The Men Next Door

Ch 9 - Campbell

The weight of the family size pasta sauce in my grocery bag should've been annoying, but instead, it just made me think about Brooks and the first day we met. We'd been talking about all the ways I fit in the middle of him and Luca, and though the words had been a lot more innocent than my thoughts, I could hardly blame myself for wandering so far off track. I could blame myself for the heat that bloomed in my stomach, long after the conversation had ended and I'd closed the door to my own apartment. For the unprompted fantasies I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried. But I'd already taken care of those biting feelings with the bright pink vibrator that was still resting on my nightstand, so what was it about these men that sent my brain into overdrive?

At first, I thought the attraction was just some dangerous cocktail of stress, sleep deprivation, and whichever subtle cologne had perfumed the small spaces we'd shared. Now, I was settled in and embarrassingly sated, and they were still at the forefront of my mind. And they were my neighbors. Touching either one of them more than I already had, with our thighs pressed together in that stupid, three-seater moving truck, was practically a death wish for success in the city.

I'd already pushed the boundaries with Luca at the speakeasy. It was hard not to, after all the little touches he'd given me. My encounters with him were familiar—and nostalgic, somehow—even if they hadn't been perfect. But Brooks was...something else entirely. Intimidating, and unknown, and filled with an easy, innate confidence that I didn't understand.

He had all of the right words in his back pocket, no matter what I threw at him. I couldn't quite trust it. So when we bumped into each other on Monday and took a fifteen minute coffee break with Jenkins, I didn't ask for his number afterward. When I saw him a half block ahead of me on Wednesday, I added an impromptu mile to my walk to keep my distance. And when he finally accepted my follow request on Thursday afternoon, on an account that it looked like he never used, I didn't even chance a message.

But when I stepped out of the elevator, grocery bags heavy on my arms, just as he stepped out of his apartment door?

I was done trying to fight the powers that be.

"Hey," I greeted.

"Hey," he echoed. "Any chance I could use your oven? I was making cookies, and I don't know what happened, but mine won't turn on."

"Yeah, of course." I slid a few bags off of my right arm. The heaviest of them, including the sauce jar, hit the ground with a thud as I dug for the key to my unit. "Bring over whatever you need. I just have to put this stuff away, and then I can help, okay?"

I told myself I only offered because the pasta had been so good that first day, and I wanted to try out the cookies too. Or because I knew so much about Luca already, with our flirty messages and not-so-friendly hand holding, that I owed it to myself to get to know Brooks.

And all of that may have been true, but so was the fact that twenty minutes later, any lingering awkwardness had been squished alongside the butter in the dough. Brooks was easy to talk to. I liked spending time with him. He was methodical in a way that quieted my anxious brain. So when he finally nudged the faucet handle with his wrist, every mixing bowl and cookie scoop as clean as the day he bought them, the last of my pretenses followed the soap down the drain.

"All finished?"

"Yeah," he said. "The cookies just need another minute or two on the tray, and then I'll move them to the cooling rack. I'll be out of your hair as soon as they're cool enough to stack up."

I laughed. "No rush. I'm happy you're here."

His contented smile set off a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, and I looked away before he could catch the blush rising on my cheeks. He followed my gaze to the books shelved beside my TV, eyes roaming over the titles curiously.