Kevin isn’t close with his family and is protective of the few friends he has. His dark brown eyes cut to the door then back again, and he shrugs. “He’s not that good-looking. Sort of average if you ask me.”
Etta waves her hand. “Don’t listen to him. He’s American—they drink lite beer and they can’t even spell it right. No taste.”
Eighty-nine-year-old Mrs. Lu lifts her head from the bed, aims her gaze at the hall and takes her time raking it over the backside of Tommy Sullivan. Then she nods.
“I vote for boning him. You only live once.”
“Right on, Mrs. Lu,” Etta cheers, lifting her palm. “Give me some. Hoo-rah!”
After Mrs. Lu gives a slow-motion high-five, Etta backs up towards the door, grabbing the knob with one hand and pointing at me with the other.
“And you—listen to the old lady, respect your elders. YOLO, bitch.”
I roll my eyes. With friends like these . . . life would be so much easier if I just adopted a cat.
As we guide Mrs. Lu’s bed out the door, Etta gives Tommy Sullivan a sly smile and says in a simpering tone, “Hiiii, Tommy.”
He dips his chin and waves back.
Kevin seems to send a suspicious, unfriendly look the security guard’s way, but his expression is so bland it’s hard to be sure.
Mrs. Lu turns her head towards him as she passes—then she lifts her arm, giving me a mighty thumbs-up.
Once the lift’s silver doors close with Henrietta, Kevin and Mrs. Lu inside, I take the stairwell, with my dark-suited shadow right on my heels. Though the chant of don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, wallpaper, wallpaper, wallpaper reverberates in my head, my mouth has a mind of its own.
“Do you really have reduced hearing capacity on that side?”
I know an excellent audiologist who could help him.
If he had any idea what I was talking about, which by his blank expression I realize immediately, he doesn’t.
Feeling moronic, I gesture to his ear as we move up the steps.
“Your old war injury?”
“Aye, right.”
“What war was that again?”
“The Great Sullivan Pudding Conflict,” he says with a perfectly straight face. “I remember it like it was yesterday. There was only one trifle left on the table—me and my sister Janey went for it at the same time, so we ended up tussling for it. I had the upper hand, until she landed a vicious kick to the side of my head. The ear hasn’t been the same since—a fact I’ve used to guilt her out of her pudding ever since.”
“That’s awful. Is your sister frequently given to fits of violence?” I ask as we reach the landing outside the door to the sixth floor.
He laughs. “Yeah—but not really. I mean, it’s all in good fun, you know?”
I don’t, actually. I can’t imagine my siblings and me “tussling” at all, let alone with each other.
Mr. Sullivan breathes in slowly and his eyes drift over my face in a savoring sort of way. And I suddenly realize how quiet the stairwell is, how alone we are, how close we’re standing to each other. Close enough that I can count each strand of rough stubble on his chin.
“There you go with that sweet frown again, Apple Blossom. You keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have to break my vow and kiss you again.”
I ignore his compliment on my frown, and the silly nickname, and the sweeping, swirly feeling in my stomach at the mention of kissing.
“You’ve taken a vow?”
“That’s right. I don’t mess around with clients.” He makes the sign of the cross. “So for as long as you are one I will be a complete professional. It’s probably for the best that we’re discussing it, so you don’t mistake me not trying to get in your pants as me not wanting to get in your pants.” His eyes slide downward, and his voice dips to a whisper. “I definitely want in.”
My mind goes blank and I have no idea what to say. Because I’m not used to being pursued so directly, honestly—naughtily. And while the logical part of my brain knows it’s a very bad idea, there’s a less used, curious side that thinks being pursued by Tommy Sullivan feels very, very nice.
The shrill clang of a door closing below us echoes through the stairwell. He takes a step back, clearing his throat. “I also meant to ask, you and that bloke from downstairs—is anything going on between you?”
“Do you mean Kevin?” I ask. “No, he’s a friend.”
“You get he wants to fuck you, right?”
I gape at him.
“This is your idea of being professional?”
He lifts one shoulder, shrugging.
“You’re mistaken. Kevin’s just a good friend—it’s not like that.”
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“Into guys?”
“No.”
“Then it’s exactly like that.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Sweet Abby—you’re so smart in so many ways, but so clueless in others.”