Page 16 of All Twerk, No Play

"Nah, everyone else is either married or over 70 … though Mr. Sorensen in 308 keeps leering.”

Great, he made up a ‘policy’ not to sleep with me. Somehow that stung more than I expected.

“But you should come sleep downstairs in a real bed. And maybe it would be nice to have a friend my age in the building.”

Before I could protest that I was ten years his senior, and not his friend—and why would he want a jaded workaholic ten years his senior as a friend, anyway?—he added, “Just being a good neighbor.”

I wanted to break my thumb by punching his smug neighborly face.

I also wanted to climb into his bed, pull his herculean body close, and kiss him senseless.

But most of all, and this was important: I didn’t want to spend one more night on that fucking air mattress.

I rubbed my forehead, weighing my options, remembering how messy Alexander’s place had been before we moved in together and I whipped him into shape. Would Eric’s apartment be a bio-hazard?

“When was the last time you changed your sheets?”

“Every Sunday, without fail,” he said. “I’ll change them early for you.”

Maybe this was a bad idea … but exhaustion won out. I dropped my arms in surrender. “I’ll pack an overnight bag.” When his face lit up like the elevator panel, I added, “And I reserve the right to leave at any time.”

Before second guessing myself, I retreated to my bedroom where Jurisprudence barely stirred on the air mattress. At least somebody liked that piece of shit.

I splashed water on my face and gave myself a near-silent pep talk: “I’m Victoria Fucking Blackstone. I’m Richard Sinclair’s granddaughter. I don’t make out with my building superintendent, no matter how big his muscles are or how bright his smile is or how good he smells. Or how good of a kisser he is. Or how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed. None of that matters. I’ll crash in his spare bed, then in the morning my furniture will arrive and that will be the end of it. We can have a professional relationship and never touch each other again.”

I pointed at myself sternly in the mirror, changed into my ugliest sweatpants and Stanford sweatshirt, gathered an overnight bag, and refilled the cat’s water dish.

Eric sat on my kitchen island, legs swinging. “So you liked the strawberries best, then the cantaloupes. You shouldn’t neglect the pineapple, though, it boosts your immune system.” He popped one in his mouth. “And it’s great for your libido.”

Oh Lord help me.

He carried my bag downstairs. I halted on the threshold to take in his studio apartment, though there wasn’t much to see: a galley kitchen, a small bathroom, a living area with a green couch and rustic coffee table. A metal bookshelf held folded workout clothes and DVDs, and an electric guitar leaned beside an amp. Two tiny windows meant it bordered on gloomy, and it had that general damp basement smell, but at least it was relatively clean. Not pristine, but I wouldn't catch athlete’s foot in the bathroom.

As he quickly tidied, murmuring an apology about not expecting guests, I inspected the sole photo on the wall: Eric in military dress whites, a crisp sailor hat covering close-cropped hair, sporting a dimple instead of his scruffy beard. His arm wrapped around a woman with warm brown eyes, presumably his mother. Beside her was an Asian man beaming with pride, and in front were two preteen girls with wild curly hair and braces.

My throat tightened, thinking of my own version of this moment: Alexander in his J.D. robes with his arm around my waist, his brother Nick's slung around my shoulders, his mom and dad behind us. In the front stood teenage Mallory holding a shiny sign that said, “My brother came #2 to a girl.” Our gowns sparkled with the residual glitter.

Dad attended my business school graduation, but skipped the law school ceremony, claiming it was superfluous.

I swallowed down the resentment as Eric avoided eye contact for the first time all night while stripping the sheets on the bed.

One. Bed.

“You said you had a spare bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” He gestured to a too-small couch where he’d tossed a pillow, then stretched clean sheets onto the queen mattress. “I lived on a submarine for four years, I can sleep anywhere.” That teasing grin returned. “I’ll be fine, Princess.”

“Don’t call me Princess,” I snapped. His smile faded.

I considered leaving, but the air mattress had been torture. I was exhausted and his bed looked so comfortable.

Helooked so comfortable.

No, just his bed. No cuddling, no touching. Just sleeping in his bed that smelled like fresh linen hung out to dry on a summer day.

He had a one-night-only policy. Apparently I did too. This was it.

I slid under the scratchy gray blanket. “You don’t have to call me baby, orCobrita, or anything else. My name is Victoria.”

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