But still, I square my shoulders, grab a clean Pyrex container, and walk the three steps across the hall to Dom’s door.
I knock, but there’s no response. For a second, I think maybe he’s out, and I’ll be spared,though my cookie dough won’t.
But then the door swings open mid thought, and there he is—Dominic Neelson, in mesh shorts and a battered college T-shirt stretched across his chest, hair damp, face freshly shaved and still obnoxiously hot.
Just like I told Nora.
He looks down at me, eyes flickering from my face to the Pyrex, then to my sweatshirt, which is so oversized, it might actually belong to him.
“Let me guess,” he says, voice dry as the Mojave. “Cocoa ate your dinner, and now you want to know if I have any leftover steak to spare.”
I force a sweet smile. “He prefers carbs, actually. But … you were close.”
He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, his biceps flexing. “I don’t bake.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
He shrugs, feigning indifference, but there’s a spark of humor lifting one corner of his mouth. “Whatever you’re making”—he gestures to the flour all over my black leggings—”I won’t be competition. You’d definitely win.”
“Yeah, well, of course, I would.” I stammer over the words like I’ve never had an adult conversation in my life. “I’d totally win.”
His eyebrows raise. “At making the biggest mess?”
I raise my chin, refusing to back down. “I’d win a bake-off.” I lean past him and take in the pile of clothes on his couch. “And at doing laundry more than once a month.”
He laughs, low and unexpected, and my stomach does a strange flip. “Okay, that’s fair… What do you need?” he asks, softer now.
I hold up the Pyrex like it’s a peace offering. “Eggs. Two, if you can spare. Organic or regular. I’ll replace them tomorrow. I just couldn’t get the Instacart order here in time.”
He considers this for a long moment. Then, without a word, he steps back, leaving the door wide open.
I wait in the entryway, trying not to make it weird (again), but Dom just opens the fridge and grabs a carton from his giant stack of egg cartons.
“These aren’t cage-free,” he says, almost apologetic, as he hands them over. “But I think they’ll work for whatever you’re needing them for… Maybe.”
“I won’t judge,” I say, but the words come out feeble, like I’m afraid he’ll judge me for not judging. But I can’t help it, my mouth keeps moving. “So, do I even need to replace these eggs?” I clear my throat. “It looked like you had about a hundred of them in your fridge…”
“Eggs are a complete protein.” He shrugs, but his arms don’t uncross. “But no, you don’t need to replace them.”
I nod and tuck the eggs into the Pyrex lined with paper towels. “Okay. Well, thank you, Dom. You’re a lifesaver.”
He snorts. “That’s a first.”
I smile. “Maybe I’ll bake you a cookie. As a peace offering…”
He meets my gaze, and for a second, there’s a flicker of something I can’t read. “Yeah … how about just don’t let your dog pee in my shoes anymore. That’s good enough for me.”
“Right,” I mutter and step back, intending to leave, but he doesn’t close the door. Instead, he stands there, like he’s waiting for me to say something else. When I don’t, he gives a half-nod, half-shrug, and disappears inside.
Ugh, why am I so awkward?
I float back to my apartment, heart skipping a few beats in my ribcage. I close the door, set the eggs on the counter, and let out a sigh. ”I should still leave him cookies,” I say to myself.
Cocoa whines from the hallway. I let him out and he barrels into the kitchen, sniffing for more trouble.
I lean against the island and replay the conversation in my mind. The sarcasm, the jokes, the way he didn’t immediately close the door when I left.
“He’s obviously infuriatingly hot,” I tell my dog as I go back to my cookie baking. “And maybe a little nicer than I give him credit for.”
