Love Under Quarantine

CHAPTER 4

QUARANTINE: DAY 4

SADIEIT’S ONE IN THE AFTERNOON when I stumble out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee in hand. Ah daylight, my old frenemy. I squint and slide on my sunglasses. I pulled one hell of an all-nighter, writing until four in the morning. But when the muse is on a roll, you’d have to be stupid to get in her way. And when it comes to my career, I try very hard not to be stupid. Smutty? Yes. Smartass? Hell, yes. But stupid? No, thank you.

The yummy scents of food and the lure of fresh air beckon me outside. Along with a healthy dose of curiosity regarding the welfare of my neighbor. Oh, fine. So, I want to ogle him again. Hear him laugh and listen to him tease me. He’s a fun guy to be around and it’s not against the law to have a tiny crush on the new guy next door. Seeing him brings the added benefit of aiding my writing process. Hanging with him could even be considered research. Therefore, necessary to the development of my plot… along with being a good time. Win.

“Hey!” I grin, giving him a wave.

Evan stands at a grill, a plain black apron on and tongs in hand. He is not smiling. In fact, his granite jawline seems set in especially cranky and unimpressed lines this afternoon.

“Hi,” he mumbles, without looking at me.

“How are you doing? Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.”

A grunt from the big man is all the reply I get.

Maybe he didn’t sleep well or something. These are stressful times all around. I lean on the railing, taking another sip of coffee. “I got so much work done yesterday. My word count is dazzling, I tell you. Didn’t get to bed until almost dawn.”

Evan flips one of the slabs of beef and turns a couple of cobs of corn. My mouth waters from both the view of him in a tee and jeans—I know it’s his usual, but he wears them so damn well—and the scents of real food. Unfortunately, he doesn’t even look at me. My new friend is distinctly unhappy.

“What did you get up to yesterday?” I ask.

He just shrugs.

Ruh-roh.

Gloria slinks out of the apartment and up to the railing on my side. Giving me a loud meow in welcome. At least someone seems happy to see me.

“She missed you.” He waves the tongs in the cat’s general direction.

“Precious floofy girl. I missed her too.” I smile at the ginger cat, wishing I wasn’t allergic.

“Then why didn’t you come out all day? I was waiting for you,” he says, then freezes and frowns. “We were waiting for you. I mean…I was just keeping an eye on her. Idiot cat, standing out in the rain, getting all cold and wet. It was pretty fucking pathetic.”

Huh. “I’m sorry.”

Another grunt. As if he could not care less about my apologies. Oh boy. His shoulders are up, his scowl fierce. I’ve really stepped in it. Everyone’s toughing it out right now. Having to stay indoors, not being able to visit with friends and family. I’m the closest thing Evan has to real human contact with a pal and I let him down. I didn’t mean to, but still.

“I, um… Sometimes when I get all caught up in a story I kind of lose track of the outside world,” I explain. “But if I’d known you two were waiting for me, I’d have definitely taken a break and come and said hello.”

He gives me a quick side glance. Not exactly happy, but no longer quite pissed either. Maybe I’m making some headway.

“I didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that.” My tone is filled with as much compassion as I can muster because I do feel really bad.

He sighs, his broad shoulders lowering a little. “Whatever. So, you got some work done?”

“Heaps. The book is going really well. I have a good feeling about this one. It’s like the hero and the heroine have taken on a life of their own. I’m typing as fast as I can to keep up, you know?”

“Yeah? That sounds positive.”

I smile. “Absolutely. There’s real chemistry on the page with these two. I think readers are going to dig it.”

“You writing a romance or something?” He raises a brow.

My chin juts up. It’s instinctual. People love to shit on my genre which sets me off instantly. “What if I am?” My inner scrappy brat rises to the surface, ready to go to battle.

“Nothing. Just curious.”

“Yes, Evan. I’m a romance writer. And proud of it.” I’m now projecting my voice and using the official fuck-with-me-and-die-a-slow-death tone. Reserved solely for those times when people commit a serious social faux pas such as cutting in front of me at the grocery store. Or when morons make jokes about my job. Shit not on the books I love—or I will end you. I should probably get that tattooed on my forehead. Nah, maybe a wrist or something. More feminine.