Big O Box Set

by Penny Wylder

  I smile as I take a step toward the doors. Then I freeze, because I hear the most unwelcome sound possible behind me.

  “Clove!”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  I turn around slowly, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, my muscles tensed.

  Dick stands on the curb, beside his taxi, which he clearly just asked to follow me all the way here. “Look, I know I came across a little strong earlier. I just wanted to say sorry and also that maybe we can try again…” He takes a step toward me, staggering a little.

  I underestimated how drunk he was. Or maybe he showed up to the bar a few drinks in and that whiskey pushed him over the edge. “Dick, listen, I’m just going to go inside now…”

  “Wait,” he says, and it comes out more of a growl than a plea. Before I can react, he launches himself across the pavement at me. I have just enough time to take a few steps backward toward my door before he catches me, one hand wrapped around my wrist, the other on my shoulder. I try to wrench myself free, go for my phone in my purse, but I can’t. His grip is too strong.

  He pushes me against the glass beside the door of my building, his breath hot on my face. “You don’t have to be a bitch, Clove. You can be nice about this.”

  I grit my teeth and throw myself sideways. It’s not enough. He keeps his hold on my shoulder, slams me against the glass wall harder.

  “Don’t move while I’m talking. I’m talking to you bitch, you hear?”

  “Dick, please let go, you’re hurting me.”

  “I’ll let go when I know you’re going to take me seriously. I’m a fucking catch, you don’t just walk away from a fucking catch.”

  I cast a wild-eyed glance over his shoulder. But at this hour, my neighborhood is pretty quiet. That’s what I like about it. Liked, anyway. Right now, it’s working against me. There’s nobody in sight.

  “Get off of me,” I say, very slowly.

  He smirks. “Make me.”

  That’s when a heavy weight collides with us.

  I stagger against the glass, barely managing to keep myself upright by bracing on the window with both palms. I hear grunting, shouts, but all I register is the fact that there’s no one grabbing me anymore.

  I push myself upright. There’s a bruise already forming around my wrist, and from the ache in my shoulder, I’ll have another handprint-shaped bruise there too.

  When I look up, I see two figures in front of me: Dick and the back of a uniformed man. I recognize the uniform, of course. I see it every single day, at least twice a day, as I leave and come back to this building.

  My doorman.

  He throws a punch now, a mean right hook that connects squarely with Dick’s jaw. But Dick is so drunk, that even though I hear that punch land with a smack, it doesn’t slow him down. His brain probably doesn’t even register the pain.

  Dick roars and shoves the doorman with both hands. My heart leaps into my throat. From this angle, I can’t tell which doorman it is—hopefully not Paul, the sweet little old guy who always tries to carry my groceries for me. Dick is huge, big enough to break him in half.

  The doorman twists out of Dick’s grip and knees him in the gut, which momentarily slows Dick down, winding him. On his way down, he pulls the doorman sideways, knocking his hat askew.

  The blond hair tells me all I need to know.

  Zayne.

  I try to remember what I know about him aside from his name and the way he always remembers mine. Not much. He’s worked here the entire time I’ve been living here, but aside from leaving hefty tips at Christmas and exchanging pleasantries about the weather, I don’t normally pay too much attention to the guys at the door. Zayne is younger than the other doormen, I know that much.

  Thankfully, it looks like he’s built from stronger stuff, too.

  Dick twists out of his grip and goes for one last punch, but Zayne is on top of this. He dodges the swing easily and fells Dick with a single hit to the temple. I wince as Dick collapses to his knees, holding his head.

  Then Zayne turns to face me, running a hand through his short-cut blond hair.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  How did I never notice his face before?

  “Are you all right, Ms. Walker?” Zayne is asking, his expression all concern.

  I am now, I think stupidly. But outwardly, I just nod.

  “Go inside, Ms. Walker. I’ll handle this.”

  I just keep staring at him, confused. Between the chiseled jawline, the sharp cheekbones, the intense blue eyes, I can’t figure out how I never noticed him. Never really looked beneath the wide brim of his uniform hat.

