Chapter 2
ALEX
I've read her card twenty-seven times.
The paper's worn soft between my fingers, creased where I've gripped it too hard. Her handwriting loops and curves across the page. Messy. Rushed. Like she couldn't get the words out fast enough. Or she had too much to drink and barely knew what she was doing.
Instead, I'm sitting in my reading chair, staring at explicit fantasies in blue ink. My thumb traces over the part where she describes what she wants my hands to do to her. What she's done to herself thinking about me.
This can't be real.
Someone's fucking with me.
But the card says 3B. Emily Bosworth. The woman who lives next door. Who talks to her cat like it's a person, a baby to be specific. The same cat that doesn't seem to like her very much, if her yelps and groans of frustration are anything to go by.
I can't believe she notices me. I mean, I watch HER. Like a goddamn stalker, a creepy neighbor, a loser who craves her presence even if it's just standing beside her in a cramped elevator.
Fuck me.
My cock's been hard since I found the card under my door. I've tried to sleep, but I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her words. Her fantasies. Me pinning her against the elevator wall. My mouth between her thighs. Her hands in my hair.
I'm pathetic.
For months, I've been extending my morning runs just to catch her on her balcony when I return, drinking coffee in those oversized shirts she wears.
I've been turning off my TV at night to hear her moving around through our shared wall.
I check my mail at 11:00 AM every Sunday because that's when she does groceries.
Gives me an excuse to walk beside her, carry her bags if she'll let me.
It's not normal. None of it's normal. Like I said, a stalker and creepy neighbor.
If this is a joke, it's cruel and mean. But if it's real...
No, fuck. It has to be a joke. Women like her don't notice men like me. I'm too quiet, too brooding, too intense. At least that's what my old buddies told me.
I fold the card carefully and tuck it into my pocket. In the morning, I'll knock on her door. If she slams it in my face, at least I'll know.
At 5:15 AM, I lace my boots and stretch mechanically. I set an alarm earlier, but it was unnecessary. I haven't really slept, maybe dozed for twenty minutes around 4:00 AM, but that's it.
The card's on my nightstand, and I touch it once before leaving.
Outside, the cold air burns my lungs, and I push harder than usual, extending my route an extra mile. Seven instead of six. Need to burn off this nervous energy, this restlessness under my skin.
I've faced gunfire with less anxiety than the thought of knocking on her door.
When I return to the building at 7:05 AM, I scan her balcony out of habit. She's not there. Usually, she's out with her coffee by now, just people-watching. Maybe she's avoiding me. Maybe she regrets the card.
Maybe … it's not even her.
I shower quickly, change twice, and end up in jeans and a navy blue Henley. For the first time in my life, I actually care what I look like.
At 7:35 AM, I'm outside her door. Apartment 3B. I've passed it hundreds of times, but never stopped.
Now or fucking never. What's the worst that could happen? Well, everything.
I knock. Three sharp raps. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I don't remember being this nervous—not on my first day at boot camp, not at my first mission, not when five men were on my heels, and the only thing I had was a Swiss knife.
After waiting for a few minutes, I still hear nothing. No sound from inside. I wait and count to thirty. But still, nothing.
Emily's not home, or she's hiding. Jesus, all that anxiety for nothing. But well, maybe this is the universe telling me I'm a bigger fool than I think.
I turn to walk back to 3A, keys already in hand, when her door opens suddenly behind me. Dramatically. Such suddenness that I feel air sucked back past me along the corridor.
I freeze and turn slowly.
Emily stands in her doorway, hair dripping, her fingers clutching her robe closed, rivulets of water sliding down her face, neck, and legs.
Her eyes are wide, her full pink lips parted in surprise.
She probably ran from the shower, her chest rising and falling too rapidly for someone who just opened a door.
Jesus Christ.
She's more beautiful up close than from a distance. I mean, I already knew that, but goddammit, I cannot look away.
"Hi. Hey, Alex. Alex, right? Alex from 3A? What's up? Something's up?" Her smile is all teeth, and she darts her eyes to whatever is behind me.
Ah, so maybe it wasn't a mistake after all. Perhaps it really was her.
"Hello, Emily. You left something under my door."
Her face flushes deep red. "Oh God. That.
Oh, ahh…I was ... I mean, I had wine, and my friend was .
.. It was stupid, I'm sorry. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable or to make you feel unsafe living next door to me.
