Hate the Game

by Holly Hall

  “No. Just right,” I said.

  “So, why don’t you keep me company at the store instead of debating for a few more days on how to thank me?”

  “Your idea sounds better. Let me go change.”

  The whole time I was stepping out of my heels and peeling off my work clothes, I was overly mindful of Theo, there in my living room, just a thin wall between us. If I thought too much about his proximity, or what we’d talk about on this outing, I would feel overwhelmed. So I changed into jeans and leopard flats and raked my hair into a ponytail fast enough so my thoughts couldn’t catch up.

  I plucked up the courage to rejoin him, gathering my keys and wallet on the way. “Where to?”

  “You’ll see.” I guess I looked apprehensive, because he opened my door and waved me through, saying, “I need to get something for dinner tonight, and I figured—us both being home at the same time—you could come with me.”

  I bit back a grin that he’d thought of me, then I remembered Lace Panties. “Nobody’s going to be mad at you for hanging out with your single neighbor, right? Someone’s not going to sneak into my apartment and shave my head in my sleep?”

  We were walking alongside each other to the elevators, but Theo looked at me like I was a marvel. “Three things. First, nobody’s going to sneak anywhere with that door of yours.” He jammed his thumb over his shoulder to emphasize his point. “Pretty sure they’d alert the whole floor. Second, no, nobody’s waiting on me. No girlfriend, no wife, no pets.”

  I pressed the button beside the elevator and turned to him. “And third?”

  “You just told me you were single, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t realize it until now.”

  I rolled my lips together and closed my eyes, eliciting a chuckle from him. Gee, why not just throw yourself at him, Aves? “That wasn’t on purpose.”

  “I know.”

  It was on the ride down that I remembered my deal with Holland. His eye color. Right. I glanced over in a way I thought was surreptitious, but he looked up at that precise moment and caught me staring.

  “Aren’t you going to be cold in that tank top?” I asked, praising myself for the quick recovery.

  “Nope. I run hot.”

  I nodded. He sure did.

  “Also, it’s summertime,” he added, and I cursed to myself. Yes, leave it to me to forget a whole season in a man’s presence. A cheeky smile was waiting for me when I met his eyes again. “Not to mention, muscle generates body heat, and working out is my favorite pastime.”

  “Ahh.” Then it dawned on me that I’d found out something about him without even trying. He liked to work out. Boom.

  “What?”

  I jerked my head back. “What do you mean, ‘What?’”

  “You lit up like a light bulb just then.”

  “What? No I didn’t.” I swallowed. When the elevator doors slid open, I gladly fled that tiny metal box and trudged to the front of the building. And then I stepped outside and realized I didn’t know where we were going.

  “This way,” he said, angling his head to the left.

  We walked to a corner grocer a few blocks away. My mind raced with all the possible things I could say next, but I knew I’d just about already blown it. I was a mess. He probably thought I never got out of my apartment and was taking pity on my hermit soul. Great. I was a charity case.

  We parted ways inside the store, and when I wandered past the alcohol aisle, I remembered the position I was in: needing some way to thank him for the basket. A bottle of wine would be perfect, and he was making dinner for himself later. He’d probably welcome wine to go with it.

  I didn’t know what he planned to cook, so I selected a versatile red blend. Who would be picky about a gifted bottle of wine, anyway? I met up with him at the checkout lane and set the bottle on the counter behind him as inconspicuously as I could.

  “Hi. You can add that to mine,” he told the cashier, immediately spotting the wine.

  “Um, no you cannot. I mean, not you,” I added to the cashier, placing my hand over the bottle. “It’s a gift. I’m buying it.”

  “For me? Already? But we hardly know each other.”

  I shoved his shoulder lightly so he’d get out of my way and I could pay, but it was about as effective as pushing a brick wall. He relented, though, and as soon as my purchase was bagged we were headed back to our building. “Are you hungry?” he asked once we’d reached his door.

