Page 5 of My Trainer Neighbor
She looked expensive.Untouchable.And exhausted.
"Shawn."She didn't sound surprised to see me, but she didn't sound pleased either."What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I was hoping to do something for you."I held up the container of chili I'd transferred to a disposable bowl, suddenly feeling like an idiot."Peace offering.I made too much, and I thought you might be hungry when you got home from work."
She stared at the bowl like I'd handed her a live grenade."You made me food."
"I made food.There's a difference."I kept my tone light, casual, like bringing dinner to neighbors was something I did all the time."It's turkey chili.Nothing fancy, but it's better than whatever takeout you were probably planning to order."
For a moment, she just stood there, and I could see the internal debate playing out behind her eyes.Accept the food and risk encouraging me, or refuse and come across as rude.
She sighed and stepped back from the doorway."Come in.But I can only spare a few minutes.I have work to finish tonight."
Of course she did.
Her apartment was the opposite of mine in every way that mattered.Where I had boxes and basic furniture, she had pieces that looked like they belonged in a magazine.Where I had empty walls and utilitarian lighting, she had artwork and lamps that created actual atmosphere.
It was beautiful.Polished.And about as personal as a hotel room.
"Nice place," I said, following her toward what I assumed was the kitchen.
"Thank you."She set the bowl on the granite countertop and turned to face me, arms crossed over her chest in a gesture I was beginning to recognize as her default defensive position."This was thoughtful of you, but you really didn't need to—"
"When did you last have a home-cooked meal?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard.She blinked, then frowned like she was trying to remember.
"I cook," she said.
"Heating up frozen dinners doesn't count."
"I don't eat frozen dinners."Her tone suggested I'd insulted her intelligence again."I meal prep on Sundays.Salads, mostly.Some grilled chicken."
"Salads."I nodded like this explained everything."Right.That's not cooking, Nicole.That's survival."
"It's healthy."
"It's boring."I leaned against her counter, noting how she tensed when I invaded her space."When did you last eat something just because it tasted good?Not because it fit your macros or your schedule, but because you actually wanted it?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.The silence stretched between us, and I realized I'd hit another nerve.
"The chili smells good," she said, changing the subject with the skill of someone used to deflecting personal questions.
"It tastes better."I pushed off the counter and headed toward her front door."Enjoy it, Nicole.And try not to work too late tonight.It's almost Thanksgiving."
"Where are you going?"she asked, and there was something in her voice that made me turn back.
"Home.You said you only had a few minutes."
She looked almost disappointed, which was probably wishful thinking on my part.
"Right," she said."Well, thank you.For the food."
"You're welcome."I paused at her door, taking one last look at her standing in that kitchen in that suit, looking like she belonged anywhere but in her own home."Nicole?"
"Yeah?"
"The offer still stands.If you ever want to try something different than salads and ten-hour workdays."
