So I set down my dinner and head over to Elliott’s.
He answers on the third knock, his dark hair damp and sticking to his forehead.
Did I mention he’s shirtless?
Because he is very,veryshirtless.
I knew he was fit, but this is…this is something else.
Not only that, but there is a towel wrapped around his waist. A very trim, very cut waist with those V’s in his hips that you only see on TV.
He clears his throat, dragging my gaze up to his smirking face. “Did you knock just to stare at me or…?”
Of course, he had to open his mouth and ruin everything. I did come over here for some reason, but at the moment, all I can think about is licking the drops of water falling down the ripples of his very defined abs.
Let me see.
Promotion. Celebration. Dinner.Steak. That’s the one. “I need steak sauce.”
His dark brows jump beneath his fallen hair. “For what?”
“Tuna fish. What do you think? A steak, obviously.”
“What kind of steak?”
“A ten-ounce filet.” Not that it’s any of his business.
At that, his eyes brighten. “What are we celebrating?”
“Iam celebrating a promotion. Do you have any or not?”
He disappears into his apartment and returns with a bottle of steak sauce in hand. When I go to grab it, he holds the thing up over his head, just out of reach. “What do I get if I give you the sauce?”
“Why can’t you ever just do anything out of the goodness of your heart?” He already won a week’s worth of crab cakes that I’ll have to make good on at some point.
“It’s not my fault you mentioned steak at dinnertime.” He pats his stomach, bringing my gaze right back to his bellybutton and the thin trail of dark hair that disappears beneath that towel.
Focus, Loren. He has sauce, you need it for your steak; you really don’t have much of a choice. “You can have two bites.”
“Half a steak sounds good to me.”
“I said two bites. One. Two.” I hold up my fingers so we’re clear.
“No deal. I guess I’ll see you later…” The knowing grin on his too-full lips expands as he eases the door closed nice and slow.
Here’s the thing: my love of steak is only surpassed by my love of the sauce you smother it in. Sauce that is slowly disappearing through the shrinking gap in Elliott’s closing doorway.
If I don’t have sauce, then what’s the point?
“Fine. You can have half my damn steak. But you have to put on pants.”
He swings the door wide once more. “Justpants?”
“Clothes, Elliott. Put on all the clothes.” Can’t have the man sauntering over half dressed, distracting me from my party.
I snag the sauce and head back to my place to cut the steak in “half,” leaving myself the bigger piece. This is my celebration steak, after all.
My neighbor doesn’t arrive empty-handed. He brings over two Tupperware containers, one with spinach salad and one with leftover scalloped potatoes.
