Chapter 7
"Dear Prudence," The Beatles
Victoria
Mortification flooded me as he stepped out of the cab. I crumpled against the leather seat, replaying my horror.
I kissed a stranger. In public.
A stranger with tattoos and long hair and nail polish.
A 26 year old. Young and short-sighted. Only interested in a good time.
Dropping my temple to the glass window, I could practically hear my grandfather’s stern tone in my head: For Christ’s sake, Vickie, a scraggly nobody put his dirty hands on your rear.
His trophy wife Beverly added: Hussies don’t land good husbands.
His tongue had been in my mouth. His teeth were painfully white under those flickering lights, he could stop traffic with that smile … but that didn’t mean his mouth was clean.
Mallory called him ‘Cruise’ … I knew that douchey Top Gun nickname but not where he lived, what his parents did, or what he’d studied in college.
Oh god, what if he’d gone to a state school?
I also knew how he kissed, and kissing had never felt like that. My distracted fingertips traced my bottom lip as the streetlights flickered by.
Alexander had kissed me hundreds of times, but it was … can kissing be tired? After studying or working, we kissed goodnight and passed out, only to restart the next day. A kissing hamster wheel.
But tonight’s kiss had been incendiary. Every press of his lips, every sweep of his tongue, every graze of his calloused fingertips added to the kindling, my veins pulsing with the music that stoked the flame.
When he pulled away, I wondered if the heat would smolder, but the air between us was oxygen on the embers. I chased his mouth, the crackling energy searing my restraint.
Thankfully when he suggested we leave, I jolted back into reality. He was only kissing me to avoid that woman. So instead of dwelling on his lingering taste on my lips and his phantom touch on my skin, I focused on his jealousy plan—surprised I hadn’t thought of it.
Kissing him succeeded in getting Alexander’s attention. As we left, I’d caught his gaze … but his scowl wasn’t as satisfying as I expected.
When my father approved of Alexander, I thought I’d moved past this phase of my life. But apparently not, because a hot stranger kissed me. And touched my ass. And sweet lord, his big hands ignited a fire inside me.
Then he hummed that song and I almost lost it. He couldn’t know what that song means, so why had I reacted that way? What had I been thinking?
As the cab pulled up to the condo building’s entrance, I composed myself for the short walk inside. I planned the rest of my evening: cleanse my shame with a scalding shower, refill that intolerable air mattress, cuddle with Jurisprudence, and put this dreadful day behind me.
Tonight was a lapse in judgment with a man I would never see again.
Tomorrow my bedroom furniture would arrive. By Monday, when I got the keys to my new office building, I’d feel like myself again.
I crossed the lobby, not recognizing the woman reflected in the metal elevator doors: Flyaway hairs, puffy lips, smudged mascara.
Beverly’s voice said, Whore.
Mallory’s voice said, Hot.
I dropped my forehead against my reflection.
As the elevator doors shifted close, a hand snuck through. A masculine hand, with dark purple fingernails. A hand that had just been …
“You creep,” I said, lifting my trembling fists. “You followed me?”
He lifted his palms, stepping cautiously to the elevator's opposite side.
“You should have stayed for self-defense class, you’ll break your thumb like that,” he said. “May I touch your hand?”
I stared at him in disbelief. His hand had just been on my ass, his tongue in my mouth—and I’d closed the remaining space, pressing my breasts into his chest.
And now, under the elevator’s harsh fluorescent lights, he asked to touch my hand like he was Fitzwilliam Fucking Darcy?
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the intrigue of what he would say next, but I dipped my chin. He gently peeled back my fingers to place my thumb on the outside. He held my fist loosely in his warm grip, nodding at my heels. “Shift your right leg back, it'll make your cross more powerful.”
I adjusted my stance, dismayed as he lifted my fist to his jaw. “See? Rotate your hips, it’ll hurt me a hell of a lot more.”
When my knuckles brushed the soft scruff of his beard, I retracted my arms to my chest. “Good instincts, but guard your face too, that’s the moneymaker.” He tapped his thumb twice against his nose before turning his back to me to face the control panel.
