Page 2 of Master Debater

Ignoring Siri paid off, and at long last, I found the street I’d been searching for. “And this is why computers will never take over entirely, modified vibration setting or not.”

With so many cars parked along the sidewalk, I could barely fit mine down the supposed two-way street. But the neighborhood was beyond ideal, only a five to ten-minute drive to the college. Biking was another option I planned on looking into, as the divorce left me with closer to thirty pounds to lose instead of twenty, and the 1990s Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme was on its last leg anyway.

“Sixty-three, sixty-five, and… here we are.” Nestled up next to the curb, I gaped at the tall brownstone building, with its old charm and circular outcropping of windows.

Due to my recent series of unfortunate events, I struggled to believe this was my new residence, and that I could afford it on my college professor salary.

Perks of having my own income. Life was so much more complicated when two people got into bed together, and in this instance, I meant business-wise. Helping Eric build a dental practice in his hometown was supposed to be a temporary gig. Along the way, I’d become loan co-signer, office manager, receptionist, and accountant. Where what was mine was Eric’s, and what was his was always nicer.

“Let’s go check out our new home, kitty cat.” I nudged Van Gogh into his carrier and climbed out of the car. I peeled the fabric of my denim shorts from my thighs, sighing at the cool evening air.

Excitement tingled through me as I rushed up the cement steps, and a chuckle worthy of a thirteen-year-old boy escaped when I noticed my neighbor lived behind the door marked “sixty-nine.”

Hardwood floors and powder blue walls with dark wood trim greeted me as I stepped into the living room. To my right sat a cute circular dining table, where I pictured myself having coffee while Van Gogh snoozed in one of the chairs. Yeah, the place was a bit outdated, but it was in good shape, and the ceilings had to be nine—no, eleven—feet high. Perfect for practicing songs at the top of my lungs, with no comments about headaches after long days.

After setting up the litter box, I returned to the car to begin lugging in my possessions. Using the same method I deployed whenever I grocery shopped—multiple trips were for suckers—I stacked three of the boxes from my trunk into my arms.

Taking my neighbor’s address as a sign my pleasureless streak would soon come to an end, I snagged the self-care box and balanced it on the tippy top. As soon as I brought in the essentials, I’d pour myself a bath, open a bottle of wine, and get my freaking groove back, no matter how many oddly named sexy toys and dildos it took.

The stacked cardboard took up a significant part of my central vision, but I had enough peripheral to manage. I swept out my foot as I neared the stairway, attempting to find the bottom one. There.

Slowly, I climbed, one step at a time.

As I neared the top, I shifted the boxes aside as much as I could.

Right in time to see a dark figure bolt out the door next to mine, with the same urgency as an EMT on his way to a five-car pileup. I opened my mouth to warn the guy of my presence, doing my best to scoot aside so he could charge on past, but I wasn’t fast enough.

A grunt punctuated the air as he slammed into me, and my tower of boxes crashed to the ground, the clattering of pots and pans and shattering of ceramic an awful, destructive cacophony. My arms flew wide, desperately seeking purchase and, in that moment, I knew I was going down hard.

Long fingers circled my wrist, and I then was hauled up against a rock-hard chest. My assailant’s other arm snaked around my lower back, and I inhaled and exhaled, my head swimming as quickly as my heart thundered against my rib cage.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, his voice so low and deep it reminded me of the booming bassline in a noisy club. “I didn’t expect anyone to be coming up the steps. Did you need me to sign for a delivery or…?” He peered down at me, likely noticing the lack of uniform.

I stared right back, neck craned as I studied the planes of his face. Dark whiskers dotted his jaw and upper lip, highlighting his scrumptious mouth. His masculine nose drew my gaze upward, to eyes the color of espresso, no cream or sugar.

Holy mother of hotness. That thing I said about my landlord’s son being the sexiest man alive, and I’d still say, “no thanks?” Apparently, the universe wanted me to eat my words.

I must’ve eaten them too. All I could force from my lips was a squeak that had his thick, dark eyebrows drawing together. Was it normal to fantasize about licking the crinkles that’d formed in the scrunched-up space between? My sex clenched, beeping away like a metal detector that had found treasure. X marks the spot, and instead of digging it up, I wanted to bury the prize deep between my thighs.

Don’t just gape at him like a stalker. “Um, I live here. With you.”

The lines in his forehead deepened, and I’d never seen such pouty lips on a guy. Thinking about him lowering that mouth to mine made me wonder if the sun had backtracked and risen again, because it was suddenly hot in here, and I really wanted to take off all my clothes. “I think you’re lost.”

“I think I’m found,” I said, and while I realized I wasn’t making sense, that Nelly song had overtaken my brain. I am getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off.

Mister Sixty-Nine Beaker Street guided my hand to the wrought iron stair railing and then gave it a pat. “You stay here. I’ll gather up the boxes and then we’ll see if we can’t figure out where you belong.”

My head nodded of its own accord for a second or two before I finally regained my faculties. I turned to help, stumbling over the steps and my words. “Sorry. When you wrecked into me it just threw me off. But I do belong here. Living in the same house—not with you, but under you.”

Great choice of words, and my cheeks blazed as I considered how very much I’d like to be underneath him, his delicious weight pinning me down. Dizziness set in, and I gestured in the general direction of the door I’d come out of mere minutes ago. “I’m moving in today.”

The frown that tugged the mouth I was struggling not to become obsessed with didn’t inspire much confidence. I did my best not to be offended, despite not being all that surprised. “My mother,” he said. “We were supposed to start renovations soon—she assured me she was on board.”

I blinked at him, unsure what that meant for me. “I signed a one-year lease.”

“Of course you did.” He shook his head. “Not your problem. It’s mine.”

Ouch.

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