Page 11 of Bad Boy Next Door
Four
Jade
Plate of brownies in hand, I knocked on Nick’s door. I’d been so stupid.
Tired, cranky, and paranoid, I’d pissed off the one person I was supposed to be shoveling heaps of gratitude upon.
Time to make it right. Nick seemed like the type of man who liked to eat, and he’d have to be a real jerk not to accept my chocolate-laden apology.
“It’s Jade,” I called. “Jade Cuoco from next door.”
The tiny caged window on the door flipped open and closed, and I heard what sounded like a muffled curse word before the door swung fully open.
“What?” He glared down at me.
“Brownies?” I reached the plate forward.
“Doesn’t the welcome wagon work the other way around?” Bending one arm above his head, he leaned against the doorjamb, completely filling the opening. I couldn’t help but notice how his shirt strained across his chest.
“You don’t like brownies?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, here then.” I shifted the plate to my other hand.
“So,nowit’s okay if I touch your shit?”
“Look. I know what you’ve done for my family. And I’m grateful. I really owe you. We all do. If I’d known who you were—”
He looked puzzled. “So, you’re rude to people unless you owe them something?”
“No, I—” I shook my head. “Come on. Let me make it up to you, okay? If you don’t like brownies, what else can I do to show my gratitude?”
“Gratitude?” He tipped his head to the side. “That’s what these are?” Grabbing a brownie from the plate, he took a huge bite. “Not bad,” he said through a chocolate-filled mouth, then he turned from the door, walked through his apartment, and opened the fridge.
He’d left the door open, so I took that as an invitation and stepped inside. The place was laid out in the mirror image of mine—Mexican tiled fireplace opposite the door, retro-looking kitchen to the right, and doors to the bathroom and bedroom on the left. But besides the layout flip, there was another obvious difference between our apartments. His was a pigsty.
No. This Nick dude gave pigs a bad rep. I quickly counted seven pizza boxes strewn on a worn leather sofa, a small mountain of take-out empties and wrappers on the counter and table, and countless beer and soda bottles everywhere. Plus, the place smelled. Bad. An overpowering tang of stale pizza, beer, and sweat. It was screaming for a couple of hours of cleaning.
He grabbed a gallon of milk from the fridge and chugged straight from the jug. A dribble of milk trailed down the side of his chin to land on his chest. He wiped milk off his face with the back of his hand before disappearing the rest of the brownie—in one bite.
Still holding the plate, I waited for him to finish chewing and watched in slight awe as he chased the brownie down with at least a third of the jug of milk, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid vanished down his throat.
Again, he wiped his face with the back of his arm, then set the gallon jug down on the tiled counter. “Guess that solves one mystery,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Those heavy boxes.” He grinned. “Brownie mix.”
“These are from scratch, I’ll have you know.” I pushed the plate forward.
“Sor-ry.” He chuckled. “Brownieingredientsthen. Flour and shit.”
“Lots of shit.”
He winced and I mentally kicked myself in the ass. It seems I couldn’t keep my smart mouth in check.
“Just joking,” I said. “The brownies are entirely shit free. Honest. And you’re partially right. The pan and bowl, some other baking things, were in the boxes, but I had to run to the store for the ingredients.”
