Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
"It's fine," I say, flapping my hands like a lunatic, hyperaware of how his gaze follows the movement. "Really. Welcome to the building." I can't tell if I want to step closer to him or run back to my apartment.
Hunter inclines his head, but his eyes linger on mine a beat too long. Something electric passes between us—a current that makes my skin prickle. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I swear his gaze drops to my lips before snapping back up. “Thanks.” He exhales slowly, as if steadying himself. “See you around,” he mutters, then steps backward into his apartment without another word. The door closes with a soft click, and I'm left in the hallway, alone with my static-filled hair and the sound of my heartbeat hammering against my ribs like it's trying to follow him inside.
I lean back against the wall, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. For a minute, I replay the entire exchange in my head as if there’s a hidden message I missed.
All I come up with is that my new neighbor is built like a Viking, talks like a caveman, and has eyes that make my girly bits tingle.
I make my way back to my apartment, close the door, and wonder if I’ve ever been less prepared to meet someone in my entire life.
Probably not.
I spend the next several hours pretending I don’t care about my new neighbor. I really do try. I clean my apartment, wash a week’s worth of dirty clothes, and even make a halfhearted attempt at organizing my closet. The noise from 2H dies down around noon, replaced by the soothing sounds of ESPN SportsCenter leaking through the wall.
By two o’clock, I’ve lost the battle with my curiosity. I figure I can kill two birds with one stone. I’ll bake, which relaxes me, and bring the cookies over to my new neighbor.
I go full domestic goddess mode. Chocolate chips, butter, the works. I even measure the flour, which is not my usual jam. By the time the cookies are out of the oven, my apartment smells like a gourmet bakery. I don’t even wait for them to cool. I pile them onto a plate, slap on a sticky note with a smiley face, and try not to let my nerves get the best of me.
Standing in the hallway, holding my still-warm cookie offering, I instantly regret not changing my shirt. Whatever. I’m committed. I knock.
There’s a pause. And then the door swings open.
Hunter Hartwell fills up the doorway, impossible to miss, every inch of him dialed up and in hi-def. He's ditched the battered black T-shirt and worn jeans for a gray tee that clings across his chest and black sweatpants that ride low on his hips. His hair is damp like he just stepped out of a shower, darkened at the roots, drops tumbling down the curve of his neck. Soap hangs in the air, clean and sharp with a shadowy undertone.
For a beat, neither of us says anything. I wonder if he recognizes me or if he’s already wiped our earlier conversation from his memory. But then his gaze drops to the plate, and I’m pretty sure I see his left eyebrow twitch.
“Hi!” I say too loudly. “Sorry to bug you again. I just—uh, I made cookies.” I thrust the plate forward, nearly launching a few off the edge. “I mean, they’re for you. For moving in. Not that I think you can’t bake for yourself, but—oh my God, why am I still talking?”
Hunter looks at the cookies, then back at me. His expression is hard to read—equal parts suspicion and confusion.
But then he reaches out, and our fingers brush as he takes the plate. His skin is warm, rough, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with static electricity.
“Thanks,” he says. It’s almost a grunt, but not unkind. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” I say. “You know. Be neighborly.”
Another micro-expression flickers across his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it uncertainty. Like he’s not used to people bringing him things. Or talking to him. Or looking at him for more than three seconds.
I lean into the silence, hoping he’ll give me something to work with, but he just shifts the plate to his other hand and steps back.
“So, uh, is everything going okay with the move?” My mouth runs away.
Hunter’s mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but hasn’t quite remembered how. “It’s fine. Almost done.”
I nod, determined to keep the conversation alive. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to it.”
“See you around.” He steps back and closes the door with a soft click and leaves me standing there like an idiot.
I shuffle back to my apartment, the entire interaction replaying in my head on a twenty-second loop.