“What are you doing here?” I croaked out.
“I live here.” His finger hovered over the buttons, as if following me into the elevator would get him an invitation to my place. Nice try, asshole.
“Prove it.”
He held up his key with a jingle. “1B. I’m the building superintendent.”
“No.” The denial came out forcefully, almost violently.
“No?” His brows lifted in amusement.
“No,” I repeated, recalling the email exchange. “The super’s name is … Aaron.”
“Eric.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Or was it Derek?”
He blew out a breath. “I’m the super, Eric de la Cruz.”
Fuuuuuuck.
It wasn’t too late to move out. I was already planning to rent the apartment.
I could leave sooner. Tomorrow.
Eric raised his arm for a friendly handshake and flashed that infuriatingly disarming smile. “Everyone calls me Cruz.”
No, I wasn’t some jock who called people by their last name. Names were a sign of respect. I would treat him with professional courtesy.
“501,” I said, reaching past his outstretched arm to stab the five button.
“I thought—” He scrubbed his face. This close, it was clear his nose had been broken before, the crookedness should have looked sloppy but somehow just added to his devil-may-care charm. “You’re Mrs. Obsidian?”
“Ms. Blackstone,” I corrected as the doors opened on the top floor.
His mouth eventually closed, but his look of dismay remained. I asked, “What, you need me to prove it?”
I sauntered off the elevator and swung my door open.
He stepped in with a smirk at my almost-empty apartment.
The only items in the living room were the deliveries from before I arrived.
Ugh, he had been the one to stack them. He’d handled all those boxes …
including new undergarments. I hope the discrete packaging from La Perla had done its job.
His eyes darted behind me and he smiled softly. “Who do we have here?”
Of course she’d chosen tonight to come out of hiding.
The feline queen herself deigned to lift her head. He squatted and rubbed his fingertips together. “Well aren’t you a beauty?”
“Don’t bother,” I said. She’d never been affectionate with anybody but me.
Her back extended into an unhurried stretch. I expected her to stroll away, flicking her asshole in our general direction.
Of course that bitch had to prove me wrong.
She sauntered towards Eric, stopping a foot away to lick her paw. “What’s her name?”
“Jurisprudence.”
He patiently endured her assessment as he hummed her namesake Beatles song under his breath, inviting her to come out and play—did the man ever shut up?
She sniffed his outstretched fingers, allowing him to touch her chin. Traitor.
When he flipped his palm to reach for her cheek, she stalked off to the bedroom, probably curling up on that evil air mattress. I internally cursed as I realized that was his, too.
“I’ll return your air mattress tomorrow when my bed arrives,” I said, trying to keep the transaction professional.
“You’re still sleeping on that?” he said, brown eyes widening. “I figured that would cover you for a night or two. When my sisters visit, they complain about their hips after the second night.”
“There was a supply chain issue,” I said, repeating what the customer service person said when he guaranteed it would arrive tomorrow.
If not, I would demand a refund and spend my Saturday at a mattress store with same-day delivery.
If I had to endure one more fucking night without a pillowtop, heads would roll.
“After five nights on that, you must be exhausted,” he said, his voice soft.
My throat tightened, choking down the confession: Yes, I was exhausted, not just from his stupid air mattress but from the stress of a new business, the move across the country, the disappointment of being overlooked at my last job …
“You can stay in my bed,” he offered.
“Absolutely not.”
“I mean—not like that,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I know how much sleep deprivation sucks.” His eyes darted around my apartment.
“I didn’t know you lived here. I never would have picked you up if …
” His hand smoothed his hair, scratching beneath his bun.
“I have a policy: no sleeping with tenants. "
"You have to enforce it often?"
"Nah, everyone else is either married or over 70 … though Mr. Sorensen in 308 keeps leering.”
Great, he made up a ‘policy’ not to sleep with me. Somehow that stung more than I expected.
“But you should come sleep downstairs in a real bed. And maybe it would be nice to have a friend my age in the building.”
Before I could protest that I was ten years his senior, and not his friend—and why would he want a jaded workaholic ten years his senior as a friend, anyway?—he added, “Just being a good neighbor.”
