“Mr. Davis, I wasn’t aware you were expecting more”—the doorman cleared his throat—“company.”
“Jett isn’t company,” Rafe said with a laugh. “She’s my new roomie.”
The hopeful look on the waitress’s face faded as he turned his back on her fully.
“Yes, sir,” the man responded. “Welcome to the Londonderry, miss.”
Right. His tone didn’t sound all that welcoming.
“Ah, don’t mind Jeeves,” Rafe said. “He’s sour, but he’ll grow on you.”
“Indeed, sir,” the man replied.
“How about, for starters, you call the man Karl?” I said, glancing at the doorman’s tag. No wonder the guy was rude. Hell, I’d be pissy too if people were too damn lazy to learn my name. Off my name tag.
Karl’s eyes went wide. “It’s all right, miss.”
“No, Karl, it’s not all right,” I said, balling my hands into fists. “You have a name, and he should use it.”
“Whoa, easy,” Rafe said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I know his name is Karl. Jeeves is just a joke.”
“No one else was laughing,” I pointed out.
“Damn, no wonder Pamela kicked your ass out of the house,” he said. “Are you on your period or something?”
“I am not—” I started, my voice pitching up an octave in frustration. Rafe wiggled his eyebrows and gave me a lopsided smile. I crossed my arms and blew out my frustration.
The waitress cleared her throat. “So, uh, Rafe, you seem to have your hands full here,” she said, digging in her purse and pulling out a pen. “I guess I’ll be going.”
Rafe whirled around. “You’re still here?”
She blinked at him, then put on a confident smile. She took his hand and pulled it to her, writing a number down on his palm. “I thought you might want to, you know, give me a call sometime. Hang out again maybe.” She tipped her head up, clearly looking for a kiss.
“Right, I’ll call you sometime,” he said, turning his back on her again. Then he rubbed his palm along the side of his faded jeans. She stared at his back, blinking away tears before scurrying through the revolving doors, shoulders slumped. Was it still a walk of shame if it was late afternoon?
“She leave?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
His posture eased in relief. “Jeeves, man, if that chick shows up here again, tell her I’ve moved.”
“Of course, Mr. Davis,” he said.
I shuddered. “You are unbelievable.”
“And you’re shacking up with me, doll,” he said, his charming gap-toothed smile in full effect.
“And I have a feeling I am going to regret it,” I returned.
That made him grin wider. “Come on, I’ll help you with your bags.” He picked up my rucksack, leaving me to wrestle with the enormous duffle plus my two guitar cases. I glared at his perfect ass as it marched toward the elevator. Some help he was.
“Hurry up, Jett, we can’t hold the elevator all day,” he called. “That’s rude.”
I hoisted the enormous bag onto my shoulder and snatched up the cases. Teeth gritted, I dragged myself across the lobby toward Rafe, who was tapping his foot with impatience.
“One month,” I muttered under my breath like a mantra. Enough time to get on my feet. “One. Month.”
4
Rafe unlocked the apartment door. “Welcome to Shangri-la,” he said rather grandly, and he pushed open the door.
I stood in the threshold, mouth agape. My stuff landed on the floor with a thud, and I walked into his apartment, surveying the destruction.
“What the hell happened here?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. “And what is that smell?”
Rafe breezed in past me, sniffing the air. “Champagne? Rum? Ah, tequila!”
“More like eau de skank,” I said, pulling the neck of my T-shirt up over my mouth. I walked past the open kitchen and deeper into the living room. Using my thumb and index finger, I plucked up a pair of lace thongs from the arm of the couch and held them out to Rafe. “These belong to you?”
“Nope,” he said, taking them from me. He balled them up and made a basketball shot over the breakfast bar toward the overflowing garbage bin in the kitchen. He missed by a lot, and the thongs hung obscenely from one of the knobs on the stove.
I ignored what appeared to be a bralette dangling from the handle of the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. “So, what happened here?”
“I threw a party.”
“When? Last night?” I asked. The coffee table was littered with Chinese takeout containers piled on top of pizza boxes. Beer bottles covered the entire span of the kitchen countertops. Magnum bottles of champagne were tucked into the couch cushions. It seemed impossible that this mess had occurred in one night.
“Over the weekend,” he said, pushing aside some bottles to clear a spot for my bag.
“Okay, so you had a party on Saturday night. It’s now Tuesday. You couldn’t pick up a little every day?”
“The party was not Saturday night,” he said, leaning his hip into the counter.
“Friday, even better,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “That gave you an extra day.”
“No, not Friday. The weekend,” he said.
“As in the entire weekend?”
His grin was lopsided. “Place didn’t clear out until sometime Monday.”
“Oh,” I said, biting my lip. I knew about the rock star life. I had lived it when I was a kid, my mom dragging us to party after party. It was a life Mom had forced us to accept, but we’d been desperate to escape. No way would I live that way as an adult, no matter how desperate my situation. “Look, Rafe. I appreciate your offer, but maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Look at this place, how you live,” I said, sweeping both my arms out as if embracing the disaster. “A three-day bender, women’s underwear all over the place.”
Opening a pizza box, I plucked up a pair of cotton boy shorts wedged between old slices with hardened cheese. I tried to toss them toward him, but they were sticky and remained attached to my fingers.
Rafe shook his head and cast his eyes toward his feet, his body shaking with laughter.
I shook the underwear from my fingers and stepped around the debris on the floor to get to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and plunging my hand under the lukewarm water to get the ick off.
“So?” he asked.
“So…” I said, turning toward him, hands dripping. I came face-to-face with his broad, bare chest. He had removed his T-shirt and slung it around his neck. I stared at the dragon tattoo that covered his skin from shoulder to well-developed chest, and swallowed.
“So?” he repeated.
I averted my eyes fast and shook the water off my hands. Little droplets flicked onto his front. A bead of water dripped a path down the washboard that made up his abs. Crap.
I finished drying my hands on the thighs of my pants. “So maybe I don’t belong here.”
“And where are you going to go?” he asked. I didn’t answer. “Exactly. If I throw a rager, you can crash in my room, okay? My room is always off-limits.”