“What.”
“I came for a visit, like you said in my yearbook.”
She cocked her head. “Huh?”
“In my yearbook. You wrote that you wanted to visit me at school. You said, ‘I think we could have a good time.’ I agree. Let’s do it.” Dropping my chin, I gave her my most winning smile.
Irresistible, right?
She shrank back, wrinkling her nose. “What the hell is that? Your Flynn Ryder smolder?”
“Who’s Flynn Ryder?”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s from Tangled, the Rapunzel movie?”
“Sorry. I missed it. So does he get in her pants?”
“Not before she hits him over the head with a frying pan.”
“Ouch.” I leaned right and left, checking her hands. “Since I don’t see any cookware in your grasp, is it safe to come in?”
She eyeballed me and crossed her arms. “Why do you want to come in?”
“I don’t know, actually.” I mirrored her posture, crossing my arms. “It’s not like the welcome has been all that warm.”
Her arms fell, and her scowl abated slightly. But just slightly. “Sorry. I’m just…sort of a private person. And it’s been a long day.”
“No problem.” Flashing my palms at her, I turned for the steps. “Just thought I’d try again to be friendly. It really is good to see you. Sorry to bother you.” I hotfooted it down the stairs, figuring I’d play a little harder to get from here on out. Maybe she liked a challenge too.
“Quinn, wait.”
Bingo.
Halfway down, I looked up to see her hovering on the landing, hugging her stomach, her juicy bottom lip caught between her teeth. Was it wrong that I noticed her nipples were hard and poked through her thin cotton shirt? Don’t stare at her tits, asshole. You want her to invite you in, you have to at least appear gentlemanly.
“Don’t go,” she said. “I guess we could…hang out a little.”
I waited for her to go on, to invite me in, but she just stood there.
“OK. Should we hang out on the steps? Or would you like to come down? Boxes are everywhere, but—”
“No, no.” She sighed, and her eyes closed briefly. “You can come up.”
Grinning victoriously, I went back up the stairs and followed her in, shutting the door behind me. The upper flat appeared to be laid out just like the lower, with the living room at the front, dining room and kitchen in the middle, and two bedrooms and bathrooms at the back. It had the same neutral carpeting and paint colors, although her furniture was nicer, and she’d added feminine things like pillows and flowers and candles. It smelled nice too, sort of sweet and flowery. Or was that her?
“I was just about to open some wine. Do you want some?” She put her hair in a ponytail as she shuffled into the kitchen. It was dark and wavy and fell past her shoulders, long enough to wrap around my fist if I—
Oh, shit. She just asked me a question, didn’t she?
“Sure.” I leaned against the doorframe and watched her wrestle with the corkscrew and bottle, admiring her from behind. Her sloppy clothing hid her curves, but her shirt rode up and her pants slipped down just enough for me to see a ribbon of pale skin between them. My dick, which had already noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her shirt, showed even more interest in finding out if she had underwear on. Clearly it remembered the lost opportunity from years ago and wanted to punish me.
“Like red?” She had to rise up on tiptoe to reach the wine glasses, and I adjusted myself while she wasn’t looking.
“Of course. Antioxidants, resveratrol…what’s not to like?”
“Oh, you’re one of those.” Shaking her head, she poured the wine. “Figures.”
“One of those what?”
“One of those people who drink one glass of red wine a night because it’s healthy, not because it tastes good and makes you feel like you can get through another day without hitting someone with a frying pan.” She gave me a pointed look over her shoulder.
I laughed. “Can’t a person do both? Enjoy something because it tastes good and it’s good for them?”
“I guess. But there are very few things that fit that description, at least for me. Everything I like is bad. Here.” Handing me a glass, she brought hers to her lips. “Ahh,” she said after a good long drink. “That’s better.”
“What do you like that’s bad for you?”
“Bacon. Butter. Chocolate. Wine. Ice cream. Bread. Chips. Cocktails. Things that are battered and fried.” She took another drink. “Should I go on?”
“That’s your diet?” I set my wine glass on the counter and opened her fridge. “My God, how do you live?” I asked her, shaking my head. “Ketchup, mustard, jelly, eggs, butter, and pickles…what is that, olives?”
“Yeah, but those are for my martinis.”
“At least you have milk.”
“It’s probably expired. But I do like cereal for dinner sometimes. And sometimes I put it in my coffee, if I don’t have cream.”
“Jesus. No meat, no vegetables…” I opened the crisper. “One lonely apple.”
“I’ve been busy,” she said, her tone defensive. “And no one asked you to look in my fridge, anyway. Get out of there.” She kicked the crisper shut, closed the fridge and leaned back against it, an adorably defiant look on her face.