Only Santas in the Building (Under the Mistletoe collection)

Chapter Two

T he firm support of the hand at my waist sends rippling tendrils of awareness through me. Under my heavy coat, my skin tingles, and I start to sweat. Between the shock of the collision and my racing heart, it takes me a moment to find my voice, and the words come out thin and tight. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

By contrast, Theo’s deep baritone is as steady as an ancient oak tree. “Are you okay, Evie?”

“Um, yeah. Thanks to you.” If he hadn’t caught me, I would’ve landed on my ass, making this encounter even more embarrassing than it already is.

We’re so close. And while I’m incredibly glad I showered and brushed my teeth, I wish I’d also taken the time to brush my hair instead of tucking it under a pink beanie, and maybe swiped on a little lip gloss too.

Theo, on the other hand, looks perfect. But then, he always does, with his dark, wavy hair, sharp features, and overly sensuous mouth. If I drew him, he’d look like a cross between Maluma and Jon Snow, romantic and rough. He’s at least a few inches over six feet and sort of bulky. And when he grins, his prominent canines slightly resemble fangs. I was obsessed with vampires when I was in high school, so this little detail does not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

I wouldn’t mind at all if he bit me.

Not in a vampire way. In a sex way.

It’s official. I have it bad for Mr. 4A. Real bad.

But then my stomach churns as I recall the last time I saw him.

It was last week, and I was already in frantic deadline mode. Someone knocked on my apartment door, and since I was expecting Bernard, the building’s super, I opened it without looking through the peephole.

Rookie mistake. Instead of Bernard, there was Theo in all his rugged glory. He had on jeans, work boots, and an olive-green Henley that made his brown eyes look like melted milk chocolate.

I, meanwhile, was wearing a ratty Oscar the Grouch T-shirt, no bra, and baggy sweatpants. My unwashed hair was pulled into a messy bun that was admittedly more mess than bun, and my curtain bangs desperately needed a trim. I hadn’t washed my face, let alone brushed my hair or my teeth, and of course, I’d just polished off a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

I think I gasped when I saw Theo, or squeaked, or something else equally ridiculous. And then I blurted out, “I thought you were the super.”

His dark brows lifted as he took me in. “Are you expecting him?”

I tried unsuccessfully to push the longer parts of my bangs behind my ears, as if that would do anything to help my overall appearance. “Um, yeah, my hall light is out. I have a stepladder, but I still can’t reach it. Bernard said he’d swing by today to change it.”

Theo nodded. “I can do that for you. But I’m actually here to check out your kitchen. I think one of my pipes is leaking, and I wanted to make sure it isn’t causing damage. Mind if I look?”

I did mind and would’ve preferred he come back after I’d used mouthwash and, I don’t know, gotten a full makeover at Sephora, but politeness, lack of sleep, and this persistent crush had me opening the door and saying, “Sure. Come on in.”

When he passed by me into the apartment, I nearly whimpered. He smelled fresh and woodsy, like cedar and mint, an aromatherapy blend specifically designed to incite my libido.

Since he lives right above me in 4A, the layouts of our one-bedroom apartments are the same. The bathroom and bedroom are to the right, off a narrow hallway that opens into a combo kitchen / dining / living room space.

Theo stopped in front of the sink and rolled up his sleeves, showing off a collection of tattoos. Then he opened the cabinet doors and crouched down, peering inside with a penlight attached to his keys. It was on the tip of my potato-chip-flavored tongue to ask about his tats when I noticed that my sink was full of dirty dishes and take-out containers.

Have I mentioned that I’ve been on deadline?

And that there’s been no one else to bother cleaning up for since my grandmother died?

I was about to apologize for the slovenly state of my apartment—and myself—when he straightened to his full height and I nearly swallowed my tongue. Theo’s a big guy, and while his size always makes my mouth go dry when I run into him in the hall or around the neighborhood, his standing in my tiny kitchen made him seem even more gigantic. I wanted to climb him like a beanstalk.

“Everything looks okay,” he said. “Which light bulb needs changing?”

“Oh, um, that one.” I pointed at the overhead light fixture in the hallway.

“Gotcha. Where’s this alleged stepladder?”

His adorable grin only served to make me more flustered. I showed him the stepladder stashed between the fridge and the wall. He unfolded it in the hallway and climbed on. When he reached up to unscrew the old-fashioned glass fixture, my eyes zeroed in on the exposed strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans and ... Yeah, I’ll just say it: his ass. I stared at his ass. And I couldn’t stop.

Theo’s ass filled out the back of his jeans with an intriguing curve, the muscle definition on his lower back acting as neon arrows pointing down. Really, how could I not look?

To give a little background information, I met Theo the day I moved in. It was ninety-five degrees, and the movers were two hours late. My mother had been badgering me all morning, as if the delay were somehow my fault, and the heat certainly hadn’t helped me keep a cool head.

I was watching two guys maneuver my overstuffed cream couch up the narrow staircase while trying very hard not to yell Pivot! like Ross in Friends , when there was Theo, appearing out of the ether like the patron saint of five-story walk-ups. He immediately stepped in to help, barely even breaking a sweat. He joked with the movers, relating his own experiences carrying furniture up these tight quarters, and that was when I found out he lived right above me.

From that moment on, I’ve fantasized about showing up at his door for a cup of sugar, wink wink nudge nudge , while wearing tiny shorts and a see-through top with a lacy bra underneath. Never mind that I don’t own a lacy bra; for the purposes of this daydream, I’ve magically found one in the back of my underwear drawer.

Instead, I was wearing my Oscar the Grouch T-shirt, which is so symbolic of how I look like trash whenever I see him, I can’t even take it.

My grandmother used to style her hair and wear lipstick every day, no matter what, Because you never know who you’ll run into. If I told her about this, I know exactly what she’d say.