  His uniform is unbuttoned at the top now, disheveled from the fight. It reveals just a hint of his chest beneath, but from the shape of it, not to mention the way he just took out that brick house of a stalker, it’s clear he’s ripped.

  I watch his head bob as he hauls Dick to his feet and half-walks, half-frog-marches him to the curb, where he hails another taxi. The muscles along his back ripple as he lifts his arm, and when he turns back to check on me, I can see a faint 5 o’clock shadow along his jawline, barely visible since it’s blond, too. He could be the poster boy for Swiss-Germany, though from his thick accent, he clearly grew up around here.

  What is wrong with me? I think, shaking my head. I don’t hit on my doormen. This is ridiculous. I’m just amped up from the adrenaline, the fear of that attack, and the relief of being saved.

  Finally, a taxi pulls up, and Zayne unceremoniously deposits Dick in the backseat. I watch him pay the driver extra for taking the bleeding drunk guy. When he turns back to me, his blue eyes are piercing. “Ms. Walker, please, you’ve had a shock. You should go upstairs and relax. I can handle this.”

  “Clove,” I say.

  His brow furrows slightly. “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s Clove, not Ms. Walker.” I push off the glass wall and take a few shaky steps toward him. Clearly my body hasn’t yet received the message that the coast is clear.

  “Whoa, careful now.” He catches my arms to steady me. I try to ignore how warm and reassuring his large hands feel, wrapped gently around my biceps. “You’re still running on adrenaline. You should sit down.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him as he guides me toward the double doors. He keeps one hand wrapped around my waist as he opens the door and aims for the settee just inside. I always wondered what this chair was for. It’s not like anybody hangs out in the lobby much.

  “It was nothing,” he waves it off, but I shake my head.

  “You saved me.”

  “Just doing my job, Ms...” He pauses. Catches my eye and holds it for a long moment, as he gently lowers me onto the seat. I collapse onto it, trying to hide my relief as I finally let my legs relax. They did not want to keep holding me upright, not after all that. “Clove,” he amends, gaze still fixed on me.

  I fight the urge to shiver. His voice is a deep baritone, the New York accent sexy on him.

  “Your job shouldn’t have to involve fending off crazy attackers,” I reply with a sigh. “Sorry about him.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” he says, nearly cutting me off. He looks dead serious as he glances over my head, and I know he’s looking back through the glass windows at where Dick was a moment ago. “I see shitheads like him all the time—drunk stockbroker trust fund kids who think they deserve whatever they want.” He glances back at me. “Or whoever.”

  I grimace and bite the inside of my lip. “The worst part is, I’m not even sure that was the worst first date I’ve ever been on.”

  I expect him to laugh, but instead, he only looks angrier. He takes a seat next to me on the settee, shaking his head.

  “Men in this city can be absolute scum. They don’t know how to treat a real woman.”

  I swallow hard. Suddenly, with him so close beside me, it’s getting difficult to focus. My blood is still pumping hard, the adrenaline making my hands quivery, my feet feel numb and a little shaky. Though,
it might not all be adrenaline from Dick’s attack anymore. It’s hard to tell, what with the way my hormones are reacting to the heat pouring off of Zayne’s body and the proximity of his strong arms, his biceps visible through his uniform shirt.

  I force myself to shrug, playing it nonchalant. “There are assholes everywhere, I guess.”

  “Not like here,” he scowls. “And you shouldn’t have to deal with them, anyway. You don’t deserve that.” He casts a sideways glance at me, our eyes locking once more. “You deserve a man who treats you right. Someone who understands your value. Who knows what a woman like you needs.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask. Somehow, my voice has dropped to a whisper. I don’t remember giving it permission to do that. Then again, I don’t remember leaning toward Zayne either, and I don’t remember giving myself permission to stare at his lips, just inches away from mine, slightly parted as though he’s about to say something else—or maybe just close the gap between us and crush his lips against mine, kiss me until I forget about tonight.

  “Respect,” he replies. His eyes dip down a little too, glancing at my mouth, then back to my eyes. I lick my lips and his eyes flicker again. “Care. Whatever you desire, honestly.”

