Page 15 of All Twerk, No Play

Fuuuuuuck.

It wasn’t too late to move out. I was already planning to rent the apartment.

I could leave sooner. Tomorrow.

Eric raised his arm for a friendly handshake and flashed that infuriatingly disarming smile. “Everyone calls me Cruz.”

No, I wasn’t some jock who called people by their last name. Names were a sign of respect. I would treat him with professional courtesy.

“501,” I said, reaching past his outstretched arm to stab the five button.

“I thought—” He scrubbed his face. This close, it was clear his nose had been broken before, the crookedness should have looked sloppy but somehow just added to his devil-may-care charm. “You’re Mrs. Obsidian?”

“Ms. Blackstone,” I corrected as the doors opened on the top floor.

His mouth eventually closed, but his look of dismay remained. I asked, “What, you need me to prove it?”

I sauntered off the elevator and swung my door open. He stepped in with a smirk at my almost-empty apartment. The only items in the living room were the deliveries from before I arrived. Ugh, he had been the one to stack them. He’d handled all those boxes … including new undergarments. I hope the discrete packaging from La Perla had done its job.

His eyes darted behind me and he smiled softly. “Who do we have here?”

Of course she’d chosen tonight to come out of hiding.

The feline queen herself deigned to lift her head. He squatted and rubbed his fingertips together. “Well aren’t you a beauty?”

“Don’t bother,” I said. She’d never been affectionate with anybody but me.

Her back extended into an unhurried stretch. I expected her to stroll away, flicking her asshole in our general direction.

Of course that bitch had to prove me wrong.

She sauntered towards Eric, stopping a foot away to lick her paw. “What’s her name?”

“Jurisprudence.”

He patiently endured her assessment as he hummed her namesake Beatles song under his breath, inviting her to come out and play—did the man ever shut up?

She sniffed his outstretched fingers, allowing him to touch her chin. Traitor.

When he flipped his palm to reach for her cheek, she stalked off to the bedroom, probably curling up on that evil air mattress. I internally cursed as I realized that was his, too.

“I’ll return your air mattress tomorrow when my bed arrives,” I said, trying to keep the transaction professional.

“You’re still sleeping on that?” he said, brown eyes widening. “I figured that would cover you for a night or two. When my sisters visit, they complain about their hips after the second night.”

“There was a supply chain issue,” I said, repeating what the customer service person said when he guaranteed it would arrive tomorrow. If not, I would demand a refund and spend my Saturday at a mattress store with same-day delivery. If I had to endure one more fucking night without a pillowtop, heads would roll.

“After five nights on that, you must be exhausted,” he said, his voice soft.

My throat tightened, choking down the confession: Yes, I was exhausted, not just from his stupid air mattress but from the stress of a new business, the move across the country, the disappointment of being overlooked at my last job …

“You can stay in my bed,” he offered.

“Absolutely not.”

“I mean—not like that,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know how much sleep deprivation sucks.” His eyes darted around my apartment. “I didn’t know you lived here. I never would have picked you up if …” His hand smoothed his hair, scratching beneath his bun. “I have a policy: no sleeping with tenants."

"You have to enforce it often?"

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