Page 18 of The Fling (Close Quarters 2)

I don’t think I’ll ever look at balconies the same way again.

For a moment, I consider leaving the pizza and dragging my tired, slightly still-drunk butt to bed. But I’m a guest in this house. Scooping up the box, I head to the front door and scout the hallway. It’s a little after midnight and dead silent—I guess that’s too late for the older residents and too early for younger ones to be coming home.

I dart across the hallway to the door marked “trash chute” and open it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The gravelly, male voice startles me and the chute lever slips out of my fingers, the metal banging against my other hand. I’m ready to chew the ear off the person who’s appeared behind me like some creepy-ass stalker. But my gaze collides with a steely expression and a shock of reddish hair. Mr. Suit.

Never one to waste an opportunity to pay back a man who’s rejected me, I glare at him with all the fake anger I can muster. “You usually sneak up on vulnerable women like that?”

He cocks a brow, his eyes roaming up and down my body. Is he thinking about our naughty phone call? Or the night on the balcony? Then I remember I ditched my grease-stained pants into the washing machine. My jumper is oversized, so my underwear is covered. Barely.

That’s twice now he’s seen me without pants.

“You usually break the rules while staying in someone else’s apartment?” He folds his arms across his chest.

I was aware of the garbage chute curfew, but in the moment I forgot. I am not surprised, however, that Mr. Suit is a stickler for the rules. “Do you usually get your knickers in a knot over other people’s behaviour?” I fire back.

“That’s rich coming from a woman who doesn’t seem to own any pants.”

Touché. “I’m not disturbing anyone by getting rid of my pizza box.” I wink, knowing it will grate on him. Maybe I should change his name to Mr. Stick Up His Butt.

“The cut-off is 10:00 p.m.” His jaw ticks. “There’s a reason for that.”

“Oh, really? Please tell me about it. Was it The Great Garbage Chute Incident of 2006? I heard quite a few people lost their lives over it.”

I want to know what Mr. Suit’s deal is. He’s got this weird mix of blistering heat and uptight, almost stuffy rigidity about him. I’ve never met anyone like him before. Most guys seem to fall into only one camp, but he’s got a foot squarely in both.

Tonight he’s not in suit, however. He’s wearing a soft crew-neck jumper with a shirt underneath and jeans with boots. Faded denim clings to his muscular thighs and makes his long legs look even longer. It’s a damn sight, let me tell you.

“I would think that you’d be on your best behaviour considering this isn’tyourapartment,” he says drily. For some guys, there might’ve been a hint of threat in a statement like that. But Mr. Suit is grouchy, not menacing.

“Good behaviour isn’t my forte.” I place a hand against his chest, giving him the gentlest shove so I can exit the chute room. “As you well know.”

Mistake. His jumper is soft and snuggly, covering a hard wall of muscle. My mind spins off into a fantasy, but I have to remain strong. I willnotlet Mr. Suit best me in a verbal beatdown.

“And what exactly is your forte?” He steps back, freeing himself of my greedy hands. “Semi-goth makeup? Getting stuck in stairwells? Not wearing pants?”

He wants to judge me? Fine, it’s not like I give a shit what he—or any other man—thinks of me. “Very perceptive. I’m a two-time gold medallist in going pantsless.”

He shakes his head. “You’re like a stubborn teenager.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with me when you called the other night,” I purr. “In fact, why don’t we add that to my list of fortes. Dirty talk. What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”

Unfortunately, none of those talents count for much. I’ve got a PhD in emotional self-defence, a black belt in pushing people away, and several medals for snark, sarcasm, profanity and beer drinking. Useless skills, except for when it comes to keeping my heart protected...or so I’d thought.

But I’m not going to lay those weapons down ever again.

Mr. Suit’s gaze burns right through me, like he sees past my trolling. Past my smudgy eye makeup and the hard stare that tells people to stay away. Like he’s drilling through all of that to the stuff I don’t want anyone to see.

Ever.

“That’s usually my job,” he says with a smirk. “It was interesting to be on the receiving end for a change.”

“Well, Mr. Suit, consider yourself lucky. Try to get some rest, if you can. I know it’ll be hard with all the irresponsible people throwing out their trash at such an inconvenient hour.” I turn on my heel, heading back to the apartment with an exaggerated swing of my hips.

My whole body prickles with the sensation of being watched—it’s like fire in my blood. Like jumper leads have been attached to my nervous system. I like being watched by him. Being consumed by his eyes.

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