Page 16 of Only Lovers in the Building

“I know, and I love her,” he said. “It doesn’t change that three’s a crowd. When do we meet by the pool?”

“Tomorrow, around ten?”

He made a face. “Can you do early? The pool is deserted at eight or nine.”

“I can do early. How about eight?”

“Perfect. What are we reading?”

“Blurred Lines by Kayla Clark.”

“Come by for coffee first.”

“If you insist.”

“I insist.”

Lily waited until she heard the door across the hall click shut before plugging his name into a search engine.

Benedicto Romero is a Cuban American academic who specializes in literary translations . . . on the faculty of the University of Miami . . . works include War and Reason, Light before Dawn, The Lamb . . . recipient of a PEN award for translation and a MacArthur Fellowship . . .

Lily blinked and read that last bit again. The man she’d accused of trolling, just for poking holes into her hot take on a romance novel, was a MacArthur Fellow—or stated more plainly, a certified genius.

Chapter Five

The next morning, Ben presented her with a coffee and a copy of Blurred Lines, picked up the night before at a local bookstore. Affection bubbled up inside her. Quickly, she used her iron will to pop those bubbles, putting an end to that.

“Thanks, neighbor.”

“You’re welcome.” He grabbed his keys off a hook. “Elevator or stairs?”

“You’d get in an elevator with me?” she asked.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said. “How was happy hour?”

“Postponed until later today,” she replied. “Noah couldn’t make it. He left a message with your cousin. Are you bartending tonight?”

“No,” he answered. “I’m grading papers.”

Lily stomped on the sprouting weed of disappointment. “Ah . . . sounds like fun!”

“I’m teaching a seminar this summer. It’s short but intense.”

“Well, we can’t all be on sabbatical,” she said.

“I envy you,” he said. “If you only knew how much.”

They rode to the pool deck without incident. Ben pulled close two lounge chairs and adjusted the yellow sun umbrella for maximum shade. Then he peeled off his T-shirt, balled it up, and stuffed it into a duffel bag. Lily stole a glance, then another . . . and another. He might be a scholar, but his body told the story of another kind of life. His back was broad, chiseled, and seared by the sun. He did not have the regular assortment of tattoos: daggers on forearms, barbed wire around wrists, requisite angel, wings outstretched over biceps. Instead, vines crawled up his forearms, flowers bloomed on his chest, and a flock of tiny black birds soaring up his spine. Was that all? Were there more concealed somewhere? The little birds held her attention. She wanted to follow their flight with her fingertips.

He caught her staring. She blushed but didn’t look away. Lily no longer felt awkward and jittery around him, which was a minor miracle that deserved its own holiday.

She stripped off her cotton button-up shirt. Underneath, she wore the most provocative of her swimsuit collection, a navy tankini that she was going to get rid of the minute her online orders arrived. Ben didn’t steal glances at her newly unveiled body, he stared with keen, observant eyes. He could see right down to her last cell of insecurity, and yet there was no judgment, only warmth and admiration.

She stretched out next to him in her chair. “We should set some ground rules.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“This is a romance book club, so let’s be clear on what a romance is and is not.”