Page 12 of False Start

"Yeah. So?"

He extends his hand.

"So…pass that shit." He shakes his hand impatiently. "I just got out of a brutal meeting and the client wouldnotshut up."

I slowly pull the vape from my pocket and drop it in his palm, squelching a smile. His lips close around the mouthpiece, and I try not to stare.That mouth can definitely do things.Dirtythings. I clear my throat.

"So…about that necklace?"

He nods, taking one final drag before handing the vape back.

"Sure thing. Come on up and I'll grab it for you."

He turns, but stops and looks over his shoulder when I don't follow.

"What's up?" he asks, a tiny wrinkle creasing his forehead.

"Couldn't you just bring it downstairs while I wait here?" I suggest. I make no effort to hide my reluctance, and he raises an eyebrow in challenge.

"Let me get this straight. I turned my apartment upside down to find your necklace, rushed home from work to meet you, and after all that, I have to go upand backdownstairs to return it to you?"

Fuck.He has a point. Being alone in his place reminds me of my previous poor decisions, but hedidgo out of his way…and I'm already here, so…

"Fine," I grumble. "Lead the way, pal."

He smirks and turns, not bothering to see whether I'm following him this time. Once again, I'm struck by the ritz of his building; his comes with an elevator and a lobby covered in marble, while mine has a front door that sometimes jams and hot water that runs out after 10am.I didn't get into fashion for the money, I remind myself.

After an awkward and painfully silent elevator ride, I follow him into his spacious living room. He takes off his suit jacket, exposing broad shoulders that test the limits of his dress shirt. Did I say he was hot? Tryscorching.When he casually rolls up his shirtsleeves to reveal defined forearms lightly dusted with hair, I decide to look around his apartment rather than ogling him further.

I didn't notice before, but the man has exquisite taste. A geometric rug pulls together the royal blue of the curtains, the gray of concrete countertops, and the cream of hanging globe lights that illuminate the space. There's art on the walls that I can tell wasn't just purchased at a garage sale or inherited from a frat house, and an impressive vinyl collection that lines walls of exposed brick. It's definitely a bachelor pad—hookups are likely the only feminine energy this place gets—but it's surprisingly…stylish.

Cory gestures to the couch—it's deep brown leather that looks butter-soft—before heading towards his bedroom.

"You can have a seat while you wait. Feel free to grab a beer or whatever. I'll be right back."

I remain standing—that couch looks dangerously inviting and I should keep this visit as short as possible—then walk to his kitchen, because a beer doesn't sound half bad. When I open the fridge, however, I feel like I've stepped into a Whole Foods. There are trays of baked salmon and grilled vegetables, individual cups of fruit salad and assorted chia puddings, bottles of juices in all the colors of the rainbow, and beverage choices from beer, to wine, to kombucha. I can't help but gape before settling on a cup of pineapple and a sparkling water.

Not a fan of eating while standing, I take my snack into the living room and settle into the irresistible couch. As expected, it cups my butt like a Tempur-Pedic mattress, and I have to stifle a moan of pleasure. When Cory sits next to me with a beer, I whirl on him.

"What exactly do you do for a living?" I ask, a little harsher than I intended.

He gives me a quizzical look.

"Why do you ask?"

I flail my arms towards the decadence that surrounds us.

"Look at this place! There's no way you're paying less than five G's a month, and that's not including the entire grocery store you have in your fridge. By the way, if you had all that, why did we order pizza the last time I was here?"

He looks at me sheepishly and takes a sip of his beer.

"That's just meal prep. I have zero time to cook. And everyone knows greasy food trumps healthy when it comes to hangovers."

"And what do you do to afford all this?" I repeat.

Cory's expression turns guarded, and he takes another swig from his beer. What is he, like, the first guy in NYC not willing to brag about being loaded?

"I work in Finance," he answers vaguely.

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