Chapter 5
5
By the time I make it home, I’m already envisioning an evening spent in full-on goblin mode. The awful day of office tension, bookended by strange encounters on the train, has sent me spiraling back toward the moody dark corner I’ve spent too much time in this past year. My stomach rumbles yet again, solidifying my plans for the night: put on sweatpants, order takeout to be left in the lobby, and avoid any and all further interactions with actual humans.
Crossing the threshold into my building allows me to finally breathe a small sigh of relief. Imperfect as it is, I love my apartment building. Tucked right on the border of the Lincoln Square and Albany Park neighborhoods, it’s more than a hundred years old. Fifty units, brick exterior, the split structure forming a U-shape around a haphazardly maintained courtyard.
There were some renovations to the property twentyish years ago, so the bathrooms and kitchens are dated but mostly fine. The basements and subbasements—each section of the U has its own—are scary as hell. That’s where our washer and dryers are. The coin-op situation sucks, but at least they’re in the building and I don’t have to haul my laundry to a laundromat like when I rented a crappy studio apartment in Andersonville.
I have two keys, one for the exterior door, one for my own apartment. Somehow I always mix them up, jamming the interior key in first, cursing and realizing my error each time before successfully sliding the exterior key into the lock. I’ve lived here for three years, and it still happens every damn time. Sighing as I pull the wrong key out of the hole for the hundred-thousandth time, I’m startled when the door handle pulls back from me.
“Locked out?”
I look up, and all the fatigue and frustrations of the day melt away. Intense brown eyes, sheltered by thick black brows, are looking down at me. The eyes are set above a strong nose and a perennially five-o’-clock-shadowed jaw, and beneath a full head of thick black hair I badly want to touch.
This is the knee-weakening face of my new neighbor, Hot Josh.
“No, I just—wrong key,” I say, like the idiot I am. “I always try the wrong one first, they look just the same—”
“You need a color cover,” he says, and I stare at him blankly. What the hell is a color cover? He holds the door open a little wider. “Come on in, then, it’s cold.”
His British accent nearly makes me pass out. It’s so crisp, making every sentence he utters sound confident and well-informed. Even when he uses words or phrases I can’t quite parse, like chuffed . Or color cover . There are all sorts of words I’d love to hear him say in that sexy, proper accent—particularly improper ones, like May I rip your clothes off, luv?
I step into the cramped lobby of our building. Hot Josh has a fistful of envelopes and grocery circulars in his hand; he’s obviously down here to retrieve his mail from the dingy silver mailboxes lining the wall. He’s not wearing a winter coat, just a tight black T-shirt that shows off his muscular chest. The cold breeze blowing in along with me causes him to wrap his arms around himself, biceps flexing. He’s not tall—not short, but not tall—and he’s built as hell. Seeing him this close up always gets me flustered. I try not to stare at the curls of dark chest hair peeking out of the deep V-neckline of his shirt.
In every encounter I’ve had with Hot Josh since he moved in here, I’m pretty sure I’ve come off as mentally unwell. I’ve tripped over nothing, laughed maniacally when he told me he moved here from Milwaukee—why the hell would I find that funny?—and reflexively deployed my most pathetic introduction when we first exchanged names.
Hello, I’m Josh , he said, like a normal human being.
I’m Eve , I said, like the woman blamed for the entire downfall of humanity.
Ah , he said politely. Well, I’ll...certainly remember that.
And now on top of all of that, I’ve proven that despite being a long-term tenant here, I somehow still don’t even know what key unlocks which door in the building.
“Heading upstairs, Eve?” Josh asks, raising one of those thick, dark brows. His arms are still crossed over his chest, hand still clutching his mail. He looks mildly amused, but also cold. And inquisitive. I love the sound of my name in his mouth.
Which is why I gaze at him for another thirty seconds before I realize that when I’d clomped in from outside, I’d positioned myself in the doorframe leading from the lobby to the stairwell, totally blocking his way.