I wanted to break my thumb by punching his smug neighborly face.
I also wanted to climb into his bed, pull his herculean body close, and kiss him senseless.
But most of all, and this was important: I didn’t want to spend one more night on that fucking air mattress.
I rubbed my forehead, weighing my options, remembering how messy Alexander’s place had been before we moved in together and I whipped him into shape. Would Eric’s apartment be a bio-hazard?
“When was the last time you changed your sheets?”
“Every Sunday, without fail,” he said. “I’ll change them early for you.”
Maybe this was a bad idea … but exhaustion won out. I dropped my arms in surrender. “I’ll pack an overnight bag.” When his face lit up like the elevator panel, I added, “And I reserve the right to leave at any time.”
Before second guessing myself, I retreated to my bedroom where Jurisprudence barely stirred on the air mattress. At least somebody liked that piece of shit.
I splashed water on my face and gave myself a near-silent pep talk: “I’m Victoria Fucking Blackstone.
I’m Richard Sinclair’s granddaughter. I don’t make out with my building superintendent, no matter how big his muscles are or how bright his smile is or how good he smells.
Or how good of a kisser he is. Or how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed.
None of that matters. I’ll crash in his spare bed, then in the morning my furniture will arrive and that will be the end of it.
We can have a professional relationship and never touch each other again. ”
I pointed at myself sternly in the mirror, changed into my ugliest sweatpants and Stanford sweatshirt, gathered an overnight bag, and refilled the cat’s water dish.
Eric sat on my kitchen island, legs swinging. “So you liked the strawberries best, then the cantaloupes. You shouldn’t neglect the pineapple, though, it boosts your immune system.” He popped one in his mouth. “And it’s great for your libido.”
Oh Lord help me.
He carried my bag downstairs. I halted on the threshold to take in his studio apartment, though there wasn’t much to see: a galley kitchen, a small bathroom, a living area with a green couch and rustic coffee table.
A metal bookshelf held folded workout clothes and DVDs, and an electric guitar leaned beside an amp.
Two tiny windows meant it bordered on gloomy, and it had that general damp basement smell, but at least it was relatively clean.
Not pristine, but I wouldn't catch athlete’s foot in the bathroom.
As he quickly tidied, murmuring an apology about not expecting guests, I inspected the sole photo on the wall: Eric in military dress whites, a crisp sailor hat covering close-cropped hair, sporting a dimple instead of his scruffy beard.
His arm wrapped around a woman with warm brown eyes, presumably his mother.
Beside her was an Asian man beaming with pride, and in front were two preteen girls with wild curly hair and braces.
My throat tightened, thinking of my own version of this moment: Alexander in his J.D.
robes with his arm around my waist, his brother Nick's slung around my shoulders, his mom and dad behind us.
In the front stood teenage Mallory holding a shiny sign that said, “My brother came #2 to a girl.” Our gowns sparkled with the residual glitter.
Dad attended my business school graduation, but skipped the law school ceremony, claiming it was superfluous.
I swallowed down the resentment as Eric avoided eye contact for the first time all night while stripping the sheets on the bed.
One. Bed.
“You said you had a spare bed.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch.” He gestured to a too-small couch where he’d tossed a pillow, then stretched clean sheets onto the queen mattress. “I lived on a submarine for four years, I can sleep anywhere.” That teasing grin returned. “I’ll be fine, Princess.”
“Don’t call me Princess,” I snapped. His smile faded.
I considered leaving, but the air mattress had been torture. I was exhausted and his bed looked so comfortable.
He looked so comfortable.
No, just his bed. No cuddling, no touching. Just sleeping in his bed that smelled like fresh linen hung out to dry on a summer day.
He had a one-night-only policy. Apparently I did too. This was it.
I slid under the scratchy gray blanket. “You don’t have to call me baby, or Cobrita, or anything else. My name is Victoria.”
As I drifted off, I bit the inside of my cheek when he sang under his breath, “No, my first name ain’t baby, it’s Victoria. Ms. Blackstone if you’re nasty."