  “I guess so. I mean, it is almost dinnertime. Why?”

  “How do you feel about stir-fry?”

  “The same way I feel about most foods. Favorable.” I pressed my lips together. In comparison, I was about a foot shorter and . . . fluffier than him. I’m sure he could tell I was not someone who took the subject of food lightly. I seriously needed to stop talking.

  “Good. Meet at your place in a few?”

  I offered a noncommittal shrug in response, realizing this was the second time he’d invited himself into my apartment. Why did that thought make my stomach go all spin-cycle?

  We were so totally different; we didn’t have to be friends for me to know that. So what was his deal with getting to know me?

  I piled the laundry still on my couch in the basket and was just trying to shove it in my closet, when he knocked. I went to the front door and gave it the customary jerk, stumbling aside when it gave. And there he was, just like he said he’d be. In one hand, he held the bags of groceries, and in the other. . .

  “A drill?”

  “A drill. I’m fixing this door.”

  “And cooking? Is this like a friendly neighbor subscription service, and in that case, where do I sign up?”

  He bit his lip and edged through the door as I took the groceries from him. The least I could do was put them away while he was getting his handyman on.

  “I’m going to be in serious debt to you after all this.”

  “Don’t think of it like that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I’m not,” he said. Simple, straight to the point. If only I could be so direct.

  While he turned his attention to the door, I kicked off my shoes and went to make us both drinks. That was something I could contribute to the evening—I kept my brass bar cart stocked in case anyone came over and wanted a drink. I gathered ginger beer and lime juice from my refrigerator and then a bottle of vodka from the cart. I’d never met a person who didn’t like Moscow mules.

  The drill sounded abruptly from the entryway. Mugs in hand, I rounded the corner to join Theo. He was on his knees by the door jamb, messing with the hinges.

  “Am I going to need any new parts or anything?” I asked once the drilling ceased.

  “I don’t think so. If I guessed correctly, your screws just need tightening. They tend to get loose over time, messing up your alignment.”

  When he looked up at me, I handed him a mug. “Did you see the wine? I brought it over to share.”

  “That was a gift. If I got it to benefit me, it wouldn’t be a gift.”

  He let out a sigh and raised his hands, as if to say, I tried. “Thank you. What’s this? Smells limey.”

  “Moscow mule.”

  “Cool, you even have the little copper cups,” he said, raising his mug.

  “It’s kind of my thing.”

  “Having proper barware?”

  I sunk to the floor beside him and leaned against the wall. “You could say that. I have this idea in my head of being a rock-star hostess who throws perfect dinner parties. Only I’m too antisocial for that and usually just take a bath or read in bed,” I answered with a chuckle.

  “You don’t come off as antisocial to me. You’re always out and about. I hardly run into you around here.”

  “You’ve seen me twice this week.”

  One of his eyebrows raised, and the way he tilted his head made a shaft of sunlight dance across his face. His irises were a rich mix of gold and moss. “I guess I got lucky.”

  I took a sip to hide
my smile behind my mug. “I work a lot.”

  “So you’ve said. But do you enjoy it?”

  I was in the process of giving him the standard answer—that I loved the challenge, so the work didn’t feel like work—but I didn’t think he was looking for the small-talk version of my job description. He was looking for the real one.

  “I think I could. My specific position could be more fulfilling.”

  “But, what, you’re ‘hustling’? Paying your dues?”

  “Somewhat. It’s a solid launch point for what I want to do. A stepping stone, I guess.”

  “I get that.” He ran the drill for a few more minutes, then scooted back to give himself room as he opened and closed the door. It was now uncharacteristically smooth and didn’t require any of the usual jostling.

  “Look at that! Fixed!” I exclaimed.

  “Yep. All it needed was some screwing.”

  “The same could be said for a lot of things.” I choked on my own spit.

  “What?”

  Yes, I’d said it, and I wasn’t even that sorry. “Nothing. You’re a miracle worker. I bet you get that a lot.”

