Mr. Right, Next Door!

by Barbara Wallace

  Sophie’s cheeks flushed again. Good Lord, but she’d blushed more in the past couple of minutes than in the past year. This man definitely made her act out of character. “Is that your way of asking for another apology?”

  “Just making sure you don’t forget the true nature of our relationship.”

  “Which is?”

  “At the moment, barely civil neighbors, although I suppose now that we’ve buried the hatchet, we could drop the barely.”

  He strode a little closer, until the space between them wasn’t more than a few feet. Without thinking, her eyes dropped to the V of his shirt and the patch of smooth skin peering out of the gap. His skin smelled faintly of beer and peppermint. Its aroma lingered in the basement air like a masculine perfume. Wonder if his skin tasted as good as it smelled.

  What on earth…? Since when did she think such kinds of things, about relative strangers no less. For goodness’ sake, she didn’t even know the man’s full…

  “Name!”

  In the quiet basement, the word came out louder than necessary, causing them both to jump. “I mean, I don’t know your name,” she quickly corrected. “Only your first initial. From the mailbox.”

  “Grant.”

  “Grant,” she repeated. That was better. Knowing his name made it better. That is, made him less of a stranger. She still had no business thinking about his skin. Extending her hand, she pushed all inappropriate thoughts out of her head. “What do you say we start fresh? I’m Sophie Messina.”

  “Nice to meet you, Sophie Messina.”

  His handshake was firm and strong, not the soft grip so many men adapted when greeting a woman. Sophie could feel the calluses pressing rough against her palm. They were hardworking hands. The sensation conjured up images of work-hewn muscles rippling under exertion.

  Lifting her eyes, she caught the spark of…something…as it passed across his caramel-colored eyes, bright enough to light them up despite the shadows, and briefly she insisted their gaze dropped to her lips. Sophie’s mouth ran dry at the thought. He cleared his throat, alerting her to the fact she still held his hand. Quickly she released his grip, and they stood there, awkwardly looking at one another.

  Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang.

  No, not a bell. A buzzer. Once. Twice. Then nothing.

  “Dammit, I forgot…”

  She stumbled slightly as Grant rushed past her. “Forgot what? What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t answer. He was too busy taking the steps two at a time.

  “Wait!” she heard him call to someone from the top of the stairs. It took her a second to catch up, but when she did, she found him standing in the foyer, front door open, staring at the traffic passing in the street. A missed date?

  He glared at her from over his shoulder. “You owe me a dinner.”

  For the second time that evening, Sophie heard herself saying, “I beg your pardon?”

  “That,” he said, nodding toward the front door, “was my dinner. I missed the delivery because I was downstairs showing you the broken meter.”

  In other unspoken words, he blamed her.

  “I’m sure if you call, he’ll turn right around.”

  Another glare, this one accompanied by him jamming his fingers through his hair and mussing it. If only disheveled looked that good on her. “It was pizza from Chezzerones.”

  “Oh.” Sophie was beginning to understand. Chezzerones had the best pizza in the area, as well as a very strict delivery policy. Fail to answer the door and your number got put on the “bad” list. Something to do with drunken university students and too many wasted calls. Sophie made the mistake of inquiring and had gotten a very detailed explanation from Chezzerone himself one night. It looked like, by helping her, Grant had gotten himself stuck on the bad list.

  Darn it all, she did owe him a dinner.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LAST thing Sophie wanted was to have a debt hanging over her head. “All right, come with me,” she said.

  This time Grant was the one who scowled. “Why?”

  “For dinner. You said I owed you a dinner. I’m paying you back. Now come with me.”

  As she fished her keys from her pocket to unlock her door, she once again felt him standing close, his peppermint scent finding a way to tease her from behind. A flash of heat found its way to the base of her spine.

  What was with her? Lord, you’d think she’d had never crossed paths with a good-looking man before.

  She so needed a shower and good night’s sleep.

  Of all the co-op residences in the building, Sophie’s was the largest. U-shaped, the apartment reached around the back stairway onto the other side, where the master bedroom was located. The main living area was really two rooms, a parlor turned living room and a dining area. Both rooms featured the same heavy black woodwork as the foyer and contained beautifully scrolled wood and marble fireplaces. The kitchen was located in the rear, on the other side of the dining room. Having let them in, Sophie headed in that direction only to find Grant hadn’t followed. Turning, she found him studying the framework dividing the two spaces.

  “You kept the doors,” he noted, tracing a finger along the molding.

  He meant the pocket doors, which could be drawn to divide the space. Obviously he’d been in the space before. “For now. I’ve only been here a month. I figured I should live with the place awhile before making any major changes.”

  He nodded, and without asking, gave the door a tug. There was a soft scraping sound as the heavy panel moved outward. “Did the Realtor tell you that these are original?” he asked, brushing the dusty wood.