“Sorry,” I say, blushing hotly as I step aside. I wish I could think of something clever to say, but I can’t. The burning in my cheeks feels ridiculous. This isn’t middle school. I am thirty-nine years old and a professional copywriter, for God’s sake. I should not get all tongue-tied just because there’s a cute guy in the vicinity.
But there’s something more than just good looks when it comes to Hot Josh. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but there’s—something. An electricity snapping in the air as soon as he’s nearby. All of a sudden I’m thirteen again, crushing on a boy too cool for me but secretly believing he’ll someday realize I’m more interesting than the cheerleaders. When he’s around, I always feel like something’s about to happen.
Of course, nothing has ever happened.
If my track record is any indication, nothing ever will. It’s rare for me to crush so hard on a stranger, though. I’m more prone to falling for a close friend, pining silently for years, then buying him a super nice wedding gift when he inevitably marries someone else. Which is probably why until recently, my other go-to move was going home with some random guy I met at a bar or party, not because I was into him but because it was better than going home alone.
But for the past year, love and sex have just been off the table. I’ve heard that some people try to screw their grief away, but I went in the opposite direction. The idea of romance has just held zero interest for me. My body wants food, and sleep, and to be left alone. It definitely has not wanted to be touched, or explored, or seen naked. Honestly, the idea of hooking up with anyone has seemed both exhausting and disgusting.
Until I saw Hot Josh.
So maybe he can end my long, miserable streak of solitude. Maybe he’ll also break my pining-or-settling patterns. After all, he isn’t a close friend, and he isn’t some rando at a bar. He’s something exciting and in-between, someone I see daily but barely know.
I’ve picked up precious few details about him, scattered here and there. He moved here from Milwaukee—though his delicious British accent means he clearly didn’t grow up in Wisconsin—and works in consulting, whatever that means. He travels sometimes, but I don’t know if it’s for work or a long-distance relationship or what. Technically, I don’t know if he’s single. Although I do know he moved in alone, and no one else has been in or out of his place in the two months he’s been there.
Not that I’m constantly monitoring his place.
I’m just observant.
And home most evenings.
“Yep, going upstairs,” I say.
“Small world, upstairs is where I’m headed as well,” says Hot Josh.
I bite my tongue hard to keep another maniacal laugh from flying out of me. I wish I had some cute slim-girl giggle. But I don’t. Just the zaftig guffaw I inherited from my father. It’s a truly unsexy laugh that lands somewhere between hyena and Homer Simpson.
Remaining mercifully silent, I just give Hot Josh a tight little nod. I’m going to have to learn how to keep my shit together around this guy, because he didn’t just move into my building; he moved directly across the hall from me. These unexpected encounters are going to keep on happening. And I can’t just be constantly swallowing my braying chuckle. I’ll eventually choke.
Just then, Hot Josh leans in toward me. For one insane second I think he’s going for a kiss. I squeeze my eyes shut— just let it happen just let it happen just let it happen —then after an awkwardly long moment, I open them. That’s when I see that Josh was only leaning over me to push open the stairwell door, and is now holding it open, to let me go first. Waiting for me to move my stupid ass.
I walk past him, under his arm, like we’re doing the limbo or something. We’re so close we’re almost touching. Taking the first step into the stairwell, cheeks burning, I realize that Josh is going to be walking behind me up the two flights of stairs to our second-floor apartments. Grateful that at least my puffy winter coat means he won’t get much of a show, I hurry up the stairs. I’m sweaty and fighting not to pant aloud by the time I reach my door. Fumbling for my key, I jam it into the lock—and, of course, it’s the wrong damn key.
Dammit.
“Door stuck?” Josh asks from behind me.
“Yep, just sticky, that’s all,” I lie. I turn around and give him a stupid little wave. “All good, thanks.”
“See you around, then,” says Josh. “Oh, and someday you’ll have to tell me what it’s like in the North Pole.”
I stare at him blankly for a moment.
Then my fingers go slowly to my head. I’d completely forgotten about the freaking Santa hat Nancy had assaulted me with earlier. It’s still perched jauntily on my head, probably making me look like a deranged elf. Josh smiles before smoothly slipping the right key into his lock on the first try, and disappearing into his apartment.