Chapter 8
eight
After my shower, I towel off, slip back into my robe, and secure the belt around my waist. As I’m finger-combing my wet hair, I walk out to find Evan on the other side of the apartment. He’s setting the table.
Not that I wanted him to, but I expected him to weasel his way into joining me in the shower.
I thought that’s why he was acting nervous.
Maybe I’ve been misreading him? Maybe what I mistook for flirting was him being .
. . well, Evan. Why should I be surprised I can’t decipher his signals?
Would I even know a signal if it smacked me in the face? Probably not.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I shrug. “Smells good.”
He drags out a chair for me at the table.
I stare at it and consider whether I should sit.
My mind says no, but my stomach grumbles as I inhale the tempting aroma wafting from the stove.
I pull my robe tighter around my chest and thighs before taking a seat.
He plates pasta with sauce and hands it to me.
“Wine?” he asks.
“Water’s fine,” I say, but he’s already started pouring wine into my glass.
“How will you seduce me if we aren’t drinking?” He grins.
“What?” My heels lift and my toes tense. I’ll admit I’ve thought of him, but it’s one thing for me to play with a fantasy of us together in my mind, and another for him to believe I would pursue him.
“I’m joking.” He pours his own glass.
“Right.”
I catch my leg bouncing beneath the table and press my hands on my thigh to stop it.
Maybe I’m not as adventurous as I hoped I could be, because being here is beginning to look painfully stupid.
Needing all the help I can muster, I chug the wine, emptying it to the last drop, then return the glass to the table.
Evan shoots me a curious glance before refilling it. “Aren’t you dating what’s-his-name from the office?”
At his question, I’m confused. Is this another joke? Or does he really think I have a boyfriend?
That’s when it dawns on me. Evan believes I’m dating Lou. Lou, who meets me here every morning to walk to me to work. Lou, who kisses me on the cheek when we see each other, and Lou, who is anything but into the ladies.
“You mean Lou?” I ask.
Evan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure, that guy.”
“We broke up,” I joke, though Evan won’t get how impossible that would be. “About eight days ago.” Now I’m outright lying, and I have no idea why. This is the exact number of days Lou has been on vacation in London.
Evan’s shoveling food into his mouth, but I could swear I hear him mumble, “Good.”
My pasta filled fork pauses in midair. “What’s that?”
He swallows, takes a sip of wine, and says, “Sorry to hear that.”
My gaze drops to my food. Is he jealous of Lou? A corner of my mouth tugs upward as I consider his reaction. I lean closer to my plate and take another bite of pasta.
Evan and I chat for hours. He’s the landlord and handles maintenance for our building, but he’s also a private trainer.
That explains his healthy body, but it automatically makes me dream about what’s beneath his shirt—something else I shouldn’t be doing.
I press my thighs together and shift in my seat before continuing my line of questioning.
Based on Aggie’s conquests, she’s concluded that six-pack abs are a myth perpetuated by the media, movies, and romance books. She insists that every guy she’s ever dated is perfect exactly as they are, though she’s never encountered anyone too toned or tight.
If I were dating, I would be thrilled with that.
If I were dating, I’d base boyfriends on personality and good deeds in the hopes of finding a long-term partner.
But if, and I mean if, I were looking for a hookup and wanted to play my “one-night stand, practically a virgin, never been kissed after I lost my memories” V-card on someone, I admit, it might be fun to see abs like Evan’s up close, just once.
When I tell Evan the story of how Aggie and I met at Mr. Moon’s, he smiles brightly.
His amusement spreads from his full lips to his luminous coppery eyes, making them flicker like shiny pennies.
Joy permeates his laughter with a richness that yanks the corner of my own lips, lifting them into an answering smirk.
I’d like to imagine his smile is special, one that’s all for me. Under the influence of alcohol and admiring him from across the table, I’ve concluded that Evan might fit the bill . . . if I were ever to choose a hookup. But I won’t, so I pour another glass of wine.
It’s two in the morning when we finally clear the table. Standing in the kitchen side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we make an assembly line. I wash the dishes, hand them over, and he dries them with a kitchen towel.
“So, what’s it like working for my brother? Is he as much of a turd as he is to me?” Evan places a dish in the cabinet with a clank.
A burst of laughter escapes me. “Turd isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe him. More like brilliant.” I shove my hands into the sink of soapy water and scrub the sauce stuck to a plate.
