Chapter Two
Shawn
Nicole.
Her name had been running through my head for three days straight, and I was starting to think I needed professional help.
Or maybe just to get laid. It had been a while since I'd bothered with anything more than casual hookups, and my brain was clearly making more of our little hallway encounter than it deserved.
Except I kept thinking about how her silk robe had gaped slightly when she'd crossed her arms, giving me a glimpse of smooth skin and the curve of her breast. How her hair had been messed up from sleep, making her look younger and less controlled than the buttoned-up professional she obviously was during the day.
How her eyes had flashed with real fire when I'd suggested she try exercise.
Most women would have giggled or flirted back. Nicole had looked like she wanted to knee me in the balls.
I liked that about her. Probably more than I should.
I was loading plates onto the barbell for my Wednesday morning session when I heard her door slam. Five minutes later than usual, which meant my comment about her six-thirty routine had probably irritated her enough to throw off her schedule.
Good. Maybe that meant she was thinking about me too.
The thought made me grin as I settled under the bar for bench press.
I'd lowered the music volume since our conversation, not because I gave a damn about her beauty sleep, but because I'd started listening for sounds from her apartment.
The click of her heels as she got ready for work.
The whir of what sounded like an expensive coffee machine. The slam of her door when she left.
Pathetic, really. I was thirty-two years old, not some teenager with a crush on the girl next door.
But there was something about Nicole that I kept coming back to.
How she'd stood up to me in that hallway, chin raised and shoulders back, even though she was barely dressed and probably half my size.
How she'd shut down my trainer offer like I'd suggested something obscene instead of offering to help her work off some obvious stress.
Most of the women I knew would have jumped at the chance to work out with me. Hell, half my female clients hired me as much for the eye candy as the training. But Nicole had acted like I'd insulted her intelligence.
Which, to be fair, I probably had.
I finished my set and sat up, grabbing the towel draped over the bench. Through the wall, I could hear the faint sounds of her morning routine. Shower running. Hair dryer. The muffled sound of what might have been a phone call.
She was probably getting ready for another twelve-hour day in some glass tower downtown, wearing one of those severe suits that cost more than most people made in a month. Sitting in meetings, crunching numbers, climbing whatever corporate ladder she'd set her sights on.
The type of woman I usually avoided like the plague.
But I kept thinking about how she'd looked when I'd asked about the last time she'd done something for fun. Like the question had genuinely stumped her. Like fun was a foreign concept she'd forgotten how to access.
When was the last time I'd met a woman who worked so hard she'd forgotten how to play?
Most of the women in my world were either clients with too much time and money on their hands, or other fitness professionals who treated their bodies like temples and their careers like hobbies.
Nicole was something different. Driven. Focused.
The type who probably had a ten-year plan and a backup plan for the backup plan.
The type who would see a guy like me as a fun distraction at best, a waste of time at worst.
I stood up and moved to the pull-up bar I'd installed in the doorway between the living room and bedroom.
As I grabbed the bar and lifted myself up, I caught a glimpse of movement through the window.
Nicole, walking briskly down the sidewalk toward what I assumed was the Metro station, phone pressed to her ear and a leather briefcase in her free hand.
Even from four floors up, I could see the tension in her shoulders. How she held herself like she was bracing for impact. Like the world was something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
Yeah, she needed to get laid. Preferably by someone who knew how to make her forget about spreadsheets and presentations long enough to remember she was a woman.
The thought made my grip tighten on the bar as I continued my reps. This was exactly the kind of thinking that got men in trouble. Nicole had made it clear she wasn't interested in whatever I was offering, and I should respect that and move on.
Except I had this feeling that her rejection had more to do with assumptions than actual disinterest. She'd looked at me and seen exactly what she expected to see: a muscle-bound trainer who probably hit on every woman he met and thought flexing could solve all of life's problems.
She wasn't entirely wrong. I did work out religiously, I did make my living helping people transform their bodies, and I had been known to use my looks to get what I wanted from women. But I wasn't the mindless meathead she'd obviously categorized me as.
Not that I'd given her any reason to think otherwise.
I dropped from the bar and headed for the kitchen to make my post-workout protein shake.
The apartment was still mostly boxes and basic furniture, since I wasn't planning to stay long enough to make it feel like home.
Justin would be back from deployment in four months, and then I'd be moving on to whatever came next.
That was how I liked it. No roots, no complications, no messy emotional entanglements with women who wanted more than I was willing to give.
So why was I standing at the window hoping to catch another glimpse of Nicole when she came home tonight?
My phone buzzed with a text from my first client of the day, asking to reschedule due to some crisis at work. Then another from my afternoon session with the same excuse. Apparently Wednesday before Thanksgiving was turning into a professional disaster for half of Manhattan.
