The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(57)

But my stovetop is gleaming.

I’ve just emptied my fruit and veggie drawers from my fridge to scrub the hell out of them—you don’t want to know what I found in the bottom of the veggie drawer, and I probably couldn’t even tell you what it originally was if you asked—when my phone rings.

Yes!

Levi’s calling.

It takes me four swipes to answer because my hands are a disaster, and I might be too. “Hey, you!”

Do I sound like a dork?

I think I sound like a desperate, breathless dork.

“Hey. Your kids asleep?”

Yes! Finally. Phone sex. I am so in. “In theory. They’re not volunteering to help me scrub the fridge, at any rate. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“It’s not usually a good idea to sleep in alleys. Tried it once. Didn’t like it.”

“Why are you in an alley?”

“Because I don’t have a key or the code to your security system, and unlike some people I used to be in a band with, I don’t randomly break into my friends’ places.”

I drop the vegetable drawer. “Shit!” I hiss as the noise echoes through the apartment.

“Ingrid?”

“You’re here?” Shit shit shit. Did I wake my kids? Tell me I didn’t wake my kids.

“Yeah, and I gave my security detail the night off, because I was supposed to stay home. If you want me to leave—”

“No! No. Stay. I’ll be right—erp—down.”

That erp?

That’s me sliding on a wet spot on my kitchen linoleum in my rush to get to the door.

Don’t slip and die, Ingrid. Don’t slip and die.

We could be heading to serious booty call time.

I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember I’m in leggings with a rip in the thigh and one of my hot mess mom T-shirts.

I don’t even want to think about the underwear underneath. Of which there are only panties, because I released the krakens an hour ago.

So. The plan.

Let him in. Go change. Hope the kids stay in bed.

I should’ve done better sleep training. Nightly meditation or something. Noise machines that induce deeper sleep.

Plus fashion training for me, if only to give myself a subconscious boost.

Right now, I’m not certain he won’t take one look at me, remember what he’s actually getting out of this deal, and decide to head home.

I kill the alarm system and unlock the back door, and he slips out of a black Audi and into the dim stockroom.

Where I’m in a ratty outfit that even I wouldn’t wear to get drive-thru Starbucks, smelling like bleach and oven cleaner, he’s in cargo pants, a button-down shirt, and a leather jacket, and he smells like fresh bread and a chai latte. His hair’s perfect—mine’s falling out of a makeshift bun—and despite subtle bluish bags beneath his eyes suggesting he needs three solid days of sleep, everything else about his scruffy face says I could make you scream my name in four-point-three seconds.

“You’re home early,” I blurt. My hands are raw and smelly, but I couldn’t keep them to myself if I tried. They have to touch him. To prove he’s not a hallucination—not the man, and not the smile teasing his full lips, and not the way his eyes are devouring me. “And you came here?”

“Had to. The pretzels aren’t as good the next day.”

I’m stroking his chest as he slips one arm around my waist and reaches into his jacket to pull out a white bakery bag that instantly makes my mouth water.

I swallow and stare at him. “No. Way.”

Pretzels, a man who smells like a corner tea shop, and that smile he aims at me—this is normal for a fling, right?

I’m soaking up extra happiness because it’s been so long since I’ve been spoiled by a man.

It’s not that I’m falling hard for someone who would be around even less than Daniel was.

I don’t have a love-at-first-attention problem. Really.

“It’s not gelato,” he says.

“Bread is always the answer.” I glance at the stairs, then back at the pretzel bag.

Would I be a horrible person if I scarfed it down right here, in the midst of boxes and books in my stockroom, rather than risk the smell of the pretzel waking my kids?

Also, would it totally turn Levi off if I did?

He chuckles like he knows what’s actually turning me on at the moment, and my face warms. “I’m glad to see you too,” I tell him. “It’s not just about the pretzel. I ran down here to let you in before you mentioned pretzels. Real pretzels? German pretzels? Oh my god. I did not see this coming.”

“You don’t want to share.”

Gah, that smile.

And he hasn’t stopped smiling at me since I shut the door. It’s like he thinks my pretzel-deprived-when-I-didn’t-even-know-I-wanted-one, questionably-fashioned, makeup-free, smelling-like-cleaner self is adorable or something.

“The vegetables! Crap. I think I left my fridge open.”

“Do you still have a pet squirrel?”

“Yes. Caged. I don’t think he can pick the lock yet, but clearly…I need to go shut my fridge.” I stick my nose in the bakery bag and inhale, almost have a nosegasm on the spot, and then promise the pretzel I’ll be back ASAP. “Five minutes,” I tell Levi. “Head up to the loft. I’ll meet you there.”