Page 3 of The Kat Bunglar

Penthouse Dreams, Dumpster Realities

One Week Earlier

June 25

Chicago

Laila Malik

Sweet little LailaMalik was actually feeling quite spicy. Her palms were damp, and a bead of perspiration clung to her upper lip. She discreetly wiped it away while peering over at the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

“Act cool, be cool. It’s fine—he’s just a guy, a normal guy,” she reminded herself. So what if his skin was a perfect, golden hue, his eyes the color of raw honey, and his hair had that messy, wavy thing going on that made her fingers itch to brush back a stray curl? It made no difference to her. She was married! Repeat after me: she was married. Not dead, mind you—she could look, just not touch.

He glanced at his phone and muttered in Spanish, “Esto es una mierda.”

Her eyes wandered to his lips—yes, definitely could not touch that!

When he caught her staring, she quickly swiveled her gaze to the elevator panel, her heart thumping harder than it should have.

“Hola, I’m Gabriel Santos. I live on the third floor,” he announced, extending his hand for a handshake.

She tentatively accepted, promptly forgetting her ‘no touching’ rule. “Laila Malik. I live in—”

“The penthouse,” he interrupted with a smile. “Everyone knows.”

Of course they did; it was a small community, and the co-op had very little to talk about, except buzz with gossip about its tenants and their flaws.

“On your way to work?” she asked, hoping to sound upbeat and carefree.

“Yes, I’m a professor at Northwestern—Art History.” His voice was lovely: deep, slightly raspy, the kind that made you want to lean in and catch every syllable. As the elevator landed in the lobby, he smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at her—in a charming sort of goodbye.

To a normal person, that would have been the end of the conversation. But Laila felt anything but normal.

For the past month and a half, she had stood next to this man every morning, inhaling the clean scent of his aftershave mingled with the hint of his cologne. She had heard him hum beautiful Spanish melodies under his breath and seen him in various shades of sexy tweed jackets. Yes—tweed was sexy when worn by Gabriel Santos. It made perfect sense that he was an art professor; everything about him radiated creativity. The man exuded art, from the tips of his fingers to the bottoms of his wingtip shoes.

As he strolled out onto the street, Laila struggled against the sudden urge to follow him. Before she knew it, her legs were moving on their own. It was harmless—just a walk in the same direction. It didn’t mean anything!

He was headed toward the Metra station, while her law office was a 20-minute walk in the opposite direction. Fortunately, she had no early morning meetings. Her heart fluttered when she saw Gabriel kneel to hand a few dollars to an elderly, unhoused woman stationed by the heat grates.

Laila rummaged through her bag, hoping to find something similar to offer. All she managed to find was a coupon for the frozen yogurt shop across the street, which she dropped into the woman’s hat, anyway.

“Lady, what the hell is this? I don’t eat no frozen yogurt! This ain’t a trash bin!” the earthy-scented woman bellowed, causing Gabriel to turn around and notice Laila.

She froze, then quickly ducked behind a lamppost. But it was too late—he had already recognized her.

“Hey, Penthouse! What are you doing out here?” he called out.

Oh my god! Had he just given her a nickname? Did that mean they were friends now? Look at the progress that can happen in a relationship, when you follow a man without his consent or knowledge!

“On my way to the Metra station,” the lie slipped easily from her lips.

“Ah, I could use a walking buddy,” he said, waiting for her to catch up. “Oh, and don’t mind Rosie—I’m pretty sure she loves frozen yogurt,” he added with a wink.

Her mind stuttered to a complete halt at the sight of that wink and the slight dimple on his right cheek. “T-t-that’s great,” she stammered. “I love walking!”

“I knew today was going to be a good day. I could feel it in my bones,” he said as they descended the stairs, and she struggled to focus on her steps instead of his face.

“Oh really? And why is that?” she asked.

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