“Make yourself comfortable,” he says.
You sit on the couch, wondering which chair he’ll choose. He sinks into the armchair instead of taking the spot next to you, and you can’t help feeling slightly disappointed. You were enjoying having him standing so close to you in the kitchen. There’s a manuscript laying on the coffee table, and you pick it up and read the title out loud: “A Girl Walks into a Bar.”
If you begin to read the manuscript, click here.
If you resist the temptation to read his private stuff, click here.
You resist the temptation to read his private stuff
HE BLUSHES AND TUGS the manuscript out of your hands, dropping it on the floor. “That’s just something I’m busy working on. It’s still fairly rough.”
“Does it have a happy ending?” you ask.
“I don’t know yet, but the way things are going, it might have more than one happy ending.”
You sit in comfortable silence for a few seconds.
“So did you have a fun night out?” he asks.
You nod and sip your beer. “I really did. I was supposed to meet a friend, but she stood me up at the last minute. But it worked out okay in the end.”
“It must have,” he says, looking at his watch.
“You can talk. I’m not the only night owl. What on earth are you still doing up?” you ask, looking around, noticing that the TV’s off and there’s no music playing.
“Working. I like writing at night. It’s quiet, and the world has a different feeling when it’s late. It’s as if anything could happen.”
You nod. If only he knew how true that was. You take a last sip of beer. “Speaking of late, I’d better get going,” you say.
He stands up with you, looking a little disappointed. “Oh, okay. But maybe you could show me around the area sometime, or we could get a bite to eat? It’s the least you can do after bashing into my books like that.”
You laugh. “Sure, that sounds like a plan.”
“Shall I walk you out? One of the characters in my first novel was a ninja, so I’ve got the skills to get you home safely. Kind of, anyway. It was never published.”
You laugh again. “Ha, I think I should be able to manage all twenty yards. But thanks for the beer, the medical attention, and the scar. I’ve always wanted a war wound.”
“I think I’ll probably move those boxes now, to avoid further lawsuits, and also just in case you need to find your way back here at any point. So there won’t be any more unfortunate incidents.”
You’re still giggling as he follows you out the door. You thread your way carefully between boxes as you head toward your own apartment. You can feel his eyes on your back, and you try to look as undisheveled and composed as possible.
At your front door at the other end of the hall, you turn and see that he’s still watching you from his doorway. He has both hands in his pockets, and that sexy crooked smile on his face.
“Good night,” you call softly before letting yourself in.
“Sweet dreams,” he calls back with a little wave.
Finally. You’re home.
Click here.
You’ve decided to call it a night
“DO YOU MIND IF I take a rain check? It’s been a very long night.”
“Absolutely. How about tomorrow night? I’ll need to change your dressing and take a look at that cut,” he says, pointing at your shin. “Then maybe dinner? It’s the least I can do to make up for causing you such grievous bodily harm. Also, I need someone to show me around my new neighborhood.”
You nod. You feel like a duck on the water: calm on the surface but every organ paddling madly on the inside. Surely you’re not imagining the chemistry between you. You smooth your dress as you walk to the door with as much composure as you can muster considering the night you’ve had.
“How’s seven o’clock?” he asks.
“Good,” you say, stepping around the boxes carefully and making your way down the passage to your apartment. You can feel his eyes on your back as you go. As you unlock your front door, you look back, and he’s leaning against the side of his doorway, his hands in his jeans pockets, that crooked smile perfectly placed. As you go inside, he lifts one hand in a small wave.
To finally go home, click here.
You just want to hobble home
“THANK YOU, THAT’S VERY kind of you, but it’s nothing—it’s just a little cut,” you say, dabbing at your leg with a tissue. “I’ll be fine.” You’re embarrassed at having tripped in front of him.
“All right,” he says. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
You walk to your apartment at the end of the hall, trying to look graceful. When you’ve finally found your keys and unlocked your door, you take a quick look backward and see him busy shifting the boxes from the middle of the hall, piling them up against the walls instead. He looks up at you and waves, smiling a crooked, sexy smile. You wonder if he’s single, by any chance.
To finally go home, click here.
You decided to wait for the elevator; your feet are killing you
WHILE YOU’RE WAITING FOR the elevator, you raise and flex your foot. Your arches are killing you—you can’t wait to get these heels off. At last the little red light on the row of floor numbers shifts, and the elevator heads down to pick you up. It’s really time to call it a night.
The elevator dings open and you prepare to give whoever was holding it a dirty look, but it’s empty.
When you step out of the elevator on the sixth floor, there are piles of cardboard boxes scattered outside apartment 610. Someone must have just moved in; those boxes definitely weren’t there when you went out earlier. You crane your neck to see if the door is open, but there are so many boxes piled up in front of it, you can’t be sure.
If you decide to try to catch a glimpse of your new neighbor, click here.
If your comfy pants and the movie are calling, click here.