  “Nah.” He stood and offered a hand, and I accepted it. His grip was solid, and his hand fully encased mine as he pulled me to standing. “Actually, yes. I have been called that a few times.”

  “Modest,” I teased.

  “I guess I’m just really handy.”

  Handy. Hmm. Ignoring the innuendo, I trailed him into the kitchen, where he traded the drill for the ingredients he’d brought. It was strange to be a spectator at my own place, and nobody had ever cooked for me in my apartment. Now that I thought about it, I don’t think anyone had cooked for me ever. Not a romantic interest, anyway.

  I was struck, then, by how lonely that revelation made me feel. And also that I’d just contemplated the words “romantic interest.”

  Theo must’ve asked a question, because when I came to, he was regarding me with anticipation from across the counter.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Tongs?”

  “Second drawer to the left of the fridge.”

  “Before that, I asked what you did for work. You told me it had to do with dating, but that’s pretty vague.”

  “You’re going to judge me,” I said, closing one eye. I settled on one of the upholstered barstools and watched as he readied everything.

  “We already established you aren’t a mascot or an entertainer.”

  “That’s saying a lot.”

  “So, try me. I’ve had my fair share of dirty jobs.”

  I hadn’t had near enough liquor for this conversation. I upended my mug and sucked whatever liquid was left from the ice cubes. “I’m a relationship consultant.”

  “Like a counselor?”

  “No. That would require a license.”

  “But you help people . . . relate with one another?”

  “Yes.” I giggled and reached across the counter for the vodka. I added that with tonic to my melting mug of ice.

  “So what does one consult with you about?”

  “Think of it this way.” I crunched on an ice cube. “You know those life coaches out there, pedaling all that ‘how to be your best self’ advice? I’m like that, but for relationships. I help people promote their best qualities in a way that appeals to their desired partner, almost like what a candidate would do during a job interview.”

  “That’s so. . .” He clicked the tongs while he considered it.

  “Sterile? Impersonal?”

  “Interesting.”

  “You can say it. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “I guess I’ve just never thought of that approach to relationships before.”

  “Yes, well, neither had I until Leigh Everstone.”

  “Is that supposed to be the godfather of relationship consulting?”

  Pffft. The disbelieving laugh erupted from my lips before I could stop it. “No, that would be my boss. Entertainment expert, lifestyle extraordinaire, homemaker, and fashionista. She thought she needed to cover all the bases and expand into relationships, hence why I’m currently employed.”

  Theo was cooking slices of chicken breast in a sizzling skillet, and the smells were already making my mouth water. In another pot, he was steaming vegetables. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a complete meal for myself. More often than not, they arrived at my door in Styrofoam containers, and I was too exhausted after work to care.

  “Do you need any help?” I offered. Probably long overdue, but he’d distracted me with chit-chat.

  That characteristic brow-raise told me he was teasing, when he said, “Does it look like I need help?”

  “No, you look like you know your way around my kitchen better than I do. I’m just wondering how I landed in this position.”

  “You weren’t busy, we both needed to eat, I happen to be a great cook. So here we are.”

  “Here we are. How about another drink?”

  He glanced into his mug, as if debating if he needed another beverage. I wondered what the source of his hang-up was. If he figured it wasn’t wise to get tipsy around his strange single neighbor, or maybe he didn’t like the drink as much as I thought he did.

  “I could get you some water,” I amended. Nice one. Getting him water amounted to grabbing a glass and filling it at the tap, hardly something he needed my help with.

  “What the hell. I’ll have another drink. It is a”—he glanced at his phone—“Wednesday night.”

  I slid off my stool. “Coming right up.”

  We carried on while he finished cooking, discussing how long we’d each lived in the building, where we were from, and if we planned on staying in Chicago. I was shocked to discover he’d been living across the hall from me for almost a year, and even more so that he hailed from Texas.

