Page 60 of All Twerk, No Play

He let out a stunned laugh. “Glad you’re ok.”

“Better than I realized,” I said, hanging up the phone.

I took a quick trip to the bathroom to pee and wash my face. I thought about putting on foundation and mascara—Beverly always criticized my freckles, stockpiling concealer to cover them—but he’d already seen my bare skin and hadn’t run screaming.

Through the wall, his laughter rumbled, making me realize just how quiet this condo was with just me and Jurisprudence.

Then I heard a woman's voice, and my chest tightened. Who was that? Was he making plans to see somebody tonight? Why did I care?

I strained to eavesdrop, but couldn't understand … so I padded out on the balls of my feet, lingered in the hallway.

"Tengo chipotle enlatado," he said. Given all the nicknames he handed out I’d assumed he spoke Spanish, but the way it rolled off his tongue made desire pool in my belly. He stood at my range, flipping a spatula. The woman’s reply was so rapid that I couldn't translate, but I thought I heard the word for ‘garlic.’ And maybe 'girl.'

I glanced into the living room, not surprised to see blankets folded over the cushions. Eric slept there last night. He got up, fed my cat, worked out, and assembled my furniture … all while I was a sloppy mess.

At my feet, Jurisprudence rubbed against my legs, meowing a loud request to be picked up.

Eric's head snapped in my direction, a warm smile greeting me. "Tengo que colgar, ya se despertó." He turned off speakerphone, lifting the phone to his ear as I scooped up my cat, burying my face in her fur. "Luego te cuento. Sí, no voy a escatimar en la salsa. " He twisted his finger with an eye roll, indicating he was trying to wrap up. "Yo también te quiero, Mamá."

I loosened my hold on the cat as I realized he'd been talking to his mom. He hung up, turning back to the stovetop. “Feeling better?”

“So much better, thanks,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral instead of lusty breathlessness for the half-naked man in my kitchen. “That was Alexander’s brother Nick, his Best Man, who helped me fill in gaps from last night. He asked me to be his groomswoman.”

Eric leaned against the countertop, arms crossed. “Is that why you were so upset? Alex didn’t take it well when you told him to fuck off?”

“No, actually, I agreed.” I swallowed, trying to infuse my voice with the confidence I wanted to feel. “He’s my best friend.”

“Your best friend,” he said, those skeptical brown eyes scanning mine.

“Maybe you and I can be friends too?”

“I’d like that,” he said, cracking an egg in the frying pan. “Take a seat.”

I perched on a bar stool as he moved effortlessly around my kitchen—the first time it had been used since I moved in—trying not to stare at all his tattoos and shifting muscles. “What are you making?”

“Chilaquiles, world’s best hangover cure. Now that you’re keeping down toast, you need something salty and greasy.”

“Gluten-free?”

“Nary a glute in sight. It’s fried corn tortillas in salsa roja,” he said. "My mom was disappointed I didn't have guajillo chile, it won't be nearly as good as hers."

"You talk to her a lot?"

"Almost every day," he said, rubbing his neck like he was embarrassed. "We've always been close, but when I enlisted and she couldn't get in touch with me for months at a time, that was hard on her. So now that I can, I try to check in a few times a week, especially to get her cooking advice."

I nodded, my stomach tightening. Dad and I talked every month or two. When I was in business school we’d discuss what I was studying, but when I decided to go into law, we'd grown apart even more. Now all we had in common was real estate.

Eric plated the mouthwatering food, sliding it across the island, and I couldn’t restrain my moan of pleasure. Delighted at my enthusiastic response, he reached across the island to steal a bite off my fork. “So since we’re friends now, can we run together?”

“You want to run with me?” I shifted. I didn’t want him to watch me struggle to keep up with him.

He served himself a plate and sat on the next bar stool.“Even with those newfound hair-pulling self-defense skills, I worry about you running alone every morning.”

When was the last time somebody worried about me, instead of me worrying about … well, everything? “When?”

“I’m usually leaving when you come in.” Had he been clocking my patterns? Should I have felt alarmed? Because I wasn’t. I liked knowing that someone in my building kept tabs in case I didn’t come home. “What if I meet you in the lobby and you run me to my class?”

When I took another bite to consider his offer, he raised the stakes. “You could stay for 7am boot camp and still make it to work by nine.”

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