Chapter 2
TWO
“My dumpster diving for dick days are over,” I announce into my phone as I step out of my car in front of my apartment building.
I don’t bother to look around, not giving a shit who hears me.
If I’m lucky, my neighbors will overhear my declaration and remind me, should I dare try to bring another man home.
The thought of another night of alcohol-induced decisions makes my stomach turn. Is this what change feels like?
I don’t like it. It feels like heartburn.
“Just come hang out with me, Daniela,” Santana whines as I shake my head, knowing full well she can’t see me. “We can get some dinner, share a bottle of wine, and complain about how we hate men but love the appendages attached to them.”
It’s hilarious how she complains about her desire for men when Santana is just as attracted to women. She doesn’t talk about women with the same casual indifference, and I wonder if she has a different respect for her own sex.
Rather than make assumptions, I shake my head again and remind myself what we’re talking about.
If I hadn’t battled a stomach bug yesterday that left me completely drained, I might’ve taken her up on that offer. But the cocktail of late-night vomiting and this morning’s early meeting has me aching to get upstairs and sit on my ass for the foreseeable future.
“I’m so tired,” I respond, unable to muster the effort to even offer an alternative option, like her coming over instead.
“Boo, pendeja ,” Santana yells in my ear before I hear the telltale beep of the call ending. I shake my head with a smirk as I tuck my phone into my worn leather work bag, sure she’ll find something or someone to entertain herself with.
Trying to convince me to step out with her tonight when I’m this exhausted was never going to work.
To be fair, it’s rare I’m not down for the nighttime shenanigans that we tend to find ourselves in.
But after the corporate stranger left me in my bed alone several weeks ago, my heart—my vagina —hasn’t been in it.
My self-imposed sex drought feels a lot better without the constant reminder of just how fucking single I am when I wake up alone after a sexual rendezvous.
With the holidays looming, I want to throw myself into the upcoming events I’m working on.
Anything else feels like tossing my time and energy into a dumpster fire, which is honestly what the dating pool looks like anyway.
I’m unlocking the front door of my building when I see something large and gray skirt past me. In those few moments, several things happen: I register that it’s a huge-ass cat who made their escape, I hear a man shout something, and I look up.
It’s all chaos, but I don’t miss his wide hazel eyes and the trim beard surrounding his open mouth, telling me something my brain hasn’t quite deciphered.
“The cat!”
I jolt back with a swear, prepared to run after it.
The sudden shot of adrenaline is for naught, though, as I turn to find the cat sitting just under my car.
I grimace as I press my knees into the pavement, wincing as my heels pinch my toes and the fabric of my pants stretches in this awkward position.
The jewel-toned floral jacquard slacks were a power move at work, showing off my generous curves while still being modest, but not ideal for cat saving.
The strain on the seam down my ass has me silently praying that industrial thread was used to piece the fabric together.
I have no idea if this beast is friendly or not, but it’s too late, as I’m already on all fours, reaching for it.
I’m not what you would call a “cat person,” my experience with them being limited in a Puerto Rican household where the only animals allowed were the ones we ate.
But I’m not a monster who’ll let the poor thing run off and potentially get hit by a car.
Still, how I ended up face down, ass up without foreplay isn’t something I want to focus on.
What the fuck am I doing?
It’s too late to dust myself off and head inside with my dignity, since I’ve got my butt in the October air as I try to rescue this man’s cat. My fingers graze over fur, and I do my best to grab the cat as gently as I can, unsure if it’s the clawing kind.
“I hope you aren’t an asshole,” I mutter as I bring it to my chest. Much to my dismay, I hear its owner answer from right behind me, my bottom on full display. Cono.
“He’s friendly, but he has a death wish.” He grimaces as he peers down at us. “Cat Daddy, where are your manners? That’s his name,” he clarifies, with a small shake of his head.
“Oh?” I ask, straightening. I hold Cat Daddy up toward him, unsure of how to gracefully stand in heels and formfitting pants.
Thankfully, the man holds his free hand out after scooping the cat against his chest. I grab it, attempting to ignore the warmth while trying to inconspicuously dust myself off and tug at my slacks that are now bunched into my crotch.
“He’s an indoor cat hellbent on escaping,” he says, his eyes dancing with some secret humor, and I’m uncertain if it’s at my expense. Maybe the cat isn’t an asshole—maybe it’s him . “My friend’s girlfriend’s cat. I’m taking care of him, and she’ll hurt me if anything happens to Cat Daddy.”
Can’t have that , I think as I look at him. I glance at the cat who now sits comfortably against this man’s chest. I may be a little jealous.
Calm down.
I nod, wondering what happens next while knowing I’ve made a fool of myself in front of this man.
I’m becoming increasingly aware of how attractive he is.
He’s got that artsy edge to him, with his rolled-up beanie and denim jacket, a vibe that makes quick work of removing my panties every time.
One of his front teeth overlaps the other slightly in a way that makes his smile fucking adorable.
I’m about to walk away when I remember my bag is on the ground next to my car. Great. I bend over to grab it, and the moment I stand straight, my stomach flips with a wave of nausea I didn’t see coming.
My mouth, open to bid him farewell, has now become a gateway for the day’s lunch to reintroduce itself.
And it does.
All over the man’s feet.
I straighten, bringing the back of my hand to cover my mouth, feeling the urge to heave again.
Fuck .
His lips, once lifted in a friendly smile, part in surprise before I see his features morph into a grimace. Somehow, he’s still holding that damn cat. The moment he looks down at his shoes, I bolt.