  My throat feels tight, my mouth dry. I suck in a deep breath of air and turn my head a little, glance around the lobby, mostly for an excuse to break the tension between us. But dammit, his scent follows me. He smells amazing—like pine needles and crisp fall air, and something else under it all, something heady and masculine and entirely him.

  “Yeah. Well,” I say, eyes still on the empty lobby. “Guys like that are in short supply.”

  “Depends where you look,” he says, and I can still feel his eyes on me, burning into me, even without looking at him. It’s a physical sensation, as if he’s touching me, caressing me with his gaze.

  “Definitely not where I met him,” I say with a half-laugh. “Stupid dating app.”

  Zayne laughs. Damn him, even his laugh is sexy, full-throated, and deep. “Which app are you using?” he asks.

  I tell him, and in response, he pulls out his phone and unlocks the screen. Shows me the same app on his background.

  This time, I laugh too. “Had any better luck with the ladies on there than I have with the guys?”

  He smirks. “Well, I can’t say any women have stalked me home after dates,” he admits. Then shakes his head. “But no, I haven’t exactly met a lot of decent matches lately.”

  “Do share. Maybe it’ll help me feel better about my abysmal luck.”

  He laughs and leans back on the settee. “Oh god, where to start. There was the girl who asked me to sign an NDA before we could start dating—she brought triplicate copies to the bar.”

  I burst out laughing.

  His grin widens as he thinks back. “Hmm, and then there was the woman wearing a wedding ring. When I called her out on it, she insisted it was a fake diamond, that she just wears it to fend off guys hounding her. Sure, lady. And then one girl spent the whole date showing me photos of her five cats…”

  By the time he’s finished recounting his dating stories, and I’ve shared a few of my own, we’re both laughing so hard my sides hurt. He’s halfway through another story, one about one of his friends whose date wet the bed on him, when a sharply-cleared throat interrupts us.

  We glance up, and Zayne is on his feet in a heartbeat, before I even realize what’s happening. But then I recognize Mrs. Sharpe from the 7th floor, the one with the tiny purse dog and the husband who’s almost as tiny. She has her mouth pursed now, an angry frown wrinkling her forehead as she raps her fingers on the counter behind which Zayne normally works.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sharpe,” he’s saying now, whipping his hat back onto his head as he skids behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m expecting a package.”

  “Of course, let me check on that.” He darts into the back, and I rise, surprised to find that my legs are no longer shaky. In fact, I feel about a million times better. Maybe all the laughter and bad date stories helped relax me after all.

  I sidle up to the counter and lean against it. Mrs. Sharpe glares at me. “Zayne just helped me out with a creepy date,” I explain. “The guy followed me home, tried to attack me…”

  That softens her up. The crease in her forehead disappears, and Mrs. Sharpe pats my arm instead. “Take my advice, honey,” she says. Zayne returns with her package, and she accepts it with a smile, tucking it under her arm before she turns to me once more. “Find a good man, not a nice guy,” she finishes. Then she’s off toward the elevator and I can feel my cheeks heating as I peek at Zayne.

  “Good advice,” he says, leaning on the counter with a grin. If he’s bothered at all by the fact that Mrs. Sharpe discovered him away from his desk, it doesn’t show.

  What are you doing, Clove? I can’t flirt with him while he’s working. I shouldn’t be flirting with him at all, anyway. He’s my doorman. He works here. I’ve walked past him every day for the last two years, and with any luck, I’ll walk past him every day for the next two as well, because I love this apartment. It’s my home. I can’t do anything to jeopardize that.

  “I’ll quit distracting you,” I say, my tone apologetic. “Thanks again, for everything.”

  “Anytime,” he replies, then stops himself, shaking his head. “Although, of course, I hope you never have to deal with a piece of shit like that guy ever again.”

  I laugh. “Here’s hoping.”

  “Yes,” he agrees, eyes suddenly sincere again, locked on me. “Here’s hoping.”

