No. Don’t even go there.
I dash out of the van and rush inside to the elevator, rapidly clicking the buttons like it’ll make it arrive faster. When I finally reach my floor, I hurriedly unlock my door and rush in, setting the basket on the counter. I pick up my discarded pajamas from last night and shove them under my comforter. I clear my small coffee table of the random books and papers, making sure to hide the NSFW special edition cover of a book under an old newspaper.
When there’s a knock on my door, I jump a little, even though I know it’s Saint. Knowing who it is should calm my nerves, but it doesn’t. Kelly, Merv, and Patrick are the only people who’ve been here, so I’ve never had anyone over I wanted to impress. I’ve never had anyone over for a date.
Not that this is a date.
Just… two people sharing soup.
What is my life?
I swing the door open, and even though I saw him less than five minutes ago, I’m unprepared. I’m rendered speechless by how handsome he is. His blonde hair is pulled back into a bun at the back of his head, and his beard looks freshly trimmed. How did I not notice the way his flannel clings to his chest? Does he have any loose fitting clothes?
I shouldn’t have invited him up here. My inhibitions are lowered by the bourbon, and it’s been so long since I’ve had someone touch me, and he’s so damn big and…
No. Soup and bread. That’s it.
“Come in, come in. Sorry I only have the couch to sit on. As you can see, there’s not a lot of space for a table or anything.” I awkwardly motion for him to enter, and his body presses against mine as he does.I should have stepped back and let him in.
Now my body’s all tingly, and my nipples are puckered. I cross my arms over my chest in case they’re visible through my shirt.
“There’s no lock on the front door of the building? No keypad or anything?” Saint questions, surveying my space.
My studio isn’t big, so you can see everything from my tiny kitchen to my full-sized bed to the small sofa and coffee table from the entrance. The bathroom is hidden behind a door, thankfully. I tried to make the place as homey as I could with some curtains and a rug, but embarrassment warms my cheeks when I realize how sad my space looks.
I’m not hurting for money, Merv pays me well, but I’ve been saving every penny I can to buy a house with a garage to start working on my own personal projects.
“No, no lock.”
His lips flip into a frown. “That’s not very safe. I could kick your door in with ease, Mikey. What do you have for security?”
Ooof, stern daddy Saint is hot.
I shouldn’t like that he’s worried about me. No one except Merv and Kelly have been concerned about my safety in so long.
“Pepper spray and a knife block?”
Saint shakes his head, his jaw tight beneath his beard. “You need a deadbolt at the very least.”
“I’m a big girl, Saint. I can take care of myself.”Even if I might secretly want someone else to take care of me sometimes.
His hazel eyes make a slow perusal over my figure, and I’m surprised when I don’t want to cower away from it. His gaze doesn't feel predatory or judgmental but almost appreciative. Maybe it’s just my wishful thinking, and I’m imagining the spark of heat in his eyes. I want to ask him if he likes what he sees.
His stare lingers on my lips for a second before his eyes meet mine. “I’m sure you can, sw—Mikey. But sometimes you need to let other people do it.”
What the hell am I supposed to do with the heat coursing through my veins right now? Part of me, the independent part,wants to snap at him and tell him I’ve been on my own long enough, and I’m fine.
Another, bigger part of me, the one I’ve pushed aside because I don’t want to be burned, wants to ask him to just… hold me. Just for a second.
“I can’t get a deadbolt,” I say, walking towards the kitchen. “I’m not allowed to change the structure of anything, or I’ll get a hefty fine when I move out.” I start taking out bowls and spoons, needing something to do with my hands.
“That’s stupid, but I guess it makes sense,” he grumbles, rubbing his hand over his neatly trimmed beard. “They make portable door stoppers that are renter friendly.”
“I’ll look into it.”
Apparently, that satisfies him, because he doesn’t say anything else about it. He grabs the thermos and unscrews the cap, handing it to me to pour into the bowls. The aroma of herbs and spices I can’t quite place wafts out with the steam, and my mouth waters.
“This is chicken noodle soup but with an added twist,” he explains. “Ruby’s been playing around with the recipe, so you’ll have to give me feedback to pass along to her.” I slide him his bowl, and he holds up the loaf of bread. “Do you have a bread knife I can use to cut this?”
