Chapter 5
So it turned out that Dash lived less than four blocks away from me. You’d think I’d have noticed him around the neighborhood before, but it hadn’t been that long since he’d moved uptown from Crown Heights. At least, that was what he told me when I ran into him at the laundromat a few days later.
I’d procrastinated so much on laundry that I didn’t even have beat-up sweats to wear and had to settle for one of the poufy pink dresses hanging in the back corner of my closet.
I toned it down by putting on a green striped T-shirt underneath and pairing the whole thing with a pair of sneakers and a New Yorker tote that had seen better days.
You know, and an eight-hundred-pound bag of dirty laundry that I could barely drag down the stairs of my walk-up.
Wearing a light blue T-shirt that brought out his tan, Dash looked like someone who had cartoon birds and mice laying out fresh clothes for him every day.
Running into him at the laundromat didn’t surprise me, and not just because it was bound to happen sooner or later, with us living within a ten-block radius of each other.
He’d flashed into my mind so often in the days after our trip out to Williamsburg that like any good Dominican, I felt as though I’d called him with my thoughts.
“Hey there,” I said, a little jolt twanging through me as I hauled my bag closer to one of the two machines that were free.
“Mariel!” Looking truly delighted to see me, he slammed the door of his washer shut and came over to give me a hug. A real one, too, the kind where both his arms came around me and I found myself with my nose buried in his collarbone.
Thinking about how romance novelists always described the hero’s scent, I took an experimental sniff and tried to decide what Dash smelled like.
A little like detergent, but that was a given in our current location.
Sun-soaked skin, with faint whiffs of coffee.
Notes of something citrusy, probably his soap or shampoo.
“Mariel, are you… sniffing me?”
His voice rumbled over my skin in a way that made me want to burrow closer. Reluctantly, I pulled away and gave him a bright smile. “Just doing some research!”
Ignoring his confused look, I dragged my laundry bag over the grimy floor.
Of course, I had to try to shove my entire load (heh) at once into one of the sleek silver machines so that he didn’t notice the huge discrepancy in my ratio of ratty panties versus pretty, lacy ones, and of course, that only resulted in my spilling everything onto the dirty tiles.
A—cute and extremely ladylike—grunt of frustration escaped my lips as I hunkered down and started picking up sweaty shorts and crumpled dresses and flinging them into the open washer.
“You got anything good planned for today?” I asked, craning my neck up to see him lounging against the machines, his long, elegant fingers curled around his phone.
The machine Dash had claimed was already humming its way through a wash cycle. “Not really. I usually call my grandmas on Saturdays, so they’ll be waiting by their phone and probably bickering over it as per usual, but that’s about it.”
I grinned up at him. “That’s adorable.”
“They are,” he said, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“It was the best thing to come out of my parents’ blink-and-you’ll-miss-it relationship—Nana and Grandma fell in love when everything between my parents was imploding, right around the time I was born.
Now they live together, and more importantly, they and the other Slot Sluts roll into Atlantic City every month together.
They’re in Vegas now, though, and Nana tells me they’re dominating the blackjack table. ”
Glancing down at his phone, he said, “I should call now, actually, if I want to catch them before they head out to the breakfast buffet.”
Dash strolled out and I busied myself trying to find my detergent. If I peeked out the window, though, I could see him running a hand through his thick hair as he paced up and down the sidewalk, dazzling passersby with smiles they didn’t realize were meant for his grandmas.
By the time he came back inside and plopped down next to me, I was studiously reading a Regency novel—okay, skimming, but only because the seats were next to the window and it was distracting how so many people kept slowing down to check out Dash.
“Whatcha reading?” he asked, his fingers loosely curled around a to-go cup.
“One of the Regencies from my pile. I’m making a list of all the tropes and all the hot stuff dukes do.”
Dash grinned. “I started a spreadsheet. You know, there’s this tiny little bookstore a few blocks away that sells used paperbacks, mostly romance. I’m talking Mills & Boon from the seventies type stuff. We should go check it out.”
“Right now?”
He checked his phone. “I have eighteen minutes left on my machine. Doesn’t give us a lot of time to browse, so maybe while we’re drying?”
