Page 41 of Average Joe

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The only other person with a key would never knock, just let himself in and make himself at home. I hoped and prayed that a visit would come sooner rather than later, but deep down, I knew that the guy who owned my heart and soul was not on the other side of my door.

Tucking pink, fuzzy-clad feet under my butt, I raised the volume on the television, hoping my mystery caller would take the hint.

What kind of monster came to visit after dark?

“I know you’re in there. Open up.”

Monster. Crazy neighbor. Tomato. Tomahto.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

He was losing steam.

“C’mon. Let me apologize.”Tap. Tap. Tap.“I’m an asshole.”

Cheers to that. I raised my glass to my lips and finished my wine in one long swallow, washing my ire down to the pit of my stomach. The sad truth was that I owed Joe an apology, not the other way around. Yet, there he stood, the bigger man, making right the wrong I’d instigated.

“Please, neighbor.”

“Ugh!” Why did he have to be so freaking nice? I kicked my legs out from under me and stormed to the door, led solely by my guilty conscience.

When I opened, Joe fell forward, nearly knocking me over in the process. When he caught me by the shoulders to steady himself and that familiar heat flooded my veins, I knew I was toast.

“Shit. Sorry.” Joe straightened and braced a hand on the doorframe, the muscles in his arm bulging and flexing, the sight making me giddy.

Dear Lord, he smelled good, like spiced rum and leather, which made no sense because the man wore jeans and a Metallica tee. No leather anywhere on his person. Oh, wait. Yep, there it was. A leather bracelet. Black. Studded. Well worn. God, look at that solid wrist. Huh. Thick. Like his…

I winced, shaking the thought away, regretting my decision to open the door, especially in my floaty, borderline-inebriated state.

I cocked a hip, feigning indifference. “Say what you gotta say, Joe. I’m listening.”

He released a long breath, his cheeks puffing, then shrinking. “I was a jackass again. I’m sorry.”

Joe’s eyes held no secrets. I studied them, searching for a reason to slam the door in his face, lock all thoughts of him away in my mental filing cabinet alongside my last dating mistake, the abusive, narcissistic drug dealer. I found only regret and shame in Joe’s baby blues, and the man appeared sincerely repentant.

I hadn’t the heart or the energy to turn him away.

Slumping in defeat, I mumbled. “You’re forgiven.” Then I cleared my throat and shocked myself by blurting, “I’m sorry, too.”

Seconds ticked between us, ripe with possibilities. I was about to say goodnight when he asked, “What’re you drinking?” followed by, “Can I join you?”

Good Lord, the guy was killing me. “I can’t have a drink with you.”

He smirked, highlighting a dimple. “Why not?”

“Because we always end up naked.”

“That a bad thing?” he asked, gaze roaming my body.

My thin cami and ruffled sleep shorts may have well been a lacy bra and thong panties.

Rolling my eyes would have been rude, true, but doing so also would’ve made me dizzy and exposed my lack of sobriety. Instead, I lowered my gaze. “Good sex is never bad. I just don’t want this to become a habit.”

“You’re staring at my crotch, neighbor. Makes me think you do want this to become a habit.”

Damn! Stupid wine.

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