Arrow to the Heart: A Cupid Romance

Chapter 2

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5 Months Ago

Sometimes I like to sit on the dryer while it's spinning. I close my eyes and feel the rocking and pretend I'm on a train through Europe, the vibrations beneath me just the clattering of wheels on the track.

I press my palms against the machine and let the rhythmic thumping lull me int–

"Am I interrupting something?" a deep voice asks from the doorway. My eyes shoot open and I turn to see a handsome guy smirking with one eyebrow raised high. He's holding a basket piled high with black and grey laundry.

With the black sleeveless shirt and black jeans he's wearing, I'm guessing he doesn't have to do a lot of color sorting before tossing everything in the machine.

"No. Just doing my laundry," I reply.

I feel like there's a reference or joke here that I'm not getting, but that's hardly news. Subtext has never been my strong suit.

"Ah sure," he says, clearly fighting back a smile.

His black hair is short at the sides and longer on top, with a grey-white lock hanging down in front that just reaches past his brow. His neck and shoulders are heavily tattooed with a thick geometric pattern of some sort and his ears are both pierced in multiple places. But it's his hands that are particularly striking—they're pure black from his fingertips to his forearms, where the ink splits into tendrils, reaching upward like the branches of a tree. Even the skin under his nails seems black.

It reminds me of the strawberry poison-dart frog—its body is all red but its limbs are blue, sometimes almost black.

I probably shouldn't say that out loud. People don't usually like it when I compare them to frogs.

"You sure you don't want me to come back later?" he asks. His tone is teasing, but I'm clearly missing whatever he's getting at.

"What would you be interrupting?" I ask. "I don't get it."

He sets his basket down on another machine and chuckles slightly.

"Seemed like maybe you might be having some 'me time' with your dryer there."

He waggles his brow suggestively.

Oh. He thought...

"Oh no, I just like the vibrations," I say.

"Yeah, I think that's the idea," he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Not like sexually or anything. If I wanted that, I have a vibrator at home."

A choked laugh bursts from him and his eyes widen, like my response caught him off guard.

I always forget that talking about sex can make people uncomfortable.

To be fair, he started it.

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and scans me up and down like he's evaluating me.

"You just tell it like it is, don't you?"

"Most of the time," I say, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"I like that." He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he holds out his hand for a handshake. "I'm Declan."

"Bree," I say, giving his hand a firm shake.

"I like your cat ears." He steps back and leans on the washing machine beside him, his forearm flexing as he shifts his weight.

Cat ears?

It takes me a moment to realize I'm wearing my pastel pink hoodie with matching pink cat ears sewn onto the hood. Leave it to me to meet this hot guy wearing my cat hoodie and blue pajama pants.

Does he think I'm a dork?

Because he'd be right... I mean, I'm definitely a dork. But I try not to make it that obvious.

"Thanks," I say. "I like your uh...goth thing."

Who am I kidding; it's really obvious.

He laughs and smiles again, holding the kind of intense eye contact that makes me unsure where to look.

"My goth thing..." he repeats with a smirk. He pops open the washing machine next to me and dumps his clothes inside with a quick tip of his basket.

"Seems convenient for the laundry sorting. You don't have to be like, 'Oh should, yellow go with reds or whites? And like, what if it's a really pastel yellow? Or like, purples... do they go with blues or reds? Or do they need their own load? Or do you just say screw it and put them with darks?'"

"Can't say I've had that problem, no." He puts his coins in the machine and starts his cycle.

"Yeah, see, it's helpful. Like a capsule wardrobe."

"A what?"

"It's like a minimalist, declutter-y thing. You stick to an aesthetic and only wear certain stuff in that aesthetic so everything goes together and you don't have too many clothes and whatnot."

"Do you have one of those?" he asks, leaning back against the machine. "Is everything pink and blue? Do all your outfits have cat ears?"

"No," I say with a laugh. "I'm basically the opposite of that. I like pretty things; it's a bit of an addiction. If it's pastel or frilly or cute or girly, I'm like a moth to a flame."

"It suits you."

"Thanks." I feel a blush creeping up my neck and cheeks.

Is he just being nice or is he flirting? I never can tell the difference.

I guess it's unlikely that the cool hot guy saw me in my laundry-day outfit and shoddy ponytail and thought, 'Damn. Gotta get me some of that.'

He's not the usual type that goes for me anyway. I tend to attract more straitlaced nerdy types. They like the cardigans and knee socks until they get to know me and realize that I'm more awkward-quirky than I am cute-quirky.

He pulls himself up onto the machine next to me and sits down.

"Do you usually sit here while you wait?" he asks.

"Yeah. I used to wait in my apartment, but I had a couple bad experiences so now I guard my laundry."

"Bad like what?"

"I came back once and found an old guy holding a pair of my panties. He claimed he was looking for a lost sock."

His eyes narrow he grips his knees with his hands.

"What the fuck?"

"Then a few weeks later someone threw a whole load on the floor once because there weren't any other available machines. Like, who does that?"

"Assholes," he says with a huff.

"So now my clothes get a chaperone." I shrug and swing my legs against the dryer. "You too?"

"Uh yeah. Same thing. I always wait here."

I'm surprised I haven't seen him around before. He's definitely not someone I would've forgotten.

"Wouldn't want any old guys sifting through your panties," I joke. The second it's out of my mouth, I regret it.

Why are you like this, Bree?

He laughs, and I wonder for a moment if he's doing so just to save me from embarrassment, but he gives me a smile that seems too genuine to just be out of pity.

"I wouldn't worry about that," he says. "After the panty thief took my last pair, I just started going commando."

I can't help but erupt in a fit of giggles.

Okay, so I may have awkwardly told my stupid-hot neighbor that I have a vibrator that I masturbate with, and made an awkward comment about his panties, but he seems to be rolling with it.

And I didn't compare him to a frog.

I'm calling it a win.

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