Page 12 of The Landlord
"Which is?"
"Spaghetti carbonara. Simple, but they do it right."
I smile. "A creature of habit."
"In some ways." His eyes meet mine over the table. "I'm making exceptions lately."
The air between us crackles with tension. I've never been good at flirting, but something about Damien makes me braver than usual.
"I'm glad I'm an exception," I say.
Over dinner, I learn that Damien worked construction for ten years before he could afford to buy our building. It was a foreclosure, practically falling apart, and he's spent the lastthree years renovating it himself, floor by floor, apartment by apartment.
"You did all that work alone?"
He shrugs, but I can see the pride in his eyes. "I had help with the electrical and plumbing, but the rest? Yeah. Nights and weekends while I kept my day job."
"That's incredible." I mean it. I admire people who build things with their hands. "Is that how you found Doug?"
His expression softens. "Yeah. Someone had abandoned him in the parking lot. Skinny little thing, terrified of everything. I couldn't bring myself to take him to a shelter."
The image of gruff, intimidating Damien rescuing a trembling chihuahua does something to my heart.
"And now he's your loyal sidekick."
"More like my furry dictator," Damien says with a laugh. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."
By the time we finish our meal, I've learned more about Damien than I ever thought I would. He's self-taught in carpentry, loves old things that can be restored rather than replaced, and hasn't been in a serious relationship for three years because he's been focused on his building.
And I've told him about my journey from knitting as therapy during college to building my online business, about Diana pushing me to start filming tutorials, about my dream of eventually opening a small yarn shop with a teaching space.
It's the best date I've ever had.
When we walk back to the building, the night has grown cooler, and Damien shrugs off his jacket to place it around my shoulders. The warmth of it, infused with his scent, makes me want to bury my face in the collar.
"Thank you for tonight," I say as we approach the building entrance. "I had a really good time."
Damien stops walking, turning to face me. "Night's not over yet. Unless you want it to be?"
My pulse quickens. "Definitely not."
Instead of heading for the main entrance, he leads me into the parking garage. The concrete space is dimly lit and quiet, our footsteps echoing as we walk toward his Ford Bronco parked in the corner.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he says, his voice low. "About yesterday."
"Me too." I step closer to him, emboldened by the darkness and the memory of his mouth on me.
His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him. "I can't stop thinking about the sounds you made when you came."
"I can't stop thinking about how good you felt. How good you made me feel."
He groans softly before capturing my mouth with his. The kiss is different from last night—almost like him staking his claim. His tongue strokes against mine, and I press myself closer, feeling the hard length of him against my stomach.
"Get in the car," he growls against my lips.
I raise an eyebrow. "Are we going somewhere?"
His smile is wicked. "No."
