“This can’t be right.” I check the address again, and yep. This is it.
Shit.
Obviously, fancy people, or Toffs, as Brady called them, have sex too. But I always figured they would be having it with other fancy people while eating caviar and oysters.
I look down at my faded tee and sweats. wondering if I reek of ‘penniless student’.
I’m contemplating turning around, going home and ghosting this dude, but decide to take another look at his profile. I won’t regret ignoring the hard-on weighing me down since that first message if the pic’s are marginally less impressive than my brain’s telling me.
“Okay, one look. Bet he wasn’t as hot as I?—”
Fuck. That furry belly. That big, broad chest. Those tree trunk legs.
Before I can talk my broke ass out of it, I leap from the car, bolt up the stairs two at a time and press the buzzer for 3C.
I am not prepared for what comes next.
“Hello, this is Jam… I mean, Jammy, … I mean. Shit. This is … shit.” Not only is this guy’s voice so deep I can feel the vibrations in my balls, he sounds nervous and cute andugh. He also seems unfamiliar with using a buzzer, as I can hear him mumbling and calling himself a buffoon.
Why is that so adorable?
I lean into the speaker and force myself to stop smiling. “You know, I can forget I almost heard that if you like. Oh, and hey, it’s me, Twinkiebearbear.”
“I would appreciate that, thanks.” He sighs, deep and rumbly. “Door’s open. Come on up.”
Pulling on the brass door handle does nothing, so I wait for a bit then realize he’s still holding the intercom button down. Still mumbling, too. “This is a bad idea. You are going to get murdered and …” Eventually the penny drops must drop, he mutters something else incomprehensible and the door clicks.
Despite wanting to burst in like my ass is on fire, all I do is stick my foot in to keep it ajar, then buzz him again. “Hey, still me. Just wanted to reassure you that I’m not here to murder you. Are you sure you want me to come up?”
He grumbles again. “Sorry you heard that. I’m sure. Yes. I’m definitely sure … but thank you for checking, Twinkie.”
That oddly polite, rough voice has my stomach doing an odd flip.Jesus Christ Cory, he’s going to fill you like a Twinkie, not marry you.
Reminding myself what this is … and isn’t, I kick the door the rest of the way open, and bound up the stairs. The interior is even fancier than the facade. There’s rich people hall-runners under my feet, and those plaster flower things above my head. What are they called, ceiling daisies? Ceiling roses? I don’t fucking know. But I do know that even when I make the big bucks, I will never feel comfortable in a place like this.
Heart pounding, I make it to 3C, and stand at the door. “You got this, Cory.” I haven’t even knocked when the door swings open, and all air is sucked from my lungs.
HOLY FUCKING GRETZKY.
This guy. ThisJam, Jammy, is gorgeous. Like a Dolce and Gabbana cologne model, so far out of my league it’s not funny—Zoolander really, really, really good looking—gorgeous. Falling into his eyes, and poking from behind his ears are light brown curls. A matching thick mustache covers what looks like a full top lip, and an even thicker neck sits atop a collarbone and clavicle so deep I could snuggle in and use it for a hammock.
I can smell him, too. We’re a good two or three paces away, but he smells like … money and honey. I don’t actually think I’ve ever noticed the smell of honey, but that’s all I can think of as I breathe him in, accidentally letting an elongated, “Wow,” slips from my lips.
Hungry eyes, such a unique machine-amber brown, scan me head to toe. I stand tall, attempting to project confidence, even when it’s currently wallowing around my ankles. “Wow yourself,” he replies. “I didn’t expect reality to beat that phone face and bod, but, yeah. Here you are.”
“Here I am.”
That’s the end of the flirty exchange. Instead, we just stand there, eye-fucking each other on his door step. It’s not even uncomfortable. In my mind, it’s kind of how I’d picture myself at the Louvre in Paris. He’s the Mona Lisa and I’m purely appreciating his beauty.
After a freakishly long time, it’s my host that breaks first—my host that suddenly seems chill. “Thanks for coming over.” He takes one tiny step to his side, then pauses. “Sorry, but I have to ask. Has anyone ever told you you look a little like–”
“Matt Damon in Mr. Ripley?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Mr. Ripley.” He laughs, and it’s full and hearty and again, wow. He has dimples. “You get that a lot, I’m guessing?”
Normally, when I’m not tongue tied and out-hotted times a hundred, I would reply with something flirty and cheeky. Instead, I blink myself out of the dimple coma, and go with the unfortunate. “You could say that, yeah. I also get, why don’t you come in and Ripley my clothes off? Or could you just Ripley that condom open. And the classic, I’m going to Ripley you a new assho…”
“Ahh, yeah. I think I get it.” There’s another chuckle, but this one seems forced. I’m screwing this up before screwing. This is not good. “Why don’t you come in, have a drink and we’ll talk about anything other than … that?”
