“Mmm-hmm …”
I shake my head at Freya and open the door to our apartment. “Oh my god …” I whisper.
“What?” Freya calls.
I gulp. “Uh … nothing.” I shut the door behind me and stare at the trail of flower petals in a rainbow of colors, starting at my door and leading to the stairway. A few areas are a little scattered like other residents have traipsed through the trail. I follow it to the stairs, to the lobby, out the door, and straight across the street to the pizza place.
Yes, they are in the street as well. I’m not sure how he managed it, but the trail of petals continues into the restaurant and right to a table near the door—thankfully—where my arrogant, book-hating neighbor waits for me.
Looking … well, never mind. I’m not going to obsess over how he looks.
Sex. He looks like sex. The ultimate scratch to every “itch” I’ve ever had.
I have self-control. This won’t be an issue.
“Thanks for following the dress code.” He grins.
What to address first? His plain white tee? His denim jeans that are the same shade as mine? Or … his silly yellow canvas shoes. What were the chances?
For one second … can we discuss the bouquet of stems on the table? Petal-less flowers.
If he’s going for original, he’s beat every other man I’ve ever dated.
Not a date!
Every other man I’ve met for a meal.
“You have a mess to clean up.” I try to hide my unavoidable delight by going with a scolding tone and a fake frown as I set my handbag under the table and ease onto the chair.
“Don’t ever surrender.” He hands me a menu. “Promise me you’ll always make me work for it.”
It’s hard to not surrender to that smile.
“Work for what?” I hide behind the menu before he melts me into a puddle of mush with one look.
Fucking mating dance …
“You.”
Make him work for me? Jesus …
“So … what kind of pizza do you like?” I’ve suddenly spiked a fever, so I use my menu to fan myself.
“I’ll eat absolutely anything.” If he could say that casually while studying his own menu, instead of running his gaze along my face to my chest, I might be able to concentrate on things like mushrooms, pepperoni, and Roma tomatoes.
Instead, my mind goes south where I cross my legs and not think of things he could eat that aren’t on the menu. I’m in trouble. I hate being in trouble.
“Not me. There’s a short list of things I’ll put in my mouth.”
He chuckles as I attempt to blend in with my menu again.
“What if we just do cheese?” I slap my menu shut. “Plain cheese. Nothing crazy. Quick. Easy.”
Eric sets his menu next to the naked bouquet and drums his fingers on the table. “If you don’t want to be here, you can leave.”
Leave! Go, Anna! Save yourself!
I don’t leave. Instead, I stare at the naked bouquet and think of all the lush, fragrant, colorful bouquets I’ve received in my lifetime. Not a ton, but enough. This … it’s a first.
The waitress arrives at our table. Before she can ask if we’re ready to order, I hand her our menus. “Medium supreme, a pitcher of whatever your best beer on tap is, and an order of hot wings … the spicier the better.”
She smiles. “You got it.”
Eric clucks his tongue several times. “That’s not simple, or quick, not easy, and spicy is a bit crazy.”
I lean back in my chair and give him my best flirty expression that involves lip biting and my gaze lingering on his kissable … yup, I’m thinking it … kissable lips. If I can keep my mind off his regrettable taste in books, I can focus on things we can do to scratch itches and not ruin our neighborly relationship.
“Have you opened your shop?”
“You’d know the answer to that if you weren’t avoiding my cousin’s cafe, if you wouldn’t have given Freya the gift card.”
“Her fiancé lives in another country. She’s not had sex in two years.”
His nose wrinkles. “She might need more than a gift card for coffee.”
“For sure.” I laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear. I straightened it tonight, but now the wispy strands keep falling in my eyes.
“So … do I get to ask you personal questions? Is this an official date since we’re getting a pitcher of beer?”
I nod, letting the weight of fictional disappointment roll off my shoulders.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-five. You?”
“Thirty.”
“Really?” I cock my head.
He shrugs. “Really. When’s the last time you had sex?”
“Wow … okay. We’re going there, huh?”
The waitress drops off our beer. I watch her return to the counter to grab our plates and basket of wings. After she leaves again, I pour beer for both of us. “The day I met you.”
His eyebrows slide up into peaks. “Oh … with your boyfriend?”