face buried in his neck, breathing in his scent. I can feel every inch of his hard body against mine.
He smells incredible, but he feels even better.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, and the intensity I find there steals what little breath I have left. His gray eyes are dark, focused entirely on my face with an expression I can't quite read but that makes butterflies flutter in my belly and my pulse race.
We're so close I can see the flecks of silver in his irises, can feel his breath against my lips. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a moment before returning to my eyes.
Oh no. I'm in big trouble.