Goddamn Cat Daddy.
I’ve showered and brushed my teeth several times when I hear a knock at my apartment door.
The nausea mixed with the heat of embarrassment rivals the hot vomit I loudly splattered all over that man’s shoes. It makes me shudder as I get up from my sofa.
I want to hide, to bury myself in my plush robe and dive under my thick comforter until I somehow forget what the cat man looked like wearing my regurgitated chicken salad on his black tennis shoes.
The way his smile morphed into a look of horror.
The way I scurried away, damn near running inside my apartment to vomit some more until I dragged my sorry ass into the shower.
Another knock sounds just as I peek through the peephole. As soon as I catch sight of the man—sans Cat Daddy—I jerk back, covering my hand with my mouth as if his mere presence will trigger another round of vomiting.
How did he know where to find me?!
I’m silent as I stand there, unable to speak, wishing he’d just go away. I haven’t felt this way since the days of hiding from people who come to your door to introduce you to their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
“Good to know your hardwood floors are as loud as mine are,” he says, and I press my forehead into the door at the sound of the humor in his tone. Not even the thick metal front door can mask it.
“I’m…not feeling well,” I tell him, knowing my wet hair hangs in flaccid ribbons around my face and my skin is pale from exhaustion. “I don’t want you to catch it.”
“No worries. I get it.”
I look out the peephole again to watch him pause for a moment.
“I’m Quintin. I moved next door last month, but I’m finally settled in.”
Great . It isn’t enough that I threw up on him.
Now, I’ll have to see him unless I break my lease.
I toss the idea around until I realize how fucking ridiculous I’m being.
Besides, I love my apartment and its proximity to the city center.
I refuse to give up my comfort over something as trivial as vomit.
“Welcome to the building,” I croak out, still watching him.
As if he can feel my gaze, he looks straight at the peephole, holding up a container. “I made soup. Figured it might help.”
Aren’t I supposed to be the one bringing him goodies, welcoming him? Wouldn’t that be the neighborly thing to do?
And what kind of man brings soup to the person who ruined their shoes?
Maybe a nice one?
Maybe one who wants to wear my skin as a suit?
I blink myself out of my self-induced Hannibal Lector daze, watching as he rubs the back of his neck at my silence before setting the soup down and walking off.
I didn’t even thank the poor man or apologize for destroying his tennis shoes. What is wrong with me?
Only once I hear the door next door shut do I open my own and peer out. When I realize the coast is clear, I grab the soup and rush back inside, slamming my door with more force than necessary.
I’m afraid to eat, terrified I’ll end up curled around my toilet again.
But the moment I open the container of soup and the scent hits my nostrils, the monster that is my stomach grumbles with hunger.
I snatch a spoon from my kitchen drawer and scoop up the soup while standing over my sink, unable to wait the few moments it would take to have a seat at my dining table.
The first bite steals a moan from my lips.
Holy shit, if this man really made this soup, I’d eat anything he conjured up in the kitchen.
This rivals Mami’s sopa de pollo —but I’ll never tell her that.
Should I leave him a thank you note? A bottle of wine?
A gift card to my favorite cleaners?
Nope. Better to pretend today never happened and hope to fuck I don’t run into him ever again.
My favorite pair of work out sneakers are ruined, and I’m pretty sure my neighbor is hiding from me. Call it a hunch, but I haven’t seen her since the day she threw up on me.
My first night in this place, I broke the kitchen in making homemade soup for the woman who puked on me. I barely got a thank you out of her. Not that I did it for that; no, it was more to let her know it’s okay and she has nothing to be embarrassed about.
Welcome to the building , I remember her saying in a tone that edged on vocal fry .
I scoff over my smile as I hear her front door close, its muted thump the only sign of life next door.
She’s surprisingly quiet, and while I’ve only seen her once, I can’t get those gorgeous dark eyes out of my head.
The way her thick black hair flirted with her waist. Her full lips and dainty little hands adorned with long nails.
Of course I looked for a ring, and the only ones she wore looked more decorative than anything else.
I remember her eyes most, wide as she covered the bottom part of her face with her hand after puking on me. Not what I was expecting, but she certainly left a lasting impression.
Clearly, since I found myself whipping up some chicken soup and dropping it off like some lovesick kid.
But, man, is she fucking beautiful—wide hips that look like they’d fill my palms and then some, a round ass I ogled freely when she bent down to grab that damn cat. And her face? Exquisite.
I want to see what she looks like when she smiles.
Granted, I’m starting to wonder if she actually exists.
It’s been a week, and I’ve had nothing but misses. Somehow, she comes and goes undetected.
Should I bring her more food? No, that’s weird. She’ll think I have some kind of feeding fetish. I’ve done enough. The soup was a gesture, and now…now, I wait to see if I ever see her again.
I have a year before my lease ends. Fingers crossed.
My phone rings, and when I see who it is, I decline the call. I don’t want to talk to him right now.
No need to dredge up the past when the future seems slightly more interesting than it did a week ago.
I think back to a week ago—finally moving the last of my furniture in and meeting my neighbor, Mr. Jenkins, across the hall, who filled me in on the “cute woman” who lives next door to me, among other bits of gossip.
He warned me that street parking is tricky, and it can get noisy from time to time, especially in the summer.
But I held on to the fact that my next-door neighbor is single. And far cuter than Mr. Jenkins gave her credit for.
She’s stunning.
I guess the guy I’d seen leaving her apartment when I toured doesn’t live there.
And if he doesn’t live there…what’s to stop me from trying to get to know her?