Which gave me an idea.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Nicole had been gone for half an hour, but based on the corporate type she seemed to be, she probably wouldn't be home before dark. Maybe not even then, if she was one of those workaholics who treated holidays like suggestions rather than actual days off.
But when she did get home, she'd be exhausted. Stressed. Probably surviving on caffeine and whatever overpriced salad she'd grabbed between meetings.
The smart thing would be to leave her alone. Mind my own business and let her burn herself out in whatever way she saw fit.
But I'd never been smart when it came to women who intrigued me.
By mid-afternoon, I'd convinced myself that making dinner for my neighbor was just being friendly.
A peace offering after our rocky start. The fact that I'd spent forty minutes at the grocery store picking out ingredients for the kind of meal that would make a workaholic remember she had a body that needed fuel had nothing to do with wanting to see her again.
Nothing at all.
The turkey and sweet potato chili I'd decided on was simple enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself, but impressive enough that she'd have to acknowledge I was more than just a decent face with better abs.
And if she turned out to be vegetarian or had some other dietary restriction, well, at least I'd tried.
By early evening, the chili was simmering and my apartment smelled like the kind of home-cooked meal I hadn't bothered making since I'd moved in.
I'd even picked up a decent bottle of wine, though I wasn't sure if Nicole was the wine type or if she'd see alcohol as another sign that I was trying to get her drunk and take advantage.
Probably the latter, knowing my luck.
I heard her door open, followed by the sound of heels hitting hardwood and what might have been a very creative string of profanity. Rough day, apparently.
I turned off the heat under the chili and grabbed the bottle of wine, then thought better of it and left it on the counter. Food was friendly. Wine was a date. And this wasn't a date.
I knocked on her door before I could second-guess myself.
"Coming," she called, and I heard the click of heels approaching. The door opened, and Nicole appeared, still in full professional armor. Black suit that probably cost more than my rent, hair pulled back in a sleek bun, makeup that looked like it had been applied by someone who charged by the hour.
She looked expensive. Untouchable. And exhausted.
"Shawn." She didn't sound surprised to see me, but she didn't sound pleased either. "What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I was hoping to do something for you." I held up the container of chili I'd transferred to a disposable bowl, suddenly feeling like an idiot. "Peace offering. I made too much, and I thought you might be hungry when you got home from work."
She stared at the bowl like I'd handed her a live grenade. "You made me food."
"I made food. There's a difference." I kept my tone light, casual, like bringing dinner to neighbors was something I did all the time. "It's turkey chili. Nothing fancy, but it's better than whatever takeout you were probably planning to order."
For a moment, she just stood there, and I could see the internal debate playing out behind her eyes. Accept the food and risk encouraging me, or refuse and come across as rude.
She sighed and stepped back from the doorway. "Come in. But I can only spare a few minutes. I have work to finish tonight."
Of course she did.
Her apartment was the opposite of mine in every way that mattered. Where I had boxes and basic furniture, she had pieces that looked like they belonged in a magazine. Where I had empty walls and utilitarian lighting, she had artwork and lamps that created actual atmosphere.
It was beautiful. Polished. And about as personal as a hotel room.
"Nice place," I said, following her toward what I assumed was the kitchen.
"Thank you." She set the bowl on the granite countertop and turned to face me, arms crossed over her chest in a gesture I was beginning to recognize as her default defensive position. "This was thoughtful of you, but you really didn't need to—"
"When did you last have a home-cooked meal?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She blinked, then frowned like she was trying to remember.
"I cook," she said.
"Heating up frozen dinners doesn't count."
"I don't eat frozen dinners." Her tone suggested I'd insulted her intelligence again. "I meal prep on Sundays. Salads, mostly. Some grilled chicken."
"Salads." I nodded like this explained everything. "Right. That's not cooking, Nicole. That's survival."
"It's healthy."
"It's boring." I leaned against her counter, noting how she tensed when I invaded her space. "When did you last eat something just because it tasted good? Not because it fit your macros or your schedule, but because you actually wanted it?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. The silence stretched between us, and I realized I'd hit another nerve.
"The chili smells good," she said, changing the subject with the skill of someone used to deflecting personal questions.
"It tastes better." I pushed off the counter and headed toward her front door. "Enjoy it, Nicole. And try not to work too late tonight. It's almost Thanksgiving."
"Where are you going?" she asked, and there was something in her voice that made me turn back.
"Home. You said you only had a few minutes."
She looked almost disappointed, which was probably wishful thinking on my part.
"Right," she said. "Well, thank you. For the food."
"You're welcome." I paused at her door, taking one last look at her standing in that kitchen in that suit, looking like she belonged anywhere but in her own home. "Nicole?"
"Yeah?"
"The offer still stands. If you ever want to try something different than salads and ten-hour workdays."
She didn't answer, but she didn't say no either.
Progress.