You’ve decided to see if you can catch a glimpse of the new neighbor
YOU CREEP DOWN THE hall toward number 610, weaving around the boxes dumped randomly along the way. As you get closer, you see the front door is open and the lights are on inside. It’s almost four in the morning—who on earth could possibly still be awake at this hour? Suddenly you hear a man clearing his throat, followed by the sound of footsteps. Whoever’s inside is walking toward the hallway. He must be coming to fetch one of the boxes. What will he think if he finds you creeping around outside his apartment in the middle of the night?
You start speed-walking toward your front door, hoping that by the time he emerges it will look like you’re casually heading past on your way from the elevator. But you only make it a couple of steps before you feel a sharp pain against your shins as you hit something, and then nose-dive through the air in slow motion. “Fuuuuck!” you yell, instinctively stretching your arms out to brace yourself as you come crashing down on the ground.
“Ow, ow, ow!” you yell, sprawled unglamorously on the floor with your ass in the air.
“Oh god!” you hear a man’s voice behind you.
Mortified, you get off the ground as quickly and gracefully as you can in the situation. A tall, barefoot guy, in a pair of faded blue jeans, a checked shirt, and glasses hurries toward you.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “I think you’re bleeding!”
You lean over and see a big angry bruise forming on your left shin and blood rolling down your right one. “Ow, ow, ow,” you say again, looking at your bruised palms.
“I shouldn’t have left my boxes out here like this. I’m really sorry. Do you need me to take you to the hospital or something?”
“Ow!”
“At least come inside so we can stop the bleeding. Do you think you can walk?” he asks.
You look up at him, blinking a tear from your eye.
“Wait, let me guess, the answer is ‘Ow!’ ” he says.
If you go into his apartment, click here.
If yo
u just want to hobble home, click here.
Your comfy pants and the movie are calling
AH, BLISS. HOME AT last. The first thing you do is slip off your heels and dump them on the floor by the front door. Then you pull your dress off over your head, dropping it and your purse on the dressing table as you walk into your bedroom.
You toss your bra and the purple G-string into the laundry hamper in the corner of the room. You’ll definitely wear those again, you think. In fact, from now on they may have to be reclassified as your lucky underwear.
Your throw falls short and the little pile of purple lace lands delicately next to the hamper. What the hell, you’ll pick it up tomorrow.
You take a long, hot shower, then pull on a pair of regular pants and an oversize T-shirt. You’re still too wired from your night out to sleep, and you need to relax. So you stick a bag of popcorn into the microwave—the buttered kind, you’ve earned it. Then you collapse on the couch and turn on the movie. As the opening credits of Bridget Jones’s Diary begin to roll, you smile. Life is good. In fact, it doesn’t get better than this.
The End
You’re not quite ready to go home yet
IT’S LATE, BUT YOU’RE far too wired to go straight home. You can still feel the last traces of adrenaline pumping through your veins. What a wild night. And to think you were actually considering heading home when Melissa canceled on you earlier this evening. You can hardly believe that was only a few hours ago.
You’ve been acting completely out of character all night, but you’ve loved every second of it. You wonder if it was the purple lacy G-string, or being out on your own with nowhere specific to go and nobody but yourself to answer to that made you so daring. Whatever it was, it’s been the night of your life.
But now what to do? You wonder if Melissa is still awake—you’re dying to tell her what you’ve been up to. Should you pop over to her place? You’re not sure . . . She’s probably been asleep for hours. Or you could always stop in at the late-night coffee shop in your neighborhood on your way home.
If you go to the coffee shop on your way home, click here.
If you decide to go to Melissa’s place on your way home, click here.
You’ve decided to swing past the late-night coffee shop on your way home
THE TAXI DROPS YOU off outside the coffee shop. It’s so late, it’s almost early. The lights are on but other than a bored-looking barista thumbing a smartphone behind the counter, it’s empty. You push the door, but it doesn’t open. That’s odd, you think, they’re supposed to be open till really, really late, and it’s only just past really late. You push again, but still nothing. You mumble-swear under your breath and then try to catch the barista’s eye, but he’s doing that pretending-to-be-busy-so-I-don’t-have-to-deal-with-you act. Maybe the coffee shop is closed. But then why is he still sitting there? You push against the door again, this time putting your full weight behind it, but it still doesn’t budge.
Someone clears their throat behind you, and you jump. When you turn, there’s a guy standing there, about your age, tall, with dark hair and black-rimmed glasses. He’s not classically good-looking, but there’s something about him. You notice that his mouth skews slightly when he smiles.
“Let me get that for you,” he says, reaching for the door handle and pulling it toward you.
“Aha! It’s a pull door, not a push door. Um, it’s been a long night,” you mutter, flushing with mortification.
“Nope, it’s not you. I think they might have changed it. I was here two days ago, and it was definitely a push door then. After you,” he says, holding the door open for you, as the sounds of Erykah Badu waft from the coffee-shop sound system.
At the counter, he indicates for you to order ahead of him.
“One hot chocolate, please,” you say to the barista, who makes a production of putting down his phone and attending to you.
“With marshmallows?” he asks, bored.
