and chew. “That cat wouldn’t know a villain if it flew through here wearing a cape.”
“She barely tolerates Nan, but she adores you. That’s saying a lot.”
As much as I hate admitting it, she’s right about the fucking cat. It really does like me, no matter how hard I try to make it stop. I don’t want or need that furball using my leg as an object of its affection. I don’t need it purring at me. I don’t need it meowing incessantly at the bathroom door when I’m trying to take a piss in private.
“I think you try to pretend to be a badass, but in reality you’re a nice guy.”
“No guy on this planet wants to be called a nice guy. Didn’t you get the memo? Nice guys finish last.”
Her face lets me know she doesn’t agree. “You hate the idea of being vulnerable so much you’re pushing me away.”
Suddenly, at her words, my chips go stale in my mouth. Taste like sandpaper. Still, it’s either chew and swallow or spit them out.
Spit. Or swallow.
Gulping the chips, I force them down with water, stalling.
“Vulnerable?” I scoff. “Please.”
“Well,” she begins, “I’m no psychologist, but you’re always in my apartment when you used to spend all your free time with your pals. Now you hang out here. With me. Except…you’re not interested in being romantic—until today, and that kiss hardly counted because you didn’t really mean it.”
She only pauses to eat another Pringle, and I wait while she chews, having nothing to add.
“Do you know why you don’t spend as much time with your friends anymore? It’s too much work to see them. Why? Because you’re pretending to be someone you’re not. With me, you can be yourself. You feel comfortable and it’s easy here, not at that little dive bar you claim you love so much.”
My mouth falls open. Closes. “I’ll have you know, The Basement isn’t a ‘little dive bar.’” I use air quotes. “It’s a one-hundred-year-old bar that serves cognac and spirits.”
Abbott rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know all about this fancy, dignified bar and its overpriced drinks and pedigreed atmosphere.” She fakes a bored yawn. “Incidentally, when was the last time you were at The Basement?”
I study my fingernails, the same way she does when she’s avoiding a direct stare. “I can’t remember.” One week ago? Two? Who knows—I’m an architect, not a timeline specialist.
“See?” She crosses her legs, bobbing a foot up and down, superior. “You used to go there a few times a month. And now…” She snaps her fingers, lithe body shifting on the cushions, smug smile curving her gorgeous lips.
Smug smile curving her gorgeous lips?
Shut the fuck up, Brooks. Stop waxing poetic about your neighbor. Go home, you’re drunk.
Man, she’s cute.
Man, she smells good.
Those tight pants…
I growl a bit.
“What’s that look you’re giving me?” Her stare is poignant, directed straight at me, while mine travels her torso.
Those boobs.
That stomach.
Even her fucking toes are adorable. I want to suck them, and I’m not even a toe guy. In fact, I hate feet.
“Brooks? Are you still drunk?”
“It takes more than a bottle of wine to keep me sloshed an entire afternoon, Abbott, though Nan tried her best.”
“Nan is seventy-five—leave her out of this,” she says defensively, inadvertently changing the subject.
A part of me wants her to question why I’m silently stripping her naked in my mind.
Maybe it will lead to something we’ll regret later.
“She might be seventy-five, but she kept the wine flowing like a lady boss.” Like a sorority girl with an unlimited bar tab.
Abbott sticks a leg out, bending it at the knee, calf flexing. “That may be true…but she got us the rest of the day off, didn’t she? And you gave me that gross kiss while I was eating a hot dog.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to make up a bullshit excuse to your boss.”
“You didn’t call your boss, you had that intern kid do it.”
Taylor? He’s not really a kid, but yeah—sending him that quick note and telling him I’m playing hooky just made life more difficult because the nosey fucker wanted details. Lucky for him, he grows on me every day, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were…
Friends.
“Let me see the text you sent him.”
“What? No.” No way am I showing her the exchange between Taylor and me.
“Why?”
“Uh—because it’s private?” Plus, her name is all over those damn messages. She was the first thing Taylor brought up when I said I had a