“Then talk to me with real words—ones you mean, not ones you want me to hear.”
The door buzzes and he opens it. As I walk past him into the lobby, he puts a hand on my lower back. It feels intimate, and even though his touch is fleeting and his hand is back at his side by the time we reach the elevator, the warm feeling it creates in me lingers. As the elevator doors close on us and we make our way up to the twenty-fifth floor, he turns to me, pushing his aviators up on his head so his eyes, which are a swirl of colors like caramel sauce on a melting chocolate sundae, bore into me. “I wanted serious. I tried serious. In the end, I didn’t feel serious enough about her. Not the way I know I could about someone else, so I ended it.”
“So we’re back to celibacy?” I can’t help but ask, even though it’s really none of my business.
“It didn’t work out with her,” he corrects me. “But I still want a serious relationship.”
I almost ask him with who, which is ridiculous. But for some reason it doesn’t feel like he’s saying it in a general way. It sounds like he has something—someone—specific in mind. Of course he doesn’t, but even if he does, it’s not my business. The fact that he just gave me a real answer about something personal is a miracle. I need to shut up and be grateful for that.
A hefty, squat man in a badly fitting suit opens the door to the apartment at the end of the hall and smiles brightly. “Mr. Westwood! Wait till you see this place. It’s amazing.”
He wasn’t lying. This is exactly the type of place where I would expect Avery to live. A two-bedroom, two-bath condo with marble counters and hardwood floors and a massive balcony with unobstructed ocean views. If I could afford it, I’d take it in a heartbeat. Avery doesn’t, though. He tells this rental agent the same thing he told the last one. As we walk back out into the sunshine, I tell him he’s crazy.
“I don’t really want to live in a generic box with so many neighbors on top of me. I had a house in Seattle, remember? I like my space. This last one is supposed to be a house.” He hands me his phone again so I can see the last place on his list and guide him there. It’s super close to my place, only a block away.
We walk in silence for a few minutes until I say, “Tell me something about you no one else knows.”
He smiles. “Why, so you can sell it to the tabloids?”
A couple a few years older than us with a baby carriage is passing by so I wave at them. “Hey! Do you guys happen to know when the San Diego Saints’ first game of the season is?”
The woman shakes her head immediately. The guy thinks about it for a long second as he glances at me and then at Avery. I feel Avery tense again, and I can’t help but subtly reach out and rest my hand on his biceps to try to calm him. Instead it makes my heart race because, damn, his arm feels as solid as an oak tree.
“I think it’s in November or something?” the stranger finally says with a shrug. “Like most of San Diego, I’m more of a baseball fan. At least they win.”
The couple continues down the street. As soon as they’re out of earshot, I laugh. “Burn!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Avery replies wryly, but the tiniest hint of a smile plays on his lips. “Was there a point to that little scene other than reminding me I’m going to have to carry a shitty team on my back this season?”
“Yeah. To remind you yet again that no one here knows who you are,” I explain as we turn off the oceanfront block and onto the street with his next rental listing. “Selling your secrets would earn me enough money for a Happy Meal, if I’m lucky. So spill it. Tell me something interesting about you, not just the boring stuff you tell the media.”
“I’m terrified of skunks.”
“Nobody likes skunks.”
“No. I amterrified,” he repeats, and I realize, as his voice drops an octave and his tone turns serious, he feels about skunks the way I feel about spiders or serial killers.
I pull off my sunglasses and stare at him. His cheeks are getting red. Is he blushing?
“I once came face-to-face with one on my driveway in Seattle and I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t stop. Had to call the team doctor. He gave me Ativan.”
I bite my bottom lip—hard—to keep from smiling or, worse, laughing, which is all I want to do. “Why?”
“Because they’re evil,” he replies swiftly, still serious. “Have you ever really looked at a picture of one? They’ve got demonic little faces and they stink. And they’ll make you stink for a long freaking time no matter how much tomato you bathe in.”
“Have you been sprayed?”
He shakes his head vigorously. “No. My father was once when I was a kid. There was a family of them living in the crawl space under our house, right under my bedroom. I used to hear them clawing and scratching at night. One night I woke up and peeked out my window and the little demon was staring back at me.”
He shudders. This tall, muscular, perfect athletic specimen of a man just shuddered like a cheerleader in a slasher movie. Something about his vulnerability is so sexy…but also still a little ridiculous, so I let out the giggle I’ve been holding in. He looks mortified. “I was seven. It was terrifying.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie.” I pat his shoulder. “I haven’t seen a skunk since I moved here.”
He wraps an arm around me and squeezes me to his side. Sebastian has done the same friendly, brotherly gesture to me a million times, but it feels different when Avery does it. That damn hummingbird feeling starts in my belly and flutters up into my chest. He stops suddenly and points. “I think this is it.”
The house in front of us is tiny, run-down and just plain ugly. It’s painted a lime green and the concrete steps up to the door are cracked and crumbling. The screen on the storm door is ripped and hanging.
“The rental company said the key is in a box on the porch. I have a passcode for the box.” He marches up to the front door. As he unlocks the box and pulls out the key, he looks over at me and notices my quizzical expression. “Let’s give it a shot.”