  “He mentioned something.”

  “Etta—Mrs. Feldman, the owner, insisted on keeping a lot of the original fixtures. Most of the other units are far more modernized.”

  “The Realtor told me that, too.” Apologized, really, over the fact that Sophie’s hadn’t been one of the redesigned spaces.

  “My…” She found herself stumbling for a word to describe David. Companion was most correct but the word felt awkward on her tongue. Then again, she was finding talking difficult in general watching Grant caress the paneled door with the tenderness of a long-lost lover. “My…friend suggested I remove them and paint all the woodwork white.”

  “God, I hope not.” She swore he winced at the suggestion. Better not to tell him David’s full suggestion—that she gut the place. “This is black walnut.”

  “So?”

  “So—” his look was way too condescending for someone so young “—you paint soft wood, like pine. Hard wood like walnut is meant to be shown off.”

  “I didn’t realize wood came with rules.”

  What she did know was watching him run his hands up and down the woodwork was damn unnerving. The soft brushing sound of calluses against the wood’s rough surface made her stomach knot.

  “Did you know Mrs. Feldman well?” she asked, pushing the door back into place.

  “We met when she turned the building into apartments. She filled me in on the building’s history.”

  “The Realtor told me she was the original owner.”

  “Well, not the original original,” he noted. “This building predates the Civil War. But, her husband’s family was. The only reason she converted was because she was convinced a developer would gut the place after she died.” Sophie swallowed a kernel of guilt on David’s behalf. “She fought right to the end to make sure the buildin
g retained as much of its original look as possible. Especially her living space. ‘You can push me into converting, but you won’t make me change my living room,’ she used to say.”

  “Sounds like you two were like-minded.”

  “Last couple years, I’ve come round to see her way of thinking.” He gave the woodwork one parting swipe.

  There was regret in his words that made him sound older than his years. Look older, too, as a melancholy shadow accompanied them, darkening his golden features. Odd.

  “I have to confess,” she said, trying to break the mood, “I like some of the old fixtures. The entranceway for example. It’s nice how the place is both modern and antique at the same time.”

  “A brilliantly designed blend,” he softly replied. Almost sounded as if he was reciting a quote. Again, the words came across as weighted and old.

  She had little time to wonder because Grant had crossed the dining room and was already pushing the swinging door leading to her kitchen. After trying to move him along earlier, she now found herself scurrying to catch up. She did only to find he’d stopped short again. This time he was studying the kitchen cabinetry with the same sensual attentiveness. She had to catch herself from bumping square into his back.

  “Then there’s the kitchen.”

  Unlike the edge from before, this time she heard a note of amusement in his voice. Though she couldn’t see his face—she was still stuck behind his broad back—Sophie could easily picture his expression, basing the image on the many amused looks he’d shot in her direction over the past two days. Interestingly, in hindsight, those looks weren’t nearly as infuriating as they seemed at the time.

  “You don’t like this room?” she asked.

  “Etta was stubborn. She insisted on keeping it as is. Right down to the hardware. Making a last stand, I suppose.”

  The last line was said as he knelt down to examine a lower cabinet door. Sophie took advantage of the movement to slip past, sucking in her breath to avoid brushing up against him. Her neighbor, attention on the cabinet, didn’t appear to notice.

  “Maybe she simply knew her mind.”

  “That she did. Your hinges need replacing,” he added, opening the cabinet door.

  “I wouldn’t mind replacing the entire room.” Although she spent little time in the kitchen, Sophie found the space narrow and cramped. She found the room even more cramped now thanks to the addition of Grant’s large form. His broad shoulders—so broad they practically filled the expanse between the counters. “Unlike your Mrs. Feldman, I don’t need to keep this room exactly as is.”

  “Won’t get an argument from me. Any idea what you’d do?”

  Not really. Oh, she had ideas, but they were nebulous and atmospheric, based more on fantasy than any actual plan. “Brighter, definitely,” she told him. “Sunnier. With windows and gleaming wood cabinets.”

  “Sounds like another woman who knows what she wants.” Their eyes met, and he flashed her a smile that implied far more than cabinetry. Or so it felt from the way her insides reacted.

  “Pizza,” she announced abruptly. Goodness but the kitchen was cramped. And really warm. There was absolutely no air circulation at all on these hot nights. “What kind would you like?”

  “I have a choice?”

  “Of course. I might not match Chezzerones, but I have a decent variety. Cheese, pepperoni, Hawaiian, chicken, pepper and onion…”

  “Holy cow!” His voice sounded from over her shoulder causing her to jump. The guy didn’t believe in personal space, did he? “It’s like looking at the frozen food section at the mini-mart.”

  “I like to keep food on hand in case of an emergency is all.”

  “What kind of emergency? Armageddon?”

