Love Me Harder (18+ Only)

Girl Meets Boy Part 2

"Can I just stay here until the maintenance guy comes back?"

"What am I, a babysitter?" Martha, the building manager, informed me that it would take at least a couple of hours before Adam's door could be unlocked.

"We're the same age." A bright confident smile crossed his face as he folded his arms over his chest. Blood rushed up to the roots of my hair when his eyes lingered on my bare thighs.

"My point exactly." I caught the hemline of my sweater and gave it a firm tug. "If you'll excuse me, I need to grab something from my room." The dark hardwood floor echoed my quick footsteps. I was back in the living room within a minute. The lavender kimono-style robe shielded my body from his scrutiny. Although who could blame him? Hours of spin and barre classes have turned me into a glute goddess.

He was on the sofa, flipping through a magazine—casual and relaxed like he belonged there. I, on the other hand, felt like a stranger in my own home. There was something natural in the way he sat. I cleared my throat, hoping he'd look at me. When he did, I wish he didn't because I must look like a stupid schoolgirl to him.

What in fuck's name is wrong with me? I'm twenty-five years old, definitely not a blushing virgin who creams her panties over a very hot, gorgeous man. Like, seriously. I need to get over myself.

"Don't you have any place to go? Like the gym or something?" Great. I just passively acknowledged that I have noticed he was in shape. Amazing, drool-worthy shape.

"I did my workout last night—"

Probably fucking the brains out of some lucky dim-witted bitch. Now that's a low blow, since when have I slut-shamed? I know better. "Doing what?" Or who.

"I moved in. I think my furniture weighed over a ton and none of my friends helped me." He rubbed his neck. "I'm sore all over."

My spoiled brat theory flew out of the window. If he had a rich Mommy and Daddy they would have paid movers minimum wage to take care of that. "Are you a model or something?" That's the only other logical explanation.

Again with that deep sexy chuckle that made my belly quiver. "You can say that."

"I knew it! Who do you model for?"

His shoulders fell. "Nothing major. Here and there."

Touchy subject, I could tell. Maybe he is one of those rich kids who wants to be a model and his parents' idea of punishment is to exile him in a $7,000/month condo until he stops his foolishness. What I would give to have parents like that.

"What about you, what do you do?"

"I work at a lifestyle magazine." My voice sounded too loud and fake. "Seattle Living. I'm the assistant to the editor."

"So, you're the assistant editor?"

I forced a laugh and covered it up with cough. "No. I'm the assistant. To. The. Editor."

His head nodded. "The one who gets the coffee and dry cleaning like in that movie?"

My nose felt hot as if I could blow fire out of my nostrils. "I do more than that—"

"But not writing for the magazine."

I stepped towards him, ready to scratch his eyes out when I realized I was getting defensive over my stupid job to someone I didn't even know. "No writing involved."

He stood up, raising both hands in front of him. "Wow. Calm down. No judgement here. I noticed your college diploma for journalism hanging on that wall. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push your buttons."

I'm burning that useless diploma. I guess my "career" is also a touchy subject.

That ridiculous LMFAO song about working out burst into the air and he reached into his back pocket. "This is Adam. Oh. Yes. I'll be right there." He smiled at me. "It's the guy, he's on his way up."

"Took him long enough."

I walked him to the door and just as he was about to step out into the hallway, he turned to me. "Listen, I owe you big time. I mean, you didn't even know me and you let me in. I could have been a serial killer. How about I take you out for drinks after my door is unlocked and fixed?"

He was standing so close to me, I could see individual streaks of gray in his blue eyes and his sharp minty soap scent. "Sure," I replied.

"See you later, 36D."

"Please stop calling me by my unit number."

"Who said I was talking about that?" He pointedly stared at my breasts, winked and walked away.

Damn it. I'm in big trouble.