You can just forget about it. Please. Pretend it never happened.
I was going to leave you another note apologizing but then I thought that might make it even worse and—"
"Did you mean it?"
Her face goes slack. "What?"
"The card. Did you mean it? What you wrote, I mean?”
Emily clearly didn't expect that question because she snorts, then blows a raspberry, and chuckles nervously.
"I guess ... some of it? I don't know. I mean, obviously not the elevator thing, that would be crazy.
And inappropriate. And probably illegal.
Public indecency or something? Crazy, right! Roberta would go nuts. But I—"
"Have dinner with me tomorrow night, Valentine's Day.”
Her mouth forms an 'o', and she scrunches her forehead. She starts to say something, then stops, then tries again. I didn't realize you could actually observe a person's entire thought process until now. "Wait, what?"
"You made an offer. I'm cashing in. Dinner on Valentine's Day." I pause, searching her face. "Unless you didn't mean it, and I was in on some elaborate prank."
"No! I mean, yes. I meant it. The dinner part. Yes. Just a normal dinner where we eat at a restaurant. Nothing inappropriate or even remotely illegal. Got it." She swipes a few strands of hair sticking to her forehead. "You want to have dinner. With me. Tomorrow night. Valentine's dinner."
"Seven o'clock. I'll knock."
She nods, still looking shell-shocked. "Seven. Yes. Okay. At night. Seven at night. Good, good, good. See you."
Trying to hide my smile, I turn and walk back to my apartment before I do something stupid like kiss her right there in the hallway.
As I close my door, though, I hear Emily's shut too. Then a muffled sound—something between a squeal and a laugh.
I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
Good god, what have I just done? What do I even wear?
After spending the entire day today, alternating between disbelief that it wasn't a prank, nor a mistake, and confirmation that it was definitely Emily. And nervousness. Me, on a date. With a woman. Tomorrow. With my neighbor. Valentine’s Day.
My God! What do we even talk about? Will I go embarrass myself and get tongue-tied?
I have nothing interesting to chat about. And I abhor aimless small talk anyway.
Come Saturday, Valentine’s Day, I was a bundle of nerves and restlessness. With a few hours to spare, I decide to buy new clothes for the date.
Normally, I'd just pick something from my closet. Whatever is closest to hand. But this is different. I need to impress Emily enough to want a second or third date. I want to impress, so I have to go all out. Pull out all the stops, so to speak.
I'm ready by 6:30 PM. I've showered two times, almost finished a bottle of perfume. Polished my shoes to a mirror finish until I could see my own reflection.
Dark pants, a black button-down, dress shoes.
At precisely 7:00 PM, I knock on her door, which Emily opens immediately, like she'd been waiting on the other side.
The thought makes me smile, until I see her.
My brain short-circuits, and my entire nervous system shuts down.
Emily's wearing a dark red dress that hugs every delicious curve. It stops mid-thigh, showing legs I want to drag my tongue across. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, some kind of glittering clip on one side, and she's done something to her eyes that makes the blue more intense.
I was right to splurge this morning. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Henley and jeans to dinner with this beauty.
"Hi," she says, fidgeting with her keys. "Is this okay? For dinner? I wasn't sure where we were going, and I didn't want to be underdressed. Or, um, overdressed. I can change if—"
"It's perfect. You're perfect. God, you look so beautiful."
Emily smiles that heart-stopping smile, the left dimple deeper than the right. "Oh. Thank you. You clean up nicely yourself."
"Oh, thanks." I clear my throat. "Ready?"
She nods, steps into the hallway, and locks her door.
We drive to Valentino's. Yes, really! It’s close enough, and the night is clear. Cold, but not unbearable. She chatters the whole way, nervous energy spilling out in words.
I don't mind. I like her voice … and her jumbled thoughts.
"I can't believe you actually knocked on my door.
I was so sure you'd either ignore the card completely or report me to the building manager for harassment.
I almost didn't hear the door. I was gonna ignore it and pretend I wasn't home, but then I thought what if it's important, what if there's a fire or something, and everyone except me is accounted for, so I peeked through the peephole and saw you walking away and just panicked and—"
"I'm glad you opened it."
"Really?"
"Really."
The restaurant is small and intimate. Candles on tables, soft jazz music, smells like garlic and tomato sauce. Valentine's Day crowd, but not overwhelming. I reserved yesterday morning after Emily said ‘yes’, and used some connections to get a table.