  Ignoring the comment, Sophie reached into the freezer. Gooseflesh had begun crawling in the wake of his breath on her bare neck, putting her out of sorts again. She’d feel better once she was alone again.

  “Here,” she said, pulling a box from the stack and thrusting it into his hands. “Go Hawaiian.”

  He looked down at the box, then back up at her.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked him.

  “What about cooking?”

  She pointed to the side of the box. “Directions are right here. I don’t have my reading glasses, but I’m pretty sure you preheat the oven to four-twenty-five.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t budge. Clearly he expected her to cook for him.

  Sophie let out a frustrated sigh. It had been way too long a day, and she still had to track down a plumber and finish her paperwork. She didn’t have time to entertain her neighbor. Especially one that had her set off balance since their first meeting.

  She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that when a sound interrupted the kitchen’s silence.

  It was her stomach growling.

  “Fine,” she said, snatching the box back. “I’ll cook. But you’re on your own for dinner company.”

  * * *

  With the pizza safely in the oven, Sophie excused herself and escaped to her bedroom. Hopefully, by freshening up, she could regain the self-control that seemed to be eluding her these past couple days and become more herself. Arguing about pizza? Thinking about what his skin tasted like? Not exactly the most mature of behaviors.

  Don’t forget barging up to his apartment like a madwoman.

  She meant what she told him in the kitchen. He better not expect company. She had way too much to do.

  Case in point. Her smart phone told her she’d missed eleven messages since arriving home. Make that a dozen, she amended as her in-box buzzed again.

  There was a box of moist wipes in the bottom drawer of her vanity. She grabbed a handful to give herself a makeshift sponge bath. Not as refreshing as a shower, but she felt a little cleaner. “Score one for being prepared,” she said as she used one to dampen down her hair. She combed out her ponytail and exchanged her running clothes for a jersey-knit maxi dress.

  In the middle of touching up her eyeliner, she paused. What are you doing, Sophie? Freshening up or fixing up? She stared at her reflection. Instantly her eyes went to the deepening lines around her eyes and mouth. Two decades of adulthood lay behind those lines. And yet here she was so frazzled by a…a…a boy she was putting on eyeliner to eat frozen pizza.

  “Get a grip,” she snapped at herself. For goodness’ sake, she wasn’t some cougar on the prowl. There was absolutely no reason to let her neighbor get to her like this. Setting down the eyeliner, she grabbed a brush instead and combed her hair into a sleek damp bun. Much better, she decided. She looked more like herself again.

  During her absence, Grant had moved into the dining room. Soon as she walked in, he looked up, and she swore the corners of his mouth turned downward. “What?” she asked smoothing the sides of her hair.

  “You changed.”

  Why did he sound as if he meant more than clothes? Really, she chided, she had to stop reading undercurrents in everything. Whatever tone Grant had, real or imagined, was irrelevant. The guy was here because she owed him dinner. Soon as he ate, he would leave and most likely, their paths wouldn’t cross again.

  The rattle of plates pulled her from her thoughts. Suddenly she realized Grant wasn’t merely in the dining room, he was moving around the dining room table.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m setting the table.”

  “So I see.” He must have gone through
her kitchen because there were plates and flatware on the table. The only thing missing were her linen napkins. Two folded paper towels took their place. “But why?”

  “Food’s got to go on something.” He disappeared back into the kitchen. Sophie followed and found him looking in the fridge. “Only a half-dozen choices. What happened? You get tired by the time you reached the beverage department?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” she replied. She was caught between annoyance and her desire to stare at how his shirt pulled up when he was bent over, exposing the smooth skin beneath. It was the skin that was keeping her from being overly annoyed at his prowling in her kitchen.

  “Relax, I was joking. It’s actually a damn impressive selection. You even have my favorite brand of beer.” He waved an amber-colored bottle. “Would you like one? Or are you more of a wine woman?”

  “Actually I don’t drink.”

  “At all?”

  Sophie shook her head. “My mother had a drinking problem.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She wasn’t your mother.” Usually she simply told people alcohol didn’t appeal to her and left it at that, but for some reason tonight the response had felt too trite. Seeing the awkwardness passing across Grant’s face, however, reminded her why she preferred not to share the truth. “Anyway, now I only keep liquor on hand for entertaining.” Which, she reminded herself, she was decidedly not doing.

  According to the timer, the pizza was almost ready so she grabbed an oven mitt from a nearby hook. “Don’t forget,” she said, as she removed the baking sheet, “you’re on your own for dinner. I don’t care if you use my table and plates, but don’t expect conversation. I have work to do.”

  “You work an awful lot.”

  “Comes with the territory. Stock market never rests, so neither do I.”

  “Never? You don’t even take time out to go to bed?”

  Sophie’s hand slipped, sending the cutter careening up and over the edge of the crust. From the corner of her eye, she caught Grant trying to hide his smirk.