Suddenly, ordering a hot chocolate with marshmallows seems a little childish, and you’re sure you can see the tall guy smirking out of the corner of your eye. First the door, and now this—he must think you have the IQ of a five-year-old. But you decide that, after the night you’ve had, if you want hot chocolate with marshmallows, then that’s what you’re going to have.
“Yes, please,” you say, as confidently as possible. You pay and settle in a chair, riffling through a pile of magazines on an adjacent coffee table. You select one at random and pretend to read it while secretly studying the guy over the top of the magazine, eavesdropping as he orders a cappuccino.
He’s got a nice body, tall and lean. He’s wearing a pair of well-worn jeans, a checked shirt, and a pair of sneakers that he’s clearly had for a while. He could do with a haircut and a shave. He turns and catches you checking him out. You dart your eyes back behind your magazine, mortified for the second time.
“Any good?” he asks, and you look up with a show of surprise, as if you’ve been completely absorbed. He’s smiling at you broadly now.
“It’s not bad,” you say, putting on your best aloof expression.
“So you’re in the farming business, then?” he asks.
“What?”
He nods at the magazine, and you see you’re holding a copy of Agriculture Weekly. And to add insult to injury, it’s upside down. You hastily drop it back on the coffee table. “You can never know too much about sheep,” you say, trying to recover.
“I guess so,” he chuckles. “I count them often.”
“Exactly,” you say. “And the whole wool thing is pretty impressive. And don’t even get me started on fleece!”
“One large cappuccino! One hot chocolate with marshmallows!” shouts the barista, as if the shop were jam-packed. A to-go cup with the word “Cappuccino” written on the side stands on the counter alongside another cup with the words “Hot chocolate” scrawled on it.
You collect your drink, return to your seat, and watch Cappuccino Man surreptitiously as he blows into the hole in the lid of his cup and takes a sip. He looks at it in confusion, then lifts the lid and stares inside. His glasses steam up and he has to put the cup down and take them off to wipe the lenses with the tail of his shirt. He has the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen.
He ambles over and places the cup in front of you on the coffee table.
“I think I got yours by mistake,” he says.
The cup is clearly marked “Cappuccino,” and you give him an inquiring look.
“I almost wasn’t going to say anything, it’s so damn good,” he says, pointing at the marshmallows melting slowly on the top of the hot chocolate inside. “But I thought you’d figure it out sooner or later.”
“So by my impressive powers of deduction, this must be yours?” you say, handing him your as-yet-untouched cup.
“Thanks. Of course, you can understand how he got our orders muddled, what with this place being so busy tonight!” he says, waving an arm around the empty shop. The barista has gone back to ignoring you as he reads something riveting on his phone.
You take a sip of your hot chocolate, and he looks into his cup, a little crestfallen.
“Now I have menu envy.”
“I’d never sleep if I drank coffee at this hour.”
“That’s exactly the effect I was hoping for. I’m busy unpacking; I thought it might help me stay awake for a couple more boxes.”
The music comes to an abrupt stop mid-song, and fluorescent lights come on. You shield your eyes and blink as they adjust to the harsh light; nobody looks good in the early hours of the morning under bright lights.
“I guess that means they’re closing,” he says.
“They’re known for their coffee, not for their subtlety,” you say.
He pushes the door, holding it open for you with one hand, clutching his hot chocolate–cappuccino in the other.
Outside you pause and look at each other. You get the distinct impression that neither of you is ready to part comp
any just yet. But you feel a little foolish; you can’t just stand there. “Well, I suppose it’s getting late, or early, rather. I’m going this way,” you say, pointing toward your apartment building, which is on the same street, just a few hundred yards away.
“Hey, I’m that way, too. Mind if I walk with you?” he asks.
“You’re not an axe murderer or a tax lawyer, are you?”
“Nope, just a writer. I wanted to study axe-murdering at the university, but the class was full.”
You laugh, and as you walk, you notice the sky starting to lighten. You can’t remember the last time you stayed up all night.
“Well, this is me,” you say, stopping at the door to your building.
“Seriously?” he says.
“Yup, but don’t worry, I know how this door works, so we should be okay. It’s definitely a push.”
“This is where I live, too!”
You scrunch your nose up. “Really?”
“Really, I swear, I just moved in a couple of days ago. Number six-ten.” And he pulls his keys out of his pocket to show you his key ring. It’s one of those generic blue plastic ones, and it has 610 and the name of your building scrawled in the window in blue pen.
“You’re kidding! I’m in six-oh-one.”
He uses the swipe attached to his key ring to open the security door as proof, then holds the door open for you with a grin on his face. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me,” he says.
As you ride the elevator up to your floor, he says, “Since we’re neighbors, I thought maybe we could get a drink sometime, and you could show me around the neighborhood? I tasted your hot chocolate—you clearly know what you’re doing.”
“We could do that.”
You both step out of the elevator, and pause. There’s a moment of delicious tension.
“Well, I’m this way,” you say, nodding toward your door.
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