  “You don’t even have an accent,” I said.

  “Not everyone from Texas sounds like Walker, Texas Ranger,” he retorted. He passed me a heaping plate and then rounded the counter with his own.

  “What’s this?” he asked, just as I was clearing him a spot among my discarded mail pile. He plucked a sheet of pink stationery decorated with hearts from where it’d been tucked beneath a candle.

  Remembering the title, in Holland’s bold handwriting, and the wine-fueled man-hater rant that’d inspired it, I tried to snatch the paper from him before he could read it. But the two drinks I’d had made me clumsier than usual.

  “Ava’s Hubby List,” he read aloud, and I slapped two hands over my eyes, as if that would spare me the embarrassment. When I peeked through my fingers, I noticed he wasn’t even looking at the paper anymore and instead, his focus was on me.

  I grabbed it while he was distracted. “You can thank my best friend, Holland, for that. We were very drunk,” I said, as if that last part explained everything.

  He shrugged. “Hey, it’s not my business.”

  “For the record, I’m not, like, hunting down that person. I’m not interested in dating anyone right now. Those are just the qualities I’d like to see in someone I’d eventually settle down with. In the future. Like, far-off future.” I was babbling again, and instead of doing damage control, I was just digging myself deeper into the hole of idiocy.

  “I’m not judging.” He swallowed a bite of stir-fry. “I’ve heard of weirder things.”

  I cleared my throat. We were sitting a foot apart, but my skin was prickling with awareness, and I mentally replayed the moment his fingers slid against mine as he’d pulled me up from the floor with the ease of someone lifting a paperweight.

  “You cook a mean stir-fry,” I said, to change the subject.

  “I studied nutrition in school. It’s one of my hobbies.”

  “What is it that you do for work?”

  “I own a gym.”

  “Seriously? What gym?”

  “You’ve probably never heard of it.” I must’ve made a face, because he spread his hands in an appeasing manner. “Not bec
ause I assume you don’t workout. It’s warehouse-style, no frills. It’s for people who are there for a hard, sweaty workout, not the amenities.”

  And now the words “hard” and “sweaty” were dancing around my head to an 80s fitness ballad. “How did you know I use my gym for the sauna and not much else?” I teased. In truth, I was not athletic. Hand-eye coordination was essentially nonexistent, I was a total klutz in ballet at five years old, and my body type was curvy on a good day and squatty on all the others. Suffice to say, my natural habitat was not the gym.

  He grinned, balling up his napkin and tossing it on his plate. “Saunas have their use. Helping with muscle pain and detoxification, for a start.”

  “I’d have to actually workout to earn it, then,” I said with a laugh.

  When he reached for my empty plate, I tried waving him off, but he wouldn’t relent. I ended up gripping his hand and trying to forcibly remove it, which resulted in a power struggle in which he would not back down.

  “Let me. Let me! You cooked the meal, I can at least do the clean-up.”

  His smile was easy, his expression relaxed, and when the tension eased from his hand, I realized I was still holding it. “Fine. You win.”

  “I did, thank you. Would you like something else to drink, or maybe dessert? I bet I could whip something up.” I dumped the plates into the sink and switched on the hot water.

  “I’m okay.” He nodded toward his mug. “I think I’ve indulged enough today.”

  “You call that indulging? Amateur,” I said with a mock shake of my head.

  “I mean, it’s not a sauna.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

  I pointed a soapy hand at him. “Or a bubble bath. I can’t live without those, either.”

  “You have a tub? Not fair, mine only has one of those cubical showers that’s probably four square feet.”

  “They’re condos, probably customized over time by the owners.” I shrugged, scrubbing the cutlery. “Guess you’re not as lucky as you thought.”

  “Sonofabitch,” he muttered with a shake of his head. He did his best to look put-out, but it wasn’t effective.

  “Do you ever stop smiling?” I asked.

  “What’s the point? Happiness is a choice, and I choose it every day.”