Page 3 of The Landlord
At least, that's what I tell myself as a much less noble plan forms in my mind. After all this time of watching her hurry past, of collecting her endless packages, of engineering reasons to be in the hallway when she comes home ... maybe it's time she gets a little uncomfortable. Maybe it's time she noticed me as more than just the building owner who fixes her leaky faucet or hand delivers her packages with care.
"Come on, menace." I scoop up the mangled package and its contents, grateful that the toy at least came in sealed plastic that Doug didn't puncture. Small mercies. "Let's go see Ms. James."
Doug's ears perk up at "go," but flatten when I say Alyssa's name. He knows exactly who lives across the hall and hasmade his feelings abundantly clear. The first week she moved in, he barked for twenty minutes straight when she dropped off cookies as a thank-you for helping carry her yarn shelves. He keeps baring his teeth when he so much as sniffs her. So yes, he essentially treats Alyssa the same way he does Mrs. Simone's cat.
"Stay," I say, pointing to his bed. He gives me a betrayed look but complies, curling up with a dramatic huff.
I cross to my door and pause, looking down at the package in my hands. This is possibly the worst idea I've had. But something about the thought of her face when she sees what Doug discovered—the blush that will spread across her cheeks, the way she'll stammer—sends another rush of heat through my body.
It's not kind. But I've spent two months being kind, being professional, being a gentleman, being the perfect neighbor and landlord who craves even just a smile or a glance my way.
Now or never. The worst that can happen is she'll move out of here. Fine.
I step across the hall and knock before I can talk myself out of it.
Footsteps approach the door. Light, hesitant. I hear her check the peephole, then a pause, then the slide of the chain lock and a deadbolt.
The door opens, and there she is. Hair piled messily on top of her head, wearing one of those oversized sweaters that makes her look somehow both cozy and vulnerable. Blue eyes widen at the sight of me standing at her threshold.
"Damien? Is everything okay?" Her voice is soft, concerned. She looks past me to my open door. "Is Doug all right? Are YOU all right?"
Of course she asks about the dog that hates her. That's Alyssa—the woman who leaves treats outside Mrs. Simone's door, who knitted a scarf for Mr. Ramirez from 3A when he mentioned being cold during his night shifts.
The same woman who apparently has a secret drawer of sex toys, and she just purchased a new one to add to her collection.
The incongruity hits me again, and I have to force myself to keep a straight face.
"Doug's fine. Too fine, actually. I got another one of your packages." I hold out the mangled box. "He got to it before I could bring it over. I'm sorry."
No, I'm not. Not really.
Alyssa looks down at the package. For a moment, nothing registers. Then her eyes widen as she sees what's poking through the torn cardboard. Her face drains of color before flooding crimson, the blush spreading up her neck and across her cheeks in a wave that's almost mesmerizing.
"I … that's not … I did n—" She freezes completely, eyes glued to the dildo.
I extend the box toward her, my expression carefully neutral despite the heat still pulsing through my body and a snort threatening to come out. I know she's horrified and embarrassed, but this shit is just too funny. You can't make up stuff like this.
"Might want to slow down on the online shopping," I say, my voice deliberately casual. "Or at least give additional instructions to the delivery guys about sending the packages to the right door."
She stares at the box, mortification written across her face, unable to move or speak. And suddenly, watching her stand there paralyzed with embarrassment, I realize I've made a terrible mistake.
Because my self-control is starting to fray thread by thread, and I want nothing more than to pull her to me and taste her lips.
Fuck.
2
ALYSSA
Iwant to die. Right here. Right now. Just spontaneously combust into a pile of ashes and let the wind carry me away through the hallway window.
There is a sex toy staring at me from a mangled package in my hot landlord's hands.
A sex toy I did not order. And definitely have zero plans of using.
My hands clench at my sides as I stare at it, unable to meet Damien's eyes. The plastic packaging gleams under the hallway lights, mocking me. I can feel heat radiating from my face, spreading down my neck, probably turning me the same shade as Mrs. Simone's tomato plants.
Diana. This is Diana's fault. I'm going to murder her the next time I see her. Last week over margaritas, she insisted I needed to "loosen up" and promised to send me a "little sweet surprise." When she winked, I assumed she meant yarn or maybe a gift card for that fancy tea shop I love.