You see? ? Te lo dije !

I’d give anything to hear her say I told you so one more time.

But let’s return to the flashback at hand.

“You have a new bulb?” Theo had asked, and I’d quickly handed him the one that was sitting on the counter.

With deft movements, he swapped out the old incandescent bulb for an LED, and my attention was once again drawn to his butt as he descended the stepladder, folded it, and put it away.

I cleared my throat. “Thank you. Um, for changing the light bulb.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “I’m always happy to help, Evie.”

Then he glanced at my Christmas tree and smiled.

The tree stirs up another blush-inducing memory. I’d been coming home with groceries a few days earlier when I felt the urge to impulse-buy a Christmas tree from the vendor on Lexington. Even though it was a small tree, carrying it home was a lot more unwieldy than I’d expected, especially with a week’s worth of fridge staples weighing me down. Theo found me struggling to drag it upstairs by the trunk, and much as he had with the sofa, he swooped in to save the day. Before I knew it, Theo had the tree slung over one broad shoulder and the handles of all my reusable grocery bags looped in one big hand.

Days later, my tree was still as devoid of ornamentation as when he’d carried it upstairs for me. And even though he didn’t ask or offer up any sort of judgment, my mouth ran away from me in a rambling explanation.

“I’ve got a big deadline coming up for this comic I’m working on. It’s the last issue of this arc—sort of a big deal, possibly setting up for a crossover event, although that’s kind of a secret, so pretend I didn’t say anything—and I was the replacement artist because the previous one had, like, a family emergency or something and the publisher knows I can draw pretty fast.” Why was I telling him all this? Who fucking knows! But once I’d started, I couldn’t stop until I’d reached some kind of point. “Anyway, all my Christmas decorations are still in storage, because they—” I barely managed to cut myself off. It was bad enough that he was always helping me cart things up the stairs; he didn’t need to carry my emotional baggage too. “Um, I haven’t had time to go get them. Or do anything else, like wash dishes or do my laundry, clearly. And it feels silly to buy new ornaments when I do own some. Somewhere. So yeah, I haven’t decorated the tree yet.”

And with that, I’d finally shut my mouth.

Theo was quiet for a moment before he nodded. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Sorry for interrupting.”

“Don’t apologize!” If I wished hard enough, maybe a portal would open and fling me into the far reaches of space, as had happened to Starsong. “Thanks for making sure there wasn’t any water damage.”

He sent me a crooked grin. “Just being a good neighbor.” And then he was gone, leaving me with the lingering scent of cedar and mint.

The second the door closed behind him, I tore into the bathroom, slapped on the light, and bit back a screech when I saw my reflection. How could I let him see me like that? Why hadn’t I just asked him to come back later?

Because my crush-addled and sex-starved brain short-circuited whenever I encountered this gorgeous redwood of a man.

And now here we are, face-to-face at the top of the stairs, and unfortunately, I’m not doing much better. I’m clean, at least, but that’s about all I have going for me. I step back, hoping he doesn’t notice the dark, puffy circles under my eyes from weeks of all-nighters, and he finally releases his hold on my elbow and waist.

More’s the pity.

“On your way out?” He stuffs those big, warm hands into the pockets of his hoodie. I could feel the heat of them even through my coat, and I’m trying not to fixate on how they’d feel against my bare skin.

Warm hands on a cold night ... Heaven.

I clear my throat and scramble to answer. “Mm-hmm. Picking up takeout.”

His brows quirk with interest. “From where?”

“Yummy Thai, around the corner.”

“Oh, they have a great—”

“ Lunch special, ” we both say at the same time. His wide grin matches my own, and I feel a sort of neighborly kinship with him.

“Are you going to the party tonight?” he asks. “On the fifth floor?”

The fifth floor has only two units, and each one is twice the size of my apartment. Mr. Barnes lives in 5B, and according to Mrs. Greene, he was a famous songwriter. Apparently he throws an annual, themed Christmas party and invites everyone in the building. My guess is that this is also an effort to appease the residents so they don’t complain about the noise, but Mrs. Greene says it’s always a lot of fun. This year’s theme is Only Santas in the Building.

“I’m planning to go,” I say, and then take a leap. “Will you be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I’m probably imagining the warmth in his eyes, especially since he steps aside a second later. “I better let you go. See you later, Evie.”

I mutter goodbye and trot down the stairs, swallowing back a groan. Why the hell do I always have to look like such a train wreck when I run into him?

Hmm, maybe because I’m depressed and grieving and my only coping mechanism is to drown myself in work? Just a thought!

On the second floor, I stop at 2C and knock, but Mrs. Greene doesn’t answer. I figure she’s probably out getting her hair or nails done before the party tonight. She’s seventy-eight and resembles Nichelle Nichols of Star Trek fame. I have never seen her looking anything less than stunning. She has a penchant for jewel tones and statement pieces, and her makeup and hair are always just so.

As for me? I’m thirty-one and can best be described as “cute.” An ex-boyfriend once called me a “sexy chipmunk” and actually meant it as a compliment. I get carded every single time I buy liquor, and when the clerks check the year on my ID, I get varying expressions of disbelief.

With a little primping, I can certainly pull off “pretty.” But tonight, I want to feel more than pretty. I want to feel like a knockout. A bombshell. A ten out of ten.

I want to feel as confident and badass as Starsong.

I might not have the power of flight, but I have luxury-brand mascara and a forty-dollar tube of red lipstick, and that’s nearly as good.

The last two times I’ve run into Theo, I’ve been at my worst. This party is my chance to show him—and myself—that I’m not just a sweats-clad cave dweller with dirty hair, endless deadlines, and a tragic backstory.

It’s time to take charge of my own narrative. Tonight, I’m going to blow Theo’s mind.