Page 3 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
"Well… Mr. Callahan lives in the building. Maybe he could answer some of your questions."
She turned to look at me directly for the first time. Up close, the resemblance was even sharper. I could smellherperfume. I managed a nod, but didn’t speak. My brain was stuck in a loop it didn’t know how to exit.
Arturo shifted behind the desk, sensing the awkward silence. "He lives in an '04 unit, same layout as the one your brother's interested in."
She glanced between us, curious. "Really? Same floor plan?"
I nodded again, finally managing a sound. "Yeah. Practically identical."
"Would you mind—" she hesitated, her voice softening just slightly. "Would you mind telling me a bit about it? Like how the layout works? Do you hear street noise? What’s the light like in the mornings?"
Before I knew what I was saying, I heard the words leave my mouth. "I could show you mine."
Arturo blinked. She did too.
Smooth, Callahan. Just what every woman wants to hear from a stranger in the lobby,Icould show you mine.
I cleared my throat. "My apartment. Just to see the layout. If that helps."
She tilted her head, the tiniest smile lifting one corner of her mouth.
"I’d understand if going into a stranger’s apartment makes you uncomfortable," I added quickly.
But she shook her head. "You know how many apartments I’ve toured in the last two weeks? They’ve all been with strangers."
Then she actually smiled. "But I would very much appreciate seeing your apartment’s layout. Thank you for offering."
She turned back to Arturo. "If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call the police."
He laughed. "The only thing you’re at risk of, is him offering to make you risotto."
She looked puzzled. "Risotto?"
I gave Arturo a look. "Hey. You know it’s the best risotto you’ve ever had."
He raised his hands in mock surrender.
Why do I care what she thinks? I’m just showing her a floor plan, not asking her to dinner.
We turned toward the elevator. She stepped beside me, quiet, composed. As we waited, I glanced at her from the corner of my eye.
Still not sure what was happening.
As we stepped off the elevator, I shifted the package in my arms, to fish out my key card. It wasn’t graceful.
"Here," she said, reaching out. "Let me hold that while you find your key."
I handed her the box. She tilted it slightly, hearing the soft thump of its contents. "Let me guess. Books?"
"Guilty as charged," I said, a little sheepish.
She gave me a look. Curious.
I opened the door to my apartment and stepped aside. She entered slowly, pausing just past the threshold. Her eyes flicked over the floors, the kitchen, the long stretch of windows that let in the skyline. She didn’t speak right away, and she didn’t step too far in. She just hovered a moment, taking in the space like she was cataloging every square inch.
I watched her eyebrows lift, just slightly. Not surprise exactly. More like reassessment.
Wide-plank pale oak floors, matte black cabinet pulls, deep charcoal cabinetry, and white counters that caught the morning light in clean lines. This place had been designed down to the air. And even though I didn’t decorate it with anyone else in mind, I suddenly felt like it was on display.
