Chapter 4
FOUR
A knock sounds, and I jump, even though I’ve been watching the digital clock on the stove as each minute came and went.
I try not read into the two minutes to spare when I swing the front door open and come face-to-face with my fine-as-hell neighbor.
First, I notice his damp hair, the way the tendrils clump together and curl.
Then, I smell him. A clean scent, like he’d only bothered with soap and chose to forgo cologne.
The image of him rubbing his head with a damp towel before bringing it down his chest invades my thoughts, rendering me stupid as I wonder just how well he manscapes.
“Hey…” he starts, and I can’t help my smile at the way he trails off, looking at me with a smile of his own.
We stand there for a moment, and I realize I haven’t invited him in.
“Are you hungry?”
It’s an easy enough question, but I don’t know how to answer it.
On one hand, I’m starving, having skipped lunch for fear I’d just regurgitate it.
On the other hand, if I tell him that, will he want us to eat together?
Will he offer to cook? And if he does and I throw up again, will that ruin any chance I have of him working this event?
Will I officially have to find somewhere else to live?
The obvious answer is to spend as much time with him as I can so I can properly convince him, even if I walk the tightrope of handling my persistent nausea should he offer to cook.
“I am,” I squeak.
He peers at me, his eyes boring into mine as if he’s trying to figure me out. Good fucking luck, man. I can’t even figure myself out.
“If you’re more comfortable here, I can make you something. If…you’re okay with me coming in,” he tells me, reminding me we’re still standing on the threshold of my door.
I stare down at my bare feet, my soft-pink painted toenails, as I mull over his words.
Because now, I have to weigh more options, wondering which outcome will work best in my favor. Fuck, I’m just trying to make this as easy as possible: get him to agree to take on Paula’s event, keep it professional, and forget I ever puked on him.
But I glance behind me, reminding myself that, in my battle against the persistent stomach bug, I’ve neglected grocery shopping.
Crackers sit in my cabinet, and ginger ale and water are more than likely the only inhabitants of my fridge, minus the odd sauces and the sofrito my mom makes me by the jar.
Well, then.
“I actually don’t have anything to cook here,” I confess, kicking my foot out to rest on my heel as I assess his reaction.
Easy like Sunday morning, he smirks before bringing his hands together in front of him, as if I fell right into his trap. “Come on, then,” is all he offers before he turns his back on me and heads to his place.
I watch him go, admiring the way his broad shoulders taper down to his waist to an ass that fills out his athletic pants nicely.
Don’t you fuck him, Dani. You pull yourself together, damn it.
Que carajo.
I take a deep breath and grab the slides I keep by the door, trying not to overthink the cotton lounge pants and graphic tee I opted for before he showed up.
As I exit my apartment, I see he’s already entered his, and I take the moment alone in the hallway to inhale deeply again.
I near his door and see he left it cracked for me to enter behind him.
I’m curious to see his layout compared to mine—it seems to be exactly the same, just flipped so his bedroom is on the other side of the apartment.
Thank goodness. I don’t need him to hear the sudden increase in self-love next door.
His style is as eclectic as his restaurant, and there’s no shortage of leather.
The worn brown sofa is adorned with earth-toned throw pillows, the odd bright color woven in here and there.
Nearly everywhere, I find the same shade of azure that colored his restaurant walls.
Art hangs on the walls, and the air is heavy with an all-too-familiar scent.
“I didn’t know incense made a comeback,” I murmur as I peruse the place, stopping in front of Quintin, who stands just inside the kitchen, leaning against the closest wall as he watches me.
“You don’t like it?” he asks, his dark brows rising. He doesn’t move to put it out, doesn’t apologize.
The way he stares at me, daring me to answer him, warms me.
“It reminds me of my childhood, actually,” I confess. “My mom loved to burn incense every Sunday after she gave the house a good cleaning. Incidentally, salsa music elicits the same nostalgia.”
He lets me ramble, still watching me, and I realize this is the most I’ve ever said to him. I try not to overthink, try not to feel embarrassed about my rambling.
“You’ll have to play some for me. I’m half, but I didn’t grow up with my Puerto Rican family, so…it feels oddly comforting,” he offers in return.
I don’t want to ask, but I’m dying to know.
“You have Puerto Rican family?” I eye his caramel curls.
He ducks his head in a nod before running his hand over his jaw. I ogle the thickness of his fingers, my panties suddenly feeling damp.
