“Mrs. Stanfield? It’s me, Piper. Can you buzz me in, please?”
“Piper?” she says with her usual disapproval.
“Yes, it’s me.”
Before she’ll let us in, we’re forced to listen to her complain about the landlord for a bit.
“Sorry about that,” I say, heading down the hall once we’re inside.
“How come she calls you Piper?”
Our eyes meet and a frisson of electricity sweeps along my skin. His dirty blond hair is a bit longer on top than it was so many months ago and his lips seem fuller and his cheekbones higher than I remember . . . and he definitely doesn’t remember me.
“It’s just a nickname I’m trying to shake,” I explain. “Mrs. Stanfield is too old to get that I’m trying to reinvent myself.” Since I’d rather not talk about Piper, I quickly change the subject. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not the smartest thing to do, but I’m in a tough spot right now. You know, with money.”
At the end of the hall we go right, and my apartment is the second door on the left. Luckily, I tidied up since the guy who’s interested in the PS4 is coming. Plus, I finally decided not to get a new roommate, so I moved back into the bedroom. Starting this week, I’ll be working full time hours, so I should be able to squeeze my rent out of my pay cheques for the next few months until I finish school. But, clean or not, when the door swings open, I’m a bit rattled by having him in my personal space.
I kick off my sneakers, but tell him, “Don’t worry about your shoes.” As Piper, I had so many parties in this apartment where nobody took their shoes off. It’s not like the gray carpet is pristine or anything.
He leans down to unlace his work boots anyway. “My grandmother would kill me if she found out,” he says when he straightens and sees my questioning expression.
I barely refrain from letting my surprise show on my face. He’s kind and well-mannered? Who is this guy? Moving into the living/kitchen space, he sees the Playstation on the island.
“This what you’re selling?” he asks. “You play?”
I like that he’s not skeptical that a girl could be a gamer, but I give him the truth by shaking my head. “Not really. I like the fun ones though, Mario Kart, that kind of thing. Do you want something to drink?” I pull open the fridge, but it’s as empty as ever. Slamming it shut, I give him a rueful look. “I’ve got water, or water . . . from the tap. Sorry.”
I swear I see faint amusement on his face. “Nothing wrong with tap water, but I’m good. Have you eaten?”
“No, but I do have a date with a package of Ramen later.” My brow furrows. I guess I should offer that too. “Are you hungry? Do you want some?”
He actually laughs this time. “Tempting, but no thanks. How about I order us some pizza?”
My mouth waters at the thought, but the manners my mother taught me keep my polite front in place. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Well, if you’d rather eat Ramen . . .”
Something resembling a strangled groan comes out of me. “No one would rather eat Ramen over pizza.”
His lips still curved into a smile, he pulls out his phone. “That’s what I thought,” he says. “Any preferences?”
“Um, not really, but Hawaiian is my favorite.”
He looks appalled. “Hawaiian? That’s what my six year old daughter eats.”
Right. He has a daughter. I knew that. “Well, she clearly has excellent taste,” I say while casually trying to scope out his left hand. No wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a wife or a girlfriend. I won’t be asking though. The fact alone that I’m attracted to this guy is probably bad news. I have terrible taste in men. “But since you’re the one paying the bill, I’ll gladly eat whatever you’re buying. I’m going to change quickly.” Heading down the hall, I tell him over my shoulder, “Be right back.”
In my bedroom, I rest my forehead against the closed door and take a deep, steadying breath. My stranger is here, in my house! I plan on savoring every second of this incredibly surreal experience.
After I get into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I go back to the kitchen and find Scott running a damp cloth over the game console. “I thought you’d get more for it if it wasn’t covered in dust.”
“Oh, I . . . thanks.” Maybe my taste in men has improved? Because good-looking, kind, well-mannered, and thoughtful? He has to be too good to be true, right?
“This guy’s probably going to want to make sure it works. All right if I hook it up?”
I swallow. And take-charge? “Yeah, good idea,” I stammer. “I just pulled it out of the closet this morning.”
He gathers everything up and takes it over to my TV stand. “You’ve got a Switch, too?” he asks, noticing the Nintendo console.
“Uh, yeah, my ex was big into video games.”
He’s got his head behind the TV, but I see the way he pauses what he’s doing, the muscles in his shoulders stiffening slightly against the material of his black T-shirt. Glancing back with a bit of a disapproving look, he asks, “You supposed to be selling his stuff?”
Annoyance pulses in my gut. See? He’s not perfect. Instead of the ‘What are you, my dad?’ that’s on the tip of my tongue, I go with, “I talked to him today. He was more interested in hearing about when I was coming back to him than about his stuff. So yeah, after everything, I’m selling it.”
Even I can hear the determination in my tone, daring him to contradict me, so I’m surprised when another grin tugs at his lips. “After everything? Sounds ominous.”
His head slips back behind the TV and he doesn’t hear the, “If you only knew,” that I mutter under my breath. Talking to Gunnar today was like breathing tiny slivers of glass into my lungs, painful and something to be avoided at all costs. The sound of his voice had flooded me with a sense of familiarity that’s been sorely lacking in my life. I’d held strong though. He still wants his party-girl back, the one who was up for anything, while I want nothing to do with her. No matter how easy it would be to slip back into Piper’s skin, I know the only place she’ll take me is back down to rock bottom.
The jarring buzz of the building’s intercom announces the prospective buyer’s arrival. He’s barely less sketchy than I’d imagined. It takes about fifteen minutes for him to decide he wants the console and then another five for us to come to an agreement. Scott spends the time silently milling about my living room, except when he accepts the pizza delivery. He’s going through my cupboards for some plates when the guy finally leaves.
“Thanks for staying,” I tell him as I pull out a piece of Hawaiian pizza from one of the boxes, settling myself on a bar stool that I pull out from under the kitchen island.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” I moan at the cheesy goodness of my first bite. How long has it been since I had pizza?
“You live here alone?”
That gets my attention, and I consider him carefully as I chew. “Yeah, why?” I finally answer.
“Because you live on the ground floor and the lock on your patio door is busted.”