If only I hadn’t watched three freaking episodes of PLL with her…
If only I had taken the subway instead of a cab…
If only I hadn’t made the ultimate tourist mistake and left my keys in the cab…
I was up the stairs to my building, reaching for the key before I realized what happened. I sprinted down the steps, waving my arms and screaming at the cab, which continued its merry path a block away. I muttered a line of obscenities, stomping my feet in the middle of the street, my keys still lying on the seat of the cab, my Fendi fluffy keychain lost forever.
I trudged back up the steps and leaned on the front door, doing a half-hearted search on the taxi commission’s website. It took five minutes to find out that the only chance I had of getting my keys back was by filing a lost item report in person. Talk about archaic practices. As I closed the browser, one of my neighbors opened the lobby door, and I gratefully slipped in, one step closer to home.
The elevator was halfway up before I realized I didn’t have a way to get into my apartment. The spare key I’d left for Benta and Cammie—stuck under my mat after the night they’d nearly gotten me evicted for being drunk and loud on my doorstep—I’d used it a week earlier when I couldn’t manage to find my house key in the depths of my purse. It was still sitting on my kitchen counter, patiently waiting to be returned to its rightful place under my mat.
I’d run out of options. I stared at the door of C9. Carter’s apartment. At least I’d remembered the unit number, all of that obsessing coming in handy. I glanced at my watch one last time before reluctantly lifting my hand and knocking on his door.
I woke him up. When he opened the door, I could see it in the rough mess of his hair, the scratch of his voice, but more noteworthy: his lack of clothing. Bare-chested, he braced muscular arms against the doorframe, his biceps popping, shoulders strong and wide, a six-pack screaming attention to the gorgeous cuts on either side of his hips. Bright yellow pajama pants hung low on his hips, the ties undone and I forgot about my lost keys, forgot all about my Netflix plans, forgot everything but a raw desire to drop to my knees and yank down those pants.
I swallowed. “Hey Carter.”
“It’s late.”
“I left my keys in a cab.” I gestured toward the street for some unknown reason, my eyes continually tripping back to his abs. Damn.
“You need a place to crash?” There was a smile in his tone and I pulled my eyes up to his face. God, he was pretty. Had some dark stubble going that made his eyes pop. And he was actually smiling. Maybe Benta and Cammie’s party in the hall had been forgiven.
“Ah… no.” Maybe? I struggled to explain. ” I can’t get into my apartment. Do you have a spare?”
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped back, running a rough hand over the back of his head and I could get a freaking foot massage by running my soles over the hard ripple of those abs. “I should. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, meekly stepping inside and sneaking a look around. It was sparsely furnished, a leather sectional laid out before a large flat screen, a farmhouse-style table the only other piece of furniture in the room. “Your apartment is bigger than mine.”
He laughed, walking over to the kitchen counter and digging around in a drawer. “You sound so surprised.”
“Well.” I didn’t finish the sentence, standing awkwardly in the entranceway. My second glance saw the art on the walls. “Wow.” I stepped closer, the piece in the foyer area gorgeous, a hundred swirls of color centered around a woman’s face. “Is this…?” I touched it to test my eyes, my hands brushing over the raised oil brush strokes. “Holy shit. This is a Presa Little.”
He looked up from the drawer and met my eyes with a look of wary surprise. “Yeah. You know her stuff?”
“Umm … yeah,” I said softly, turning back to the piece. “I’ve followed her for a while.” My parents had had a Presa Little in our Colorado home, purchased on one of our shopping trips to Paris. Mom used to spend the day shopping, and Dad and I would hit galleries, art something