The Lineup(38)

“For the socks I’m sure you like to stuff in there.” She brushes past me, her hair floating over my bare shoulder. Damn, she smells good, like a goddamn flower. Being stuck in that elevator with our dinner, I couldn’t really catch a whiff of her, but now we’re out in the open, her scent pings me right in the chest.

“Just like you stuff your pants too, right?”

“What?” She stops her pursuit to my nightstand.

I point at her crotch and say, “You stuff too, don’t you? Camel toe is in, right?”

She tilts to the side and stares . . . hard. “What the hell is wrong with you? Did your mom drop you on your head when you were young?”

“Possibly.” I cup my hand over my mouth. “But as if she would really tell the truth, am I right?”

Ignoring me, she pulls on the handle of my nightstand, yanking it harder than I think she expected, flinging the drawer off its track. It hits the ground with a splash, spreading the collection of condoms I have stashed inside.

As a hopeful male, moving to a new city with possible potential to meet the love of his life, I found an amazing deal on condoms on Amazon. Buy in bulk; it’s how I roll.

I have yet to use one, but . . . fingers crossed.

“Oh my God.” Dottie stands straight, staring at the drawerful of foil wrappers. The XL on the packaging clear. She blushes and takes a step back, as if she gets too close, she might get sucked into my sex den. “Why . . .” She swallows hard. “Why do you have so many?”

“I like to buy in bulk,” I answer, hands stuffed in my pockets.

“I see.” She clears her throat and turns away, her eyes scanning my crotch before she heads back down the hallway.

I follow, a smile pulling at my lips the entire time. Just that little glance tells me she’s interested, even if she’ll deny it till the day she dies, I know there’s interest.

When we’re in the living room, she starts shuffling through my laundry. “Did you wash it—?” She holds up her hands, thongs dangling off her fingers. “How many of these do you have? Are you wearing one right now?”

“With jeans? No, thank you. I run a lot. I never want to run out because I’ve been too lazy to do laundry.”

She drops them back in the pile and pushes her hands through her hair. “I should have gone to my office instead. All I’ve come to find here is that you have a need to collect man thongs, have an excessive bin of condoms, and your decorating style is less than desirable.”

“What does that mean?” I take in my homey surroundings, pictures of baseball bats and gloves haphazardly hung around the apartment. “I like baseball gear.”

“Yes, that’s evident.”

“It’s better than naked women on the walls. Is that what you’d prefer to see?”

“I don’t prefer to see anything. I just want the key so I can go.”

“And I’ll have you know, I just replenished on condoms, and I’m holding out for the right woman so when I do have sex, it means something. In the interim, I will occasionally jack off with a condom on to help build my endurance and to avoid a mess. I’m afraid to admit it, but I’m a cum shooter. I’ve been known to shoot it so hard up the vagina, the girl can taste it.”

Blinks.

Blinks again.

Shakes her head and takes off toward the door. “I’ll be here all week. For the love of God, please leave me alone.”

“What about the key?” I call out, laughing at the same time.

“I’ll go back to my office.”

She opens the door, just as I spot the shiny red keychain Emory attached the key on.

“Oh wait, I found it.”

She pauses and I walk to the door, so close that my chest presses against her back. I reach over her shoulder to the hooks where I hang my keys.

“Here it is.” I smile when her eyes turn murderous. “Look at that, even when I’m drunk, I’m mindful of organization.”

She snatches the key from my hand without another word and walks out of my apartment.

“I’m going to need that back—”

She unlocks the door to Emory and Knox’s apartment in record time and tosses the key back to me before I can finish.

“Have a good night.”

The door slams behind her with a resounding boom.

“Sure, yup.” I wave at the door. “I’ll have a good night too. Why thank you, I do believe I look spectacular without a shirt on. That’s so kind. Oh, you’re going to think of me tonight when you touch yourself, you’re so—”

The door flings open and a shoe flies from one end of the hallway to the other, hitting me directly in the chest with a thump.

Oof.

The door slams again and I’m left there, chuckling to myself. I hold up the shoe and call out, “If you want this back, you’re going to have to come and get it.”

Teach her to throw a damn shoe at me.

With a smile that won’t quit, I shut the door to my apartment and go to my laundry where I start to fold it. God, that woman. I can see now why she and Emory are such good friends. And even though I’m not completely sure what she’s thinking right now about me, the sparring has made me feel . . . alive.

Like me again.

Glancing around my bare-bones bachelor pad, I start thinking about her comment. I haven’t been here long enough to make it mine yet—I still have some unpacking to do—but maybe there are things I can do to it to make the place more inviting. Dating has been on the backburner, once bitten and all that, but if I’m going to possibly consider looking for my someone, this place needs to feel like home.