I blame my body’s indecent reaction on the current state of my love life. Which is sucktastic, thanks to my dipshit ex essentially ruining my trust in mankind.
As I watch that sexy beast of a man head straight for me like a cheetah approaches a gazelle, I give myself a mental pep talk. The plan is to keep my head down and work my ass off so that my aging mom can finally retire, and not fall for a cheating, lying asshole ever again. Period.
When he flashes me that gorgeous grin and asks me out, I’m unprepared, but I do my best to fend off his suggestive comments.
He keeps trying to charm me despite my clipboard, my short, bored responses, and my best bitch face. I’m absolutely not in the mood to fend off a won’t take no for an answer guy right now.
But at the same time . . . dear God in heaven, he’s even more handsome up close. How does that work? Isn’t closeness supposed to ruin the illusion? I guess he traded all his external flaws for internal ones. Or his cologne is some secret mind-control weapon; the smoky spice makes my mouth water, makes me wonder if he tastes anything like he smells. And it’s been so damn long since I’ve had sex—let alone decent sex.
Even remembering all the horrible things Roxy just told me, I still feel a little flip deep inside when he grins at me. And when he leans closer, I can’t even look him in the eyes. Which are a beautiful shade of blue with a hazel starburst in the middle.
Somehow I doubt his offer is just a “friend date” like he claims. Rambling about * kind of undermines that argument. But maybe letting him show me around Los Angeles won’t be so bad. It’s probably best to start off on the right foot with him. After all, he’s this building’s owner, its landlord, and my upstairs neighbor.
That doesn’t mean I’m ever going to sleep with him—God, of course not. I’m just being polite. Politely ignoring the way he’s already made a total ass of himself. That’s how classy I am. Winning friends, influencing people, all that jazz.
As I’m weighing my options, he watches me as if he’s never had to wait this long before. Finally I reply, “Okay.”
There’s that thousand-watt grin again. “Terrific. Just wait . . . I’ll show you where to get the best steak in town.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” I fire back. When he merely blinks, I smile at him, feeling slightly evil. Just because I’m playing nice doesn’t mean I have to go easy on him. Not right away, at least.
“Fair enough.” He rubs his chin. “Then I’ll take you to the beach. I know some spots with great views where we can avoid the tourists.”
I shrug, shaking my head. “I’m not really a beach person. Too many bugs and too much sand in unmentionable places.” Now I’m just having fun with him. Poor guy, he didn’t know what he was in for with me.
To his credit, he refrains from commenting on my unmentionable places. I’m guessing that takes serious restraint on his part. “Seriously? You moved to Los Angeles and you’re not a beach person? That’s like someone moving to Colorado when they hate skiing.”
My mouth presses into a firm line. “Or like someone moving to Colorado for work and not for goofing off.”
Hayden pauses to brainstorm another date idea. I wonder if other women ever make him work for attention like this. No, with other women, I’m guessing all he has to say is: You. My bed. Now. And they shimmy out of their panties and sprint to his bed. I’m not—and have never been—one of those women. Even if my body’s response to him is more primal than I would like.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that the rental truck is empty and the movers are toting my last few boxes up the stairs. It’s time for me to see them off. I paid their fee in advance, so all I have to do now is order dinner, find the box with my pajamas, and call it an early night. I walk over to the stairwell, forcing Hayden to follow me if he wants to finish our conversation.
“Fine. Then what do you like to do?” he finally asks.
I think for a moment as I start climbing. Most of my life is work, study, sleep, then rinse and repeat. Well, that and I drink copious amounts of wine. But something tells me sharing a bottle of pinot with this dangerously sexy creature would be a bad idea with a capital B. But there is one thing I do to unwind . . . and I’m curious about how he’ll respond.
“I like yoga,” I say. These pants ain’t just for show.
He hesitates, which doesn’t surprise me. What I hadn’t expected was for him to say, “Sure, I could do yoga. When’s good for you?”
Say what now? It doesn’t sound like he enjoys yoga, or even that he’s ever done it before. But hey, that’s no skin off my nose. If he wants to try it on for size, I could always use a workout buddy.
“I’m going to be busy unpacking all day tomorrow, so how about the day after? Meet me outside my unit at, say, six?”