She’s suitably impressed, eyebrows rising into her brown hairline. “Well la-di-da, aren’t youuu fancy!”
Wait—is she impressed, or is she mocking me?
I can’t tell.
“Okay Miss Sassy Pants, where do you work?” I want to know the answer, even though I have sweat dripping from my spine to my butt crack. I’m dying to swipe at it, but no way am I digging into the ass of my shorts in front of this chick. I have a feeling she’d never let me live it down.
“I’m over at Margolis & Co.”
“Doing what?” She’s young—definitely in her twenties—so I immediately peg her as a junior executive assistant, or maybe even a trust fund baby? Seems highly unlikely. This girl isn’t nearly snooty enough.
I’ve been inside that building a time or two, mostly when I was younger, doing architectural tours of the city. That’s kind of always been my hobby: scouting modern cities for old buildings and historical sites. I try to see as many Victorian and Art Deco designs as I can before they’re inevitably demolished, one by one, to make way for newer, shinier skyscrapers.
The girl hesitates.
“I’m Vice President of Media Development.”
Say what now? “What?”
“Vice President of—”
“No, no, I heard you. I’m just surprised. You seem kind of…”
I don’t want to say…
“Young?” Now she’s leaning against her door, fiddling with the tie on her mauve yoga pants. “That’s because I am.”
“How old are you?”
Again, her nose turns up. “Didn’t your nan ever teach you it isn’t polite to ask a lady her age?”
My what? “What the fuck is a nan?”
The girl laughs. “Your grandmother?”
“My grandmother is dead.” I say it deadpan, to shut her up and to wipe that smirk off her cocky little face.
She blanches. “Oh my G-God,” she stutters. “I’m so sorry. I…I…” She’s sputtering, turning the delightful shade of red one acquires upon jamming her foot so far in her mouth, she chokes on it. A dainty hand covers pouty lips, her once pale porcelain skin now the color of a ripe beet.
Good.
I wait a few more seconds, letting her squirm.
Then, “I’m just fucking with you. My grandma on the East Coast is probably at some casino gambling away all my grandpa’s life insurance money.”
Her mouth gapes. “You. Butthole.”
Butthole? That’s the best she can do as an insult? Shit, if that’s the worst thing I’m called today, I’ll call it a win.
And it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.
Which reminds me, “What are you doing out in the hallway?”
“My nan had breakfast dropped off for me and I was out here making sure I didn’t leave the bag of condiments.”
Huh? “Say that again, slower.”
“My nan had breakfast delivered for me since I can’t be there for brunch today, and I just popped back out to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.”
“Your grandmother brought you breakfast?” I glance at the watch on my wrist. “It’s so early.”
“She didn’t bring it, she had it delivered.”
“Why?”
“Um, because I’m missing family brunch today.”
“Why?”
She huffs. “I don’t want to go?”
I cock my head. “What does Nan-Nan think you’re doing instead of going to brunch?”
She checks her nail polish, intently studying her hands. “I told her I already had a brunch date.”
“A date date?”
“Yes.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yes?”
“And that was enough to get you off the hook and out of a family obligation?” Why am I so impressed?
“I mean, yeah? She’s trying to get me married off, so…”
“Why?” The shock registers in my own brain, the expression on my face must look pretty ridiculous.
“She’s old-school—that’s what Nan does.”
“Right…” I draw the word out, because this whole conversation is borderline ridiculous. A nan sounds like a character from a damn cartoon movie—and along with cats, I hate cartoons, too. “Are you going to tell me what kind of food she had delivered at seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday?”
“Why?” Her eyes have gone to slits.
“I’m starving.” Obviously.
“Should you be eating? You just ran up twenty flights of stairs—won’t you want to puke? I mean, you look like you’re going to.”
Meh. “Maybe, but I’m hungry and I should be eating protein. Got any?”
“I might, but…” She gives me a once-over, eyeing my sweat-soaked outfit, scuffed jogging shoes, and perspiration-drenched headband.
I know I look like I just ran the Boston Marathon, pissed myself running, and barely managed to drag my slack body across the finish line.
“But what?”
“I don’t even know you.” She’s chewing on her lower lip. I can’t help but notice that it’s pouty and pink, and though there’s no makeup on her face, she’s really goddamn pretty.
That would matter if I were interested.
Which I’m not.
Besides, no fucking way am I going to lose that bet with the BBS. No. Fucking. Way.
She doesn’t want me eating her food because she doesn’t know me? Fine. “I’m Brooks Bennett.”
A laugh escapes her throat and she sputters, spitting a bit, which is kind of disgusting.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Is that seriously your name? Brooks Bennett?”
“Yes.” I take in her light pinkish yoga pants, soft gray pullover, and bare feet. Toes are painted a soft pink. “What’s yours?”
A brief silence. “Abbott.”
Abbott. “Abbott what?”
“Just Abbott.”
“God, don’t tell me you’re one of those chicks who’s an internet blogger with one name.”
She laughs. “I have a last name, I’m just not telling you what it is.”
I roll my eyes so hard I feel them in the back of my skull. “I’m not going to stalk you—don’t flatter yourself.”
Now she’s the one rolling her eyes. “I’m not a blogger.”
“Well, Abbott I’m not a blogger, if you feed me, I’ll super appreciate it, and I won’t bother trying to search you online later.” I have no food in my fridge and make a mental note to have something delivered later so I’ll have a meal to eat after work tomorrow. “Give me a few to jump in and out of the shower then I’ll be back to bang your door in.”
Bang your door in—good one, Brooks.
My pretty little neighbor scrunches up her nose, unsure about whether or not that was a sexual innuendo.
“Fine.” She points an accusatory finger at me, and I notice her nails are light pink. “But you’re not staying long.”
As if. “Fine.”
I’m just using her for food, anyway.