  With that, I leave him to his front desk duties. I wipe my palms on my jeans as I go. Ignore the fresh sparking in my nerve endings. This time, I definitely can’t blame it on adrenaline or fear. This time, I know exactly what’s causing it.

  But that’s the worst possible idea. If I hooked up with Zayne and things went sour, they’d go really sour.

  So, I push my floor in the elevator, let the doors close behind me, and try not to think about the insanely hot man I just discovered hiding behind my doorman’s uniform.

  2

  Midnight. I still can’t sleep. Turns out adrenaline plus a healthy dose of flirting makes for one long, sleepless kind of night.

  I pull out my phone and flip through my messages. I filled in my BFFs at work about the date already, blowing up our group text with details. They are appropriately shocked and appalled on my behalf. Andy even promises to buy my first round at our standing team happy hour on Thursday.

  But by now, everyone’s long asleep. Well, except for Celeste, who’s out celebrating her boyfriend’s birthday, but I don’t want to bother her with more bored whining about how I’m still awake because dammit, I can’t stop thinking about tonight.

  You’d think it would be the stalker distracting me, keeping me up. Instead, it’s images of Zayne. His piercing blue eyes as he looked me over, made sure I was okay after that attack. The flirty glint in those same eyes when he told me I needed a man who treats me right. Someone who will give me whatever I desire.

  I shiver and roll back over in bed. Tap on the little icon for the dating app. If nothing else, it will occupy my mind. Distract me from thinking thoughts I should definitely not be thinking about my doorman.

  Like what those strong arms would feel like wrapped around me, or what his lips would taste like on mine. Not to mention, judging by the size of his hands, he’s got to be packing a pretty nice package in those uniform pants…

  I scold myself internally and focus on the app. Don’t think about him.

  I try to force him out. Try to focus on the guys scrolling past on my screen instead. But staring at boring finance bro after boring finance bro gets old. They all have the same photos on their profiles, I swear. Shirtless pic to display their no doubt carefully gym-cultivated abs, another pic of them drinking beer with their bros to prove they have friends, one carefully cropped photo with their arm around someone not in the image, to prov
e that they’ve dated chicks before (or at least known them long enough to trick them into taking a photo together), and one definitely posed headshot that shows off their cheekbones at the best possible angle. The latter may or may not be heavily edited—it varies by dude.

  None of them add much detail to their profiles beyond that. They’re all full of one-line quotes, usually from action movies. That, or witticisms such as “I’m the one you’ve been looking for.” Very convincing.

  I swipe left through at least a dozen profiles, and I’m debating giving up and just rolling back over to try and sleep when a different image pops up. Unlike most of the other guys, this photo appears to be a candid one, un-posed. He’s looking past the photographer, at something in the background. He’s standing on a street corner I recognize, just a few blocks away, outside my favorite deli. He probably took this on a lunch run, or maybe before his shift started.

  I can guess, because I know the guy.

  It’s Zayne.

  I tap open his profile. There are only three photos. The first one, the candid, shows off his cheekbones at just the right angle, not to mention really accentuates his sharp blue eyes catching the Manhattan sunlight so they seem to glow in the photo. Then there’s another picture of him indoors—his apartment maybe? I spot a cozy-looking striped blanket and a cat curled up on his lap, though he’s not posing with it, just kind of reclining and letting the cat chill there. This one isn’t a candid—he’s smiling at whoever’s taking it. The effect is that it looks like he’s gazing straight out of my phone at me. I feel two things simultaneously—a red-hot fire in the pit of my belly and an equally strong and startling sensation of jealousy. Whoever took this photo, I hate them. For no other reason than that Zayne was smiling at them like that.

  Damn.

  Calm down, Clove, I scold myself.

  The third photo is at a beach somewhere. There’s a few guys in the photo, but unlike most dudes’ profiles, I can pick Zayne out immediately. He stands out like that, impossible to look away from. He’s in the middle of a volleyball game, mid-jump in fact, and goddamn, does it make his body stand out. He’s in swimming trunks of course, and it highlights perfectly the washboard cut of his abs, straight down to the muscular V pointing down to his groin.