Besides, whoever this is hasn’t knocked again.
Maybe they’ve already given up. Gone away while I’ve been sitting here, staring at a ruined painting, freaking the fuck out over nothing and so lost in my own head that I don’t have any idea how much time’s passed.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
I should still probably check though.
Wiping my hands that I just can’t seem to get to stop shaking on a clean rag, just to make sure I didn’t miss any tiny flecks of paint, I paste on my people face. Carefree smile, shoulders dropped, limbs loose. Turn myself into what the world wants to see and what I want to show them.
Except my goddamn hand still trembles around the knob as I turn it, because even though I know it’s nothim, who else would be knocking at my door?
The face of the guy standing outside my apartment is so unexpected that it takes me several seconds too long to processthat I recognize him.
And not just recognize him. ‘Cause for a good beat or two before understanding clicks into place, my heart is already stutter-fluttering in my chest and that fake-ass smile I’d been wearing a moment ago has turned genuine as I blink into the face of my very own Cute Latte Guy from work.
At least he looks as totally shocked as I’m sure I do. Wide grey-blue eyes snapped wider than ever, mouth open in adorably blank surprise. It’s a look that means, unless I’ve suddenly totally lost my ability to read a face, that he didn’t have any more idea than I did who he was about to find behind my door.
So how the fuck is he here? And why?
For a heavy second longer, we just gape at each other in what should be the most awkward staring contest ever, but manages to feel sorta fuzzy and warm in that way that I knowshouldhave every alarm bell blaring in me.
Like every time I’m face to face with his mussed up, too-cute-for-my-good, dangerously disarming sloppiness though, there’s not a thing except for the quietly quickened beat of my pulse and the far too peaceful feeling of a smile that, for once, I’m not wearing for anyone besides myself.
Cute Latte Guy shuffles the toe of one of his shoes against the landing, and thank fuck, tracking the adorably nervous gesture kicks my brain back into something like normal. Whatever this bizarre coincidence is, standing here staring at him isn’t gonna get us anywhere.
“Hey, sunshine.” Trying to look like I’m cool-as-can-be and not suddenly swallowing against a full-onhurricaneof butterflies in my stomach, I let my hip fall to the side as I lean against the doorframe.
His eyes go a little wider as he tracks my movement before snapping back up to mine, like, until I said those by now familiar words, he wasn’t quite sure he believed it was actually me he was seeing. And yeah, alsototallylike he was checking me out and suddenly caught himself ‘cause he just realized I might have noticed.
“I didn’t know you love my lattes so much you’d think it was worth tracking me down for one on my day off,” I grin at him, pretending I’m not cringing inwardly at the stupidness of the joke.
He gives his head a tiny, adorable shake, and then, in a mumbled rush, like he’s admitting something he shouldn’t, “I’m your neighbor.”
My heart skips. As in misses a literal fucking beat. “You mean, like—” I raise my eyebrows, pointing back over my shoulder through my open doorway in the direction of the wall that separates my apartment from Piano Guy’s.
The bob of his throat is visible as he swallows before giving a quick, jerky nod.
Fuck, my heart definitely shouldn’t be doinganotherstupid little leap right now.
“You’rePiano Guy?”
“Jesse Eldridge,” he corrects, flashing me a nervous grin thatdoes notmake those damn butterflies go crazier than ever. Nope. “But yeah, I guess I am.”
“I dunno,Jesse Eldridge,” I grin back. “All these name possibilities, and I still think I like sunshine best.”
It’s true too. The moment the nickname slipped out that first day I saw him, it had just feltright. Not just ‘cause of his golden blonde hair, even though that’s where it first came from, or even the fact that the name makes him turn that addictive,scorching shade of pink.
Right now, he’s blushing so vividly that I swear I can legitimately feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, all the way across the space between us. Of course that has to go and make me remember the warmth of him seeping through his coat when I wiped the spilled coffee off it, and fuck if the memory of that doesn’t make me want to feel him even closer still.
Thatis why sunshine fits him so perfectly. Everything about him is so damn warm and bright and just seems sogood,he couldn’t be anything else.
“I’m Tristan Blake.” Pushing off the doorframe, I take a step nearer to him, holding out my hand.
The idea of shaking his hand feels stuffy and formal andsonot me that it nearly makes me laugh out loud. Still, it’s the only thing I can think of to get my hands on a little bit of his skin, so a handshake it is.
“I know.”
His palm is larger than mine as it closes around my hand, his fingers broader and thicker. They’re every bit as warm and soft as I’d imagined they would be, and damn, but I never want him to let go.
