In fact, he used to make fun of me for driving the BMW my parents had bought for me when I turned sixteen. It wasn’t new or anything, by far not the nicest car owned by my group of high school friends, so I never understood why he gave me such a hard time about it. Or why he refused to drive it. We went everywhere in his stupid old truck, and actually I wouldn’t have been that surprised to see the old monstrosity parked in here somewhere. I pulled into the first empty spot I found and grabbed my suitcase from the back, thinking that if whatever he drove now wasn’t as nice as my little Volkswagon, I’d convince him I should drive to the farm. It would be fun in a convertible.
Nick lived on the twenty-third floor, and I found his apartment without any trouble. His door was slightly ajar when I arrived, but I knocked self- consciously without entering. “Hello?”
I heard footsteps, and a moment later, the door swung open all the way. Nick stood there in his jeans and a white tank undershirt, a blue plaid button-down in his hands. “Hey,” he said softly. “You came.”
Not yet, but the sight of your arms and chest might do it for me in the next minute or so. I forced myself not to stare through the thin cotton to see if my name was still inked there. “Did you think I’d ditch you?”
“It crossed my mind. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Stop being sweet, I felt like telling him. You’re too shirtless to be sweet right now. Nick wasn’t bulging with muscles like a bodybuilder, but he was toned and tight and solid through the core, a boxer’s physique. He’d trained a little in high school, and he’d done some recreational boxing just for the hell of it during college, but his time for sports was limited because he’d always had to work. We’d sometimes run together, although he was faster than I was and had much better endurance. After three miles, I’m ready for a frozen margarita and a plate of nachos, not another lap around the track. Nick actually enjoyed running, but honestly, if I didn’t love food and drinks so much, I’d happily toss my Nikes out the window.
“Come on in.” Nick stepped aside so I could enter, and closed the door behind me. “I wanted to change out of my work shirt, so I left the door open in case I was upstairs when you got here.” He slipped his arms into the sleeves of the plaid shirt but didn’t button it.
Setting my purse and little suitcase down, I took in the huge airy space, marveling at its two-story ceilings, gleaming wood floors, red brick walls, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows arched at the top. It was beautiful—and almost completely empty.
No couch, no chairs, no tables. Just a huge flat screen TV mounted on a brick wall, and an enormous white fluffy thing in the middle of the floor. “You’re a Minimalist, I see. Is that…a bean bag?” Curious, I moved closer to it. “It’s huge!”
“It’s amazing.”
I glanced sideways at him. “Couldn’t you afford a couch?”
“This is way better than a couch,” he scoffed, rolling up his sleeves. “Go ahead, try it.”
I was tempted—it actually did look plush and comfortable, and it had to be six feet across—but for the life of me, I could not think of a graceful way to sit on it. My dress was so fitted, I’d have to sort of just fall backward and plop into it. “Maybe later,” I said, strolling toward the windows to admire the twinkling lights of nighttime Detroit. “Wow, your view is incredible. This whole place is incredible, actually. It just needs some furniture.”
“Thanks. I like this apartment too; I’m just not here very often, which is why I haven’t bought much.” Nick came to the windows and stood next to me. My body responded to his nearness involuntarily—a tightness in my chest, a shortness of breath. “And I’m not really sure how long I’ll be here.”
I turned to him. “You’re thinking of moving?”
He looked at me, his hands in his pockets, and something about his body language suggested he was keeping them there for a reason. “I’m thinking of doing a lot of things.”
Me. Too.
What would happen if I took a step closer? Would his hands come out of his pockets? Would they pull me in or hold me at length? Suddenly I had to know.
Before I could think it through—and this is the problem with me—I swayed toward him, lips parted.
Nick cleared his throat and took a step back. “Want something to drink?”
Disappointed and trying not to show it, I rocked back on my heels and smiled too brightly. “Sure.” What the hell are you doing? You made the rule— you have to stick to it
While he went over to the kitchen, which took up one entire side of the apartment, I peered up at the open loft above it, which was accessed by a wooden staircase with no back slats and appeared to be suspended from the ceiling by wires. Is that where he slept?
Don’t even think about it.
Moving over to the island, I slid onto one of three stools—the only real seating in the entire place— propped my chin in my hand, and looked around the kitchen. In contrast to the rest of his apartment, it appeared to be fully appointed, as if he’d moved in here with only his clothing, his pots and pans, and his spice rack.
It was beautiful, of course—stone counters, stainless appliances, glass tile backsplash. The cabinets were a deep brown wood, the hardware chrome.
Above the island hung a gorgeous bronze Art Deco light fixture with frosted amber glass shades. “I love that,” I said, gesturing toward it. “Was it here when you moved in?”