Linden rarely talks about Evan, and vice versa.
There’s some family drama between them that I’m not privy to.
Though the memory is foggy, I remember hearing a very serious fight between them.
I was outside Evan’s apartment. Their angry shouts were muffled, but the walls of the old building echoed with what sounded like a brawl.
“You have to say that because he’s your boss.”
“I have to say that because I like my job and I want to keep it.” I squirt blue soap into the sink.
“I hear you’re good at it.”
“You hear?” I turn to scrutinize him and hand him a new plate to dry. When our gaze connects and I’m about to ask him if he’s been checking up on me, the wet plate slips from my grasp. He scrambles to grab it but misses. It drops to the wood floor with a crash, shattering into a million shards.
I leap back to save my feet for the second time tonight, but when I glance down, there’s a long scrape above my ankle. At the sight of blood trickling to my foot, Evan sweeps me into his brawny chest and carries me to the dining room, stepping over the broken china like a fire-walker.
With my arms draped around his neck, I’m suddenly hyperaware of three things—his intoxicating rainy scent, his heated chest singeing every point of contact, and the thin layers of my silk bathrobe and his cotton shirt are the only things separating us.
He settles me on a chair. As soon as he releases me, I ache for him to return. He grabs a paper towel from the island, drops to one knee, and wraps my ankle to stop the bleeding. I shiver with an electric chill.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” he says after assessing it for a moment. “If you hold this here, I’ll find my first-aid kit.”
“You’re a doctor too?” I tease.
“A regular Dr. McDreamy.”
“More like a Dr. Frankenstein.”
“I’ll ignore that comment since I’m about to save you from a slow death.” He returns from the bathroom with a medical box, drops to his knee, unscrews the top to a peroxide bottle, and pours the clear liquid over the wound.
I hiss at the fizzling ache.
“Sorry.” He repeats and cleans what’s left of the clotting blood, then removes a Band-Aid from his medical supplies.
“SpongeBob Band-Aids? Aren’t those for kids?”
“SpongeBob is for everyone.” He unwraps it, removes the backing, and presses it over the wound, smoothing out the edges.
Him taking care of me makes my heart contract.
I like him a little more than a few minutes ago, and it doesn’t help that his warm hand is wrapped around my ankle.
When he gently rubs the skin back and forth, I glance up to find his gaze pinning me to my seat.
Ozzy’s words of wisdom ring in my mind. Here he is, a man at my feet.
“Thanks for saving me,” I say softly because my heart’s fluttering with the excitement of my itsy-bitsy crush.
As I wet my lips, his gaze falls to them and bounces back. His warm hand tightens around my ankle. The air thickens, drawing us closer, but he’s not the one who’s moved. It’s me dropping lower until my mouth is near his.
Our noses touch, and I inhale his exhale.
My eyes sink closed before I press my mouth to his, finding his lips full and soft.
I linger there, unmoving and reveling in the sensation of touching him.
His shock seemingly wears off, and he kisses me back in a delicious building rhythm.
Our lips part and tongues touch. Wine lingers on his, sweet and heated, and I savor the taste.
I grip his shirt, balling the cotton in my hands, and he rises on his knees to meet me.
Firm fingers caress my nape before diving south, slipping over the cool satin of my robe and settling on my lower back.
Wide palms grip my ass and tug me to the edge of the chair, making my legs slide open.
My robe falls away, exposing my legs and hips to the chilled air.
He settles between my thighs, and I clench my knees tighter around him.
There’s a restless need in the onward press of his body. The desperate fieriness is similar to the one building inside me. Nerve endings spark when his hands slip beneath the silk. Rough fingers press into the flesh of my hips, and I moan into his mouth.
Though I’m nowhere close to done with this kiss, his pace slows. His hands travel up the length of my arms before he eases me away. Our foreheads touch as I catch my breath. The kiss was too brief. My hunger’s not yet satiated. I stare at his swollen lips, ready for more.
“What’s going on here?” He peers at me from beneath a thick fringe of dark lashes.
“What do mean?” I suck in a ragged breath.
“A few days ago you hated me, and now you want to kiss me?” His words are breathless but steady.
“I was annoyed with you. I don’t hate you.”
“Does this have something to do with your breakup? I heard you crying the other night.”