I haven’t been horny in while.
“I do. I’ll tell you all about my life in due time.”
As if he can bank on us being alone together again. Quintin smiles like he’s never heard the word “no” come from a woman’s mouth. Looks like I’m the woman to burn that streak to the motherfucking ground.
“I’m sure you’ve heard it every Sunday since you moved in,” I tell him, swinging my arms to settle my hands on my waist, as if it’s going to keep him from getting too close. “Some people get an inheritance. I just inherited my mom’s penchant for deep cleaning to Spanish music on Sundays.”
I wonder what he inherited. A penchant for emotionally unavailable women?
“I’m usually at the restaurant early on Sunday mornings to get ready for the brunch crowd.” He turns toward the kitchen, and as he ambles away, I debate whether to follow him or sit on the couch. Or maybe I should just get my ass out of here.
“Any allergies?” he calls out to me.
I blink, not sure what he means for a moment before I answer.
Food. Right.
“Um, no.”
I walk toward his couch and perch my ass on the scarred material.
What kind of person leaves someone in their apartment, unattended to?
I can’t tell if he’s sure I’m not a thief or if he just doesn’t give a shit.
The large flat screen mounted on the wall must’ve been expensive, but it isn’t like I can yank it down and take it with me next door.
Rather than waste time sitting alone in his living room, I head toward the kitchen.
“Ants in your pants?” he asks as I approach where he’s gathering produce from his sink. Onions, peppers, garlic, ginger, an array of colors that match the space he resides in. In my observation, I almost don’t catch what he says.
“Excuse me?” I ask. What grown-ass man says something like that?
“I didn’t want to ask if you’re nervous,” he explains, pulling a knife from the block without breaking eye contact.
It’s then I realize this man could fucking kill me.
I’m alone in his apartment, and no one knows I’m here.
“Asking someone if they’re nervous when you’re about to hold a very sharp object seems… ”
I nod when he trails off. Indeed, it does seem…
“Thank you for thinking ahead,” I say, watching as he chops with ease. I didn’t know watching a man in the kitchen could be so fucking attractive.
His eyes don’t even water from the onions, and I’m unsure if mine are reacting to them, or if I’m weeping from the sight of his focus and precision—or from the way the repetitive action causes the muscles in his forearms to jump to life.
“Want to hear something kind of crazy?” he asks, breaking my trance. Do I say no to the man holding the knife? I don’t dare.
“Sure,” I say, swallowing hard, trying not to twist my face at the sight of the chicken he pulled out that looks like it’d been marinating in the fridge. Raw meat. ?Fo!
“I’m cooking you dinner in my apartment, and I don’t even know your name.”
He stops and looks at me, his hazel eyes peering through the dark lashes that frame them. There’s a smirk on his face, as if he’s proud of the fact that he’s gotten a stranger into his home.
“I’ll tell you my name if you promise it isn’t going to be carved on a headstone any time soon.”
He presses the sharp point of the knife into the cutting board and continues to stare at me for a moment until a loud laugh erupts from him, as if it had to build up in his belly before it made its way out of his mouth.
The sound fills the space, and I can’t help my own grin in response. I like to think I’m funny, but it’s been a while since anyone has indulged in my sense of humor. Certainly not anyone of the opposite sex.
Most of them just care about which holes I’ll let them put their dicks in.
“You aren’t worried I’ll kill you,” he states, leaving no room for my maybe outlandish concerns.
“Well, when you laugh at me like that, I guess not,” I offer, gesturing one hand toward him, the other pressed against my body, under my elbow.
He sets the knife down and moves to put the chicken in the oven.
And then, as if he remembers what we just discussed, he flicks his gaze toward the knife he left and chuckles as he sets it in the sink.
All the while, I watch him doing his culinary dance, standing in the doorway, my hands tucked into me.
“You gonna tell me your name?” he asks again, lifting a brow as he continues to maneuver around the kitchen. He prepares food like he’s comfortable enough to teach others, but with so much focus, he rarely looks in my direction.
How he manages to give so much of his attention to what he’s doing while maintaining conversation makes me think I haven’t given the male gender a fair shake. Maybe they are indeed capable of multitasking, in spite of what I’ve seen for myself.
“Daniela,” I finally answer, rushing it out as I rock on my heels. “You can call me Dani.”