Running late, I dress in a hurry, grab a banana from the basket in the kitchen, then dash for work, hoping I make it on time.
I jab my finger on the elevator’s button, urging it to finally arrive when Ian’s door opens. My heart bungee jumps from my chest to my stomach, making me dizzy.
“Morning,” I say cautiously, watching for his reaction.
“Morning,” he says, giving nothing away. Ugh.
I sway on my feet. “Thank you for last night.”
“What are good neighbors for?” he asks, voice dripping with innuendo.
If I hit on him, I will die of embarrassment. I am also fairly certain that carrying your drunk neighbor to bed is not part of the job description.
The doors slide shut, trapping us inside. The invisible cord sizzles between us, urging me to latch onto temptation.
“Did you dream something nice?” he smirks, arching a brow.
I must have said something, clearly.
“You can’t hold whatever I might have said against me,” I say with fake confidence.
He runs his thumb along his bottom lip, eyeing me. How I’d like to bite into it.
“Hmm, what’s the saying? How children and drunk people always tell the truth…”
My mouth opens and closes, no reply forming.
A lopsided grin stretches the corner of his mouth. “You don’t remember, do you?”
I catch my mortified face in the mirrored wall, and he chuckles.
I can’t shake the impression he enjoys my torment. Steeling myself, I say, “Okay, tell me. What did I say or do?” Not knowing just adds to my mortification.
But the elevator doors open, interrupting our moment.
He gestures for me to walk out, saying, “Have to go to practice.”
I gasp. “And you’re leaving me hanging?”
I said the wrong thing because his posture stiffened. “Don’t dish out what you can’t take.”
So, he’s still mad about that.
Outside the building, I watch him climb into his SUV, driving away.
My heart twists and bends with longing. I need a new place. I can’t see him daily and stay strong. He’s the epitome of temptation, and I’m too weak not to indulge in the forbidden. Everything in me wants him, even though everything in me knows I shouldn’t.
At the shop, I meet with a representative of a gym chain that’s interested in offering our drinks to their customers.
I show him around, telling him about our vision and our promise to serve drinks made from strictly organic fruits and vegetables. We’re pricier because of that. I am grateful for every customer who pays what I consider a fair price. And when he places the first test order, I pocket it as a win.
Kat and I are toasting in the shop’s kitchen to our new deal with an energizing shot of apple, carrot, and ginger.
“We cater to a special segment. We need to identify those wanting organic products,” Kat suggests. “I’m going to create a new list of potential customers.”
With a partner like her, I count myself lucky.
I move to the pantry, checking off items on the list and taking inventory, when Kat walks inside.