There really was no need for my heart to get all acrobatic again over his casual use of the word we in relation to himself, me, and the kind of domestic task that I saw couples performing on lazy weekend mornings. “Sounds like the perfect way to spend a Saturday.”
I meant it, too. Not just because I would get to spend a little more time going weak-kneed at the sight of Dash flipping his hair, but because it had been a while since I’d had actual plans with an actual person on a weekend morning.
If by any chance I made it through a couple of dates with someone without getting ghosted, none of those guys were willing to commit to more than the occasional after-work and pre-hookup drink.
I’d made exactly zero friends in the city outside of my job, and the awkwardness over having been fired meant that I hadn’t really hung out with anyone other than Dash in weeks.
It had gotten so bad that I had almost—almost being the operative word—considered joining a gym or taking some sort of class, just to have the occasional conversation with anyone other than the bodega guy, who I was pretty sure was getting sick of hearing about my screenplay.
A woman with two kids and even more laundry than me squeezed past, forcing Dash to inch closer to me to avoid being crushed between the window and her bags. I fumbled with my book, almost dropping it as his arm pressed against mine and I became reacquainted with his fresh, crisp scent.
Even after the woman passed, he didn’t shift back right away—he stayed close, almost leaning on me, as if he was comfortable there. And I… I didn’t move, either.
I mean, I didn’t want him to think that I was weirded out by such a casual touch. Or that his arm brushing mine made me so tingly that I felt like I’d been dipped into a bathtub full of stars.
Dash didn’t even seem like he was aware that we were still all pressed together. “At the risk of sounding like we’re on a job interview or a first date,” he was asking, “who would you be if you were a character in a Regency romance?”
Well, that was an unfair thing to do to my poor, overworked heart.
“Uh, the eccentric great aunt who makes inappropriate jokes and can’t stop meddling in the main characters’ love lives?” I shrugged, and gestured at my pink dress and striped T-shirt. “I don’t think they’ve come up with a trope yet that encompasses all of this.”
“What about the hellion?” he suggested, and I found myself leaning forward as the wicked twist in his smile sent a rush of heat washing over me.
“The willful, bold, scandalous heiress that drives the hero to distraction. Who makes him want to tear off his hair—and her clothes—as she gallops around, being sassy to highwaymen and shocking everyone with her delightful impropriety.”
“That does sound like me,” I said, laughing as I thought about how much better it was being called a hellion than chaotic. “Now, if only I knew where to find a highwayman…”
Dash made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger and pressed it to the sliver of bare skin above the collar of my T-shirt. “Your money or your life.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Is there a third option?”
“For you?” Dash inclined his head an inch closer to mine, lowering his voice and adopting the British accent he’d laid on me the other day. “My lady, I would give you as many options as you needed. As many as it takes to satisfy you. As many as it takes until you’re spent and quivering in my arms.”
This time, I really did drop my paperback. “Remind me why you need a scriptwriter again?”
He sat back in his chair, looking smug, and took a casual swig of coffee. “You liked that, huh?”
I garbled something unintelligible.
Dash winked at me. “That’s why they call me the talent.”
I had a list of other things I could call him, including daddy, but in the interest of being professional—or as professional as I could be when he had just almost made me ruin my panties—I refrained.
“Yep,” I said. “Talented is a thing you definitely are.”
It was a sad excuse for a compliment, but it made Dash look absurdly pleased. He beamed at me, all light and sparkles and cartoon hearts, and went to fish my book from where it had skidded under a pair of rolling laundry carts.
If I didn’t change the subject to something safe, I was going to do more than be unprofessional.
“How are your grandmas doing?” I asked when he rejoined me. “On their way to becoming billionaires?”
“Or broke, or outlaws,” he said cheerfully. “Or reenacting the plot of all three Hangover movies—I wouldn’t put it past those two to steal a tiger and keep it in their hotel bathroom.”
“It’s so nice how close you are to them,” I told him, tucking The Wallflower’s Bargain back into my bag.
“They babysat me a lot growing up, and I lived with them for a couple years before college.”
“Your parents weren’t around?” I asked.
“Oh, they were. A little too much. It’s like they were in a competition as to who helped me with more of my homework or drove me to the most auditions.”