Amanda lives in a shit hole.
It’s a three-story apartment building with a parking garage on the bottom floor, and I’m guessing it was built in the 1960s. Don’t think it’s been remodeled since then either. The windows face the extremely busy street, and it doesn’t look safe. Not by a long shot.
Yet she’s babbling on like it’s the best option ever. Almost feels like she’s making excuses to me for living there.
“It’s so close to everything, including the bus stop I take to work.” She sends me a relieved smile. “So glad you picked me up, though. It would’ve sucked to ride the bus home with the flowers. Though I guess I could’ve left them at work.”
I say nothing. My brain is too busy trying to comprehend the fact that she takes the bus every day to and from work. That she lives in this shitty apartment complex we’re about to park in front of. That she seems perfectly happy with her life.
If she would’ve stuck with me, I could’ve given her so much more.
So much fucking more.
“Just pull in right there,” she instructs, and I park on the street, putting the SUV in park and killing the engine. I glance around, my gaze going to the side mirror as I contemplate getting out of the car when the light finally turns red. There is too much traffic coming at me to make a safe exit.
“How long have you lived here?”
When I don’t move to get out of the car, she drops her hand from the door handle. “About a year.”
“You like it?” I don’t see how she could.
“I like that I have my own place versus having a roommate, like I did at my other place.” She shrugs. “It’s kind of old, but it works.”
It’s awful, but I refrain from saying anything insulting. I don’t want to make her mad. Feels like we’re walking a fine line together already. Didn’t help that I say stupid shit without thinking.
Amanda’s right—I should’ve never told her friend that she broke my heart, but the words came out without thought. Just the automatic truth. Though maybe she needs to hear it…especially since we haven’t really talked about it.
Once the traffic lightens up, I get out of my car, and Amanda does the same. I grab the flower arrangement from the back seat and follow her to the building and then up the stairs, relieved that none of the apartments are on the ground floor. At least that’s semi-safe—a creeper has to climb up to get through the window.
But I’m constantly looking around as we head to her apartment, noting the dark corners, the scummy guy who leaves his door open so I can see inside his trashed place. She walks faster when we pass by his, and I practically want to growl my disapproval.
She finally comes to a stop in front of apartment number forty-two and whips out a set of keys, unlocking two locks before the door swings open. I follow her inside, coming to a stop in the center of the room when I realize this is it. This is the entirety of her home.
“You live in a studio?” My tone is accusatory and I immediately regret saying it like that, but come the fuck on.
“Well, yeah.” She shuts and locks the door, then throws her arms up in the air. “But it’s all mine.”
It’s not much. There’s a tiny kitchen and, from what I can tell, an even tinier bathroom. The couch is still folded out into a bed, and the sheets and blanket are a haphazard mess, one of the pillows on the floor. Amanda makes a dash for the makeshift bed—her actual bed—tossing the other pillow onto the floor and trying to fold the bed away.
“God, how embarrassing. I’m so messy,” she says, completely bent over the couch and giving me a perfect view of her perfect ass.
“Leave it,” I tell her, and she stands up straight, turning to face me. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, my voice gentler. “Just—go get ready.”
“Can I take a shower?” she asks hopefully.
Her question sends an immediate image to my brain. One of Amanda in the shower completely naked.
And me joining her.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice gruff. “Go for it.”
“I’ll be fast,” she assures me, and then she’s gone, the bathroom door shutting behind her.
There was a time long, long ago, in high school, when I asked her to come back to my place, and I took a shower while she wandered aimlessly around my room. So I do the same now, looking around her tiny apartment. There really isn’t one personal thing on display. Not even a photograph of her family, of her friends, of a past boyfriend.
Nothing.
I fold up the couch for her, shove the cushions back into place and then settle in, checking my phone. I ignore the texts from my agent—she can wait—ignore the text from my father—he can definitely wait—and read the one text I received from Mia.
My ex-girlfriend.
We broke up over a year ago, after my career got in the way of our relationship. As in, I was rarely home, or always busy, so I never spent enough time with her. I do see her on occasion because we’re…
Fuck buddies.
Her “get 2gether soon” is total code for “wanna fuck”? And most of the time, I meet up with her, we have dinner, we talk, we have a few drinks and then we get down to business.
No fuss. No strings. She’s the perfect hookup because she’s become just as busy as I am. She’s an influencer whose fashion blog and Instagram took off right after we broke up. Mia likes to say that thanks to my breaking up with her, her life has never been better.
The last six months, I started to wonder if Mia and I could make the perfect relationship work after all. She doesn’t demand much of my time, which is a plus. She’s so busy now, she’s not sitting at home wondering when she can see me again. That would be ideal. I always felt guilty, having to cancel plans with her. With the women I’ve dated in the past, I canceled on them all damn time.
Not that there’s been a lot. After Amanda broke up with me, I steered clear from women in general. They were too much trouble. Too demanding of my time, which I have so little of.
And now here I am, sitting on Amanda’s couch, waiting for her to finish with her shower so I can take her to dinner. Once dinner is over, I want to take her back to my place, and show her my bedroom. Just like I did all those years ago, when I was trying my damnedest to convince her I wanted her.
No one else.
Just her.
My phone buzzes with a text notification and I check to see it’s another one from Mia.
U busy tonite? Wld luv 2 c u
One thing I’ve always disliked about Mia was her adolescent texting style. It’s like she can’t spell out a word to save her life, yet she somehow can string together coherent sentences in her blog and Instagram posts. But I usually never let that bother me.
Not really.
Until now, at this very moment. Amanda is one of the smartest people I know. I’ve always respected that girl—that’s what drew me to her. I’m just as attracted to her face and body as I am to her very attractive, very intelligent brain.
Can’t get together tonight, I text Mia. Have plans.
Her response is immediate.
:( :( Maybe some other time?
This is where it gets tricky. Where I have to admit to myself that I don’t want to see Mia anymore because I’m hoping this rekindling with Amanda could possibly work.
Could it, though? Could it, really?
I stare at my phone screen for way too long. Long after the shower shuts off and I can hear Amanda open and close drawers, catch the sound of a muttered curse from behind her bathroom door. I smile, wishing I could barge in there and rip her towel off. Plop her sexy butt onto the edge of the counter and kiss her until she melts into me, lets me touch her, lets me…
My fingers fly over the keyboard without thought.
I’ve met someone else, Mia. Take care.