FAWN
“Why are the hot ones always jerks?” I shake my head in disgust, pulling my eyes from the hot shirtless guy’s retreating back. When I first opened my eyes after crashing to the ground and saw him above me, I thought I was seeing things. The light from the sun had caused a halo to appear around him, making him look like the gods themselves had cast him down to Earth. Luxurious dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and golden eyes with thick dark lashes had scanned me from head to toe, making something inside me feel warm and dizzy. Then I saw his lips move like I was in some kind of strange dream, and I asked him if he was talking to me. I probably shouldn’t have assumed he was trying to attack me when he was only pulling out my earbuds, but how was I supposed to know he wasn’t? On that thought, I shake my head and limp over to one of the benches lining the path and take a seat. Pulling out my beloved iPhone from the pocket in my sports bra, I sigh, realizing that my headphones are gone. Getting up, I look around to see if he dropped them on the ground, then look toward where Mr. Hot Guy ran off and debate whether I should try to catch up with him. Deciding that I don’t want another confrontation—since my ego can’t handle it—I head home, walking slowly through the city.
Once I reach my block, I notice a large moving truck parked in front of my building with the back flap open and two guys sitting on boxes inside. Diva, who lived in the apartment across the hall from me, moved out of the building and in with her fiancé a month ago, so it’s a good bet that I’m finally getting a new neighbor. Walking up the stairs, I stop dead in my tracks. There is no way my luck could be this bad.
Mr. Hot Shirtless Guy from the park is standing in front of Diva’s empty apartment door talking to two guys who are carrying a large leather couch. Ducking my head, I try to get past his open door without being noticed, but I know I’m too late when I hear him ask, “Are you stalking me?”
“You wish.” I glare at him as I pull a key out of my sports bra and walk across the hall to open the door to my apartment.
“You have got to be kidding me.” He narrows his eyes, which makes me smile and his eyes narrow further.
“See you around, neighbor.”
I laugh, shutting the door with my heart pounding as a voice in the hall says something about a hot neighbor before a different voice booms, “Shut the fuck up.” Smiling at that, I look around. I am quite proud of my little nest. My apartment is considered large by New York standards, because in addition to my bedroom I have a small office space with a door that could be considered a second bedroom. The kitchen is to the right and has a bar that stretches the length of the kitchen, separating it from the living room. Four heavy metal bar stools with high backs line the bar, each in a different color—one rusty red, one dusty blue, one burnt yellow, and the last a weathered green. The living room, where I spend most of my time, has a suede sofa with throw pillows of different colors, which tie into the bar stools, and a painting that hangs above the couch of a pot of flowers sitting on an old table. The bedroom has the same furniture I had growing up: a double bed with an elegant wrought-iron frame, a tall white dresser, and one glass-top metal-framed side table that I found at a flea market. Above my bed hangs a picture I took of the ocean when I was around fifteen that my mom had blown up a few years ago as a Christmas gift. It reminds me of home but also complements the bedside lamp filled with sand from that exact beach and some shells I have collected over the years. The blue-green duvet and sheets make my room look like it belongs near the sea, a place I love.
Pulling myself from the front door, I head to the couch and lie down, closing my eyes for a few much-needed minutes of shut-eye.
Feeling a wet, rough tongue run over the side of my face, I smile.
“Hey, baby.” I greet my girl, running a hand through her fur while opening my eyes. You would never know that Muffin is only ten months old judging by her size. My Irish wolfhound pup once weighed eight pounds, but now she weighs a hundred and fifteen. “You missed out on the run today, girl,” I say, sitting up to make room for her when she climbs up next to me on the couch. “Mama biffed it in the park and had some tango time with a shirtless hot guy,” I inform her, and she licks my cheek again. Grabbing both sides of her face, I look into her brown eyes. “Next time I’m dragging you along whether you want to go or not.”
“Ruff.”
“Too bad, because next time you’re coming along,” I reply to her bark, which I’m guessing means no. This morning when I left for my run, she refused to budge from the bed, and I wasn’t about to fight with her about going out. She’s stubborn as hell when she wants to be. The one time I attempted to take her for a walk against her will ended badly for both of us. As in I had to carry my seventy-pound puppy home two blocks in the rain.
“Coming,” I yell when someone starts pounding on my door. Pushing myself up off the couch, I head across the room, knowing who it is without even looking through the peephole. Putting my hand on Muffin’s head to hold her back, I look down at her. “Be nice,” I command, and she huffs, taking a seat. She doesn’t like men at all. One of my boyfriends was cornered in the kitchen when he got up to get some water in the middle of the night. I found him there the next day asleep on top of the counter. After that he refused to come over, which in turn ended our relationship, since there was no way I was going to get busy with him at his place while his mom was in the next room.
I swing the door open, taking in my new neighbor, who looks like he’s had a shower in the last ten minutes. “Can I help you?” His hair is still damp on the ends, and he smells like soap and some kind of dark, intriguing cologne. I can’t help but notice he’s just as hot in a white tee, almost-black jeans, and black boots as he was shirtless and sweaty.
“Did you even check the damn peephole?” he barks, and my eyes fly up to meet his.
The corners of his eyes have small lines forming around them, and I wonder if I should tell him something my mom always tells me. “Honey, stop frowning. You know it causes premature wrinkling. You don’t want to look like your aunt Lizbeth, do you?”
“I knew it was you.” I shrug, leaving out the information about wrinkles, figuring he probably wouldn’t care.
“How?”
“How what?”
“How did you know it was me?”
“For starters, no one I know would ever pound on the door like they’re the police. Secondly, I’m not expecting any company, so I risked it all and took a wild guess. Are you here to return my headphones?” I ask, holding out my hand toward him.
“What the hell is that thing?” he asks as his eyes drop to Muffin, who is trying to push past me to get to him.
“It’s a chicken. Now do you have my headphones or not?”