1
Sylvie
I was perched by the window in my favorite reading spot. King Gravy Boat III, my hairless cat, was on my lap. As usual, he was grooming his wrinkly, loose skin with alarmingly slow, sexual licks that never failed to disturb me.
"Cut it out, Gravy," I said, not taking my eyes from the window.
Any minute now, I thought.
For good measure, I checked the tracking information of my package on my phone, which I'd checked a perfectly reasonable number of times tonight. And this afternoon. And this morning.
"Out for delivery." Just like it had been saying since lunch.
I gave the pile of books on my bed a disparaging look. Instead of spending all day jonesing for my delivery, I could've re-read an old favorite. But this package wasn't just any book. It was the book. It was Moonlight Caravan, the Third Awakening. I'd been waiting two years for Amy Clark to finally release the last installment of the series, and now it was almost here.
I let out a little squee of excitement and rubbed Gravy Boat's head a bit too vigorously. His body wobbled from side to side with the force, and he punched at my hand to let me know to chill.
"Relax," I said, still fixated on the city street below where the delivery guy could appear at any moment. "You're too sensitive."
Gravy Boat meowed indignantly, showed me his asshole, then sauntered to my bed.
I saw him eying my paperbacks and raised a finger at him in warning. "Don't do it, you little bastard."
He did it.
With quickness he saved for naughty behavior, Gravy Boat took the front cover of one of my books in his mouth and dragged it under my bed.
I was in the middle of getting whacked repeatedly by hairless little paws under the bed when the knock came at my door.
I got up so fast I banged my head on the underside of the frame, swore, then ungracefully sock-skidded my way to the door. I yanked it open, bent down, and picked up the package.
I hugged it to my chest and did a couple joyful jumps before I sensed I wasn't alone in the hallway. I promptly squeezed a little glob of hand sanitizer that I kept danging from the belt loop on my jeans and rubbed my hands together. I chased that with a dab of moisturizer because I wasn't a lunatic.
"Something good?" asked the cute guy who lived across the hall.
I slowly turned, embarrassment spiking through me like little jets of lava under my skin.
I was still rubbing my hands together with a wet, moisturizer squelch while I pinned the germ-ridden package under my arm. I even saw his eyes fall to my moisturizer and hand sanitizer I kept holstered at either side like some lame ass old western hero.
"Just a book," I said.
He nodded. "Germaphobe?" he asked, nodding to my holstered bottles.
"Something like that," I said, even though it wasn't quite accurate. But who wanted a sob story from someone they just met? It'd be like explaining that your grandma just passed away when the girl making your coffee asks how your day is going.
He smiled. It was a good smile—kind but with a little hint of mischief. Maybe even a little danger. The cute guy currently absorbing every single degree of weird I was radiating rode a motorcycle to work. He always came up to his apartment with one of those padded leather jackets on and a helmet hanging at his side. The jacket was a dark maroon color that went wonderfully well with his sandy blond hair and brown eyes.
He was close to my age, as far as I could tell. Maybe a few years older or even pushing into his early thirties. But a sane, rational woman would've been over the moon to be talking to him. I was unfortunately neither, so I was already scrambling to think of some way to escape the conversation and the potential of catching feelings.
Thankfully, I didn't need to worry too much about anything happening. I had the social skills of a wet paper bag and had never even asked him what his real name was, so he was just Motorcycle Guy, or Cute Neighbor to me.
I twinkled my fingers at him and smiled. I thought about bolting in my apartment and closing the door, but even I knew that'd be painfully weird. So I stood my ground and waited for him to make the next move.
I only remembered what I was wearing when his eyes trailed down from my face to my feet, then back up again.
"Are those Harry Potter slippers?" he asked.
"Uh," I said, laughing a little. "Technically they are Fred and George Weasley twin slippers. My favorite characters. The left one is Fred and..." I trailed off. You're doing the thing Maisey told you not to do. You're letting your weird show. No, you're yanking your weird out and waving it in his face right now. "I