Chapter 9
"Feeling Good," Nina Simone
Victoria
“White glove service doesn’t include assembly?”
“We’re the delivery team, ma’am,” the furniture person explained. “Originally we were scheduled to arrive back to back, but when the delivery got delayed, the assembly team got reassigned. They won’t be here …” He looked at his tablet and muttered under his breath.
“Did you just say two weeks?” I screeched. He stepped back, half tripping over the boxes that his movers wouldn’t be unpacking. I tapped my fingertips against my elbow, mentally composing my angry call to management.
I assumed the knock was one of the incompetent movers, returning to fuck something else up. I tightened my cashmere cardigan around my waist and swung the door open.
Eric stood in the hallway, wearing a tool belt over khakis and a blue polo shirt with the building’s logo over his chest. Seeing his uniform was a harsh reminder to keep a professional distance.
I forced my eyes to remain on his face instead of tracking down his body, not wanting to recall last night—how his firm chest felt under my palms, how his fingers squeezed my ass, how his erection strained between us as his perfect teeth scraped my lip. Nope, not thinking about any of that.
He lingered on the threshold, running a fingernail along his collar to reveal a smattering of chest hair. “Heard there were some elevator issues with your movers.”
“Wouldn’t have been a problem if building maintenance fixed the broken one,” I said with my hands on my hips.
“I’m not allowed to touch them for insurance reasons, but I’ve already called the elevator company,” he said defensively.
I started to close the door, but his steel-toed boot slid over. “What was all that yelling about?”
Gripping the door handle, I glanced at the crew, removing the plastic wrap on the sofa but not unpacking the matching coffee table. “After an unacceptable delivery delay, assembly has an additional two-week delay.”
Eric gently pushed the door wider, looking over my shoulder at the mountain of boxes. “I could do that.”
I threw another angry look at the team lead, who had the good sense to say, “We can refund the assembly fee.” I lifted an unimpressed brow. “And the delivery fee, since it was a week late.”
Eric pulled a drill from his tool belt with an eager expression, pressing the trigger like revving an engine. Resigned, I gestured him in.
By the time I saw out the movers, Eric had his box cutter in hand, slicing through cardboard. I checked on Jurisprudence, back in her bathroom safe space, then started unpacking.
Relief flooded me to have my Stellas and Veras hanging where they belong, organized by length and color. I moved onto my shoe closet, greeting my old friends: Welcome Jimmy, ciao Gianvito, bonjour Christian. All the men I would step on in my rise to victory.
From the bedroom, Eric’s quiet baritone crooned about birds flying high.
His voice was low and rich, but not ostentatious …
more like the drill set a rhythm and he couldn’t stop himself from joining in over the hum of his power tools.
Peaking into the bedroom, desire flushed through me at the sight of Eric, headphones in, bent over the wooden beams of my somehow-already-assembled bed frame, tight jeans around that muscular butt.
I collected my Bluetooth speaker from the hallway bathroom. “I prefer it with the horns.”
“You like Nina Simone?” he asked, his boyish grin wide with pride. “You didn’t know Taylor or Ariana but recognized Fleetwood Mac and The Beatles, so I figured your preferences skew—”
“Older,” I said, hands on my hips.
“Classic. My mom raised me on soul. Their influence is all over the modern divas. Ariana wishes she could be Nina.” He lifted his eyes. “This playlist is a personal favorite. Most people don’t appreciate it … but I thought you might.”
I turned away from the compliment and retreated to my office before I did something stupid like singing along, swaying my hips, and dancing closer.
If I let the sultry bass consume me, I’d wrap my arms around his neck and will his big hands to find my ass.
His tongue would lick my bottom lip, I’d part my lips and pull him closer …
and my unchristened bed would be right there.
But that wouldn’t happen.
Last night had been a display to make Alexander jealous. That was all.
And Eric had a No Tenant policy, which was a smart rule.
Not that he needed it, because I would never sleep with him.
I wasn’t avoiding him. These textbooks couldn’t alphabetize themselves.
“It’s your house, you know. You’re welcome to sing and not just hum,” Eric said, leaning in the doorway of my office.
I hadn’t noticed my soft humming. “I don’t sing.”
“Not even in the shower?”
“Nope,” I lied, tapping my throat. “My voice teacher tried and failed to turn this Janis Joplin into Joni Mitchell.”
“Fuck that,” he said. “Joni is sweet but I’d take Joplin any day, she can belt with raw power.
You know Nina Simone never took a voice lesson?
They criticized her smoky low register and that jagged high end, said she couldn’t sing like Billie Holiday.
But Nina could wring a soul out of a melody that left Billie in the dust.”
I knelt back on my heels, lips pursed. “Your point is?”
“Raspy voices are pure sex,” he said. “Perfect for songs that tear your heart out. Take ‘Nothing Compares 2 U.’ Who brought that song home?”
“Sinead O’Connor.”
“Exactly. Prince wrote it with that heavy bassline, you know?” He replicated the moody tone, slapping an air bass guitar.
“Everyone recognizes Sinead. Why? Raw vulnerability. The way she sings about her loneliness,” he thumped his hand over his heart as his voice dropped a register to sing about a bird without a song.
“Gets me every time. Have you heard Chris Cornell’s cover? ”
I shook my head, entranced that he brought such life to the song’s evolution.
His brown eyes shone with excitement, his normal movement more frantic as he reached for his phone.
The slow acoustic guitar strummed through my speaker as Eric explained over it: “You know Chris Cornell, from Soundgarden? The guy has a four-octave range, you’d recognize his falsetto,” and he sang a line from ‘Black Hole Sun.’ “Anyway, the way he sings this song is just … desperate.”
As the singer’s voice cracked about nothing taking away his blues, Eric’s eyes grew melancholy. I didn’t know how to react to his wistfulness, the song’s emotion reflecting in his hung shoulders and restless shifting. Men in my life prided themselves on being stoic and strong.
Yet Eric’s immersion in the music showed vulnerability I’d never seen.
My heart raced with a memory of my mom beside me on the piano bench, explaining that I was talented enough to make music my career, but it would require hours of daily practice.
She said when I was a teenager, I would have to decide between music or business.
By then I’d stopped performing, so business felt inevitable.
For a moment, a long-dead kernel of joy resonated deep within—memories of my emotional reactions to playing the piano.
I cleared my throat, chasing safe ground. “Did you study music?”
Eric shook out of his own reverie. “Self-paced courses at Spotify University.” Then his smile widened. “Your bedroom set is assembled, want to see?”
I followed him to inspect. He’d found the box with the linens and made the bed, stacking the pillows and folding a cashmere blanket along the foot.
Thank God he hadn’t unpacked the box with the contents of the nightstand, I’d burst into flames.
I held out my hand in gratitude. When our fingers brushed, his lip curled in distaste and pressed my hand back with a disarming smile, “No need, Cobrita.”
“I would have paid for assembly,” I said, pushing the bills harder into his palm. Heat simmered between our palms as our gazes locked in a standoff.
He broke the contact with a boyish shrug, brushing his empty palm against his jeans.
“Need anything else before I go?” he asked, but he’d already done too much. He’d loaned me his air mattress then his bed, come upstairs on his day off to help with assembly …
And he hadn’t taken my money.
It raised my suspicions. Had he Googled me after last night? Was he was trying to butter me up to eventually request something bigger?
“No, I think that’s it.”
We walked towards the foyer. He frowned at the boxes in the living room, then turned to the front door where his air mattress was folded and cardboard lined up for him to carry out.
When he barged in and insisted on helping with the furniture, I’d wanted to be alone. But now that he was preparing to leave, a lump formed in my throat.
It took a moment to realize why: I needed to balance the scales before he left.
But he’d refused payment. Even buying a replacement air mattress wouldn’t match. No, I needed something at the same level.
“Wait,” I said, racking my brain for a problem I could solve.
The woman. The woman at the club who hadn’t understood the terms of their one-night stand. How could I help him explain that he was done with her? And articulate to future women that they couldn’t just have their way with him?
“I have a legal question for you,” I said. His eyebrows shot to the ceiling when I asked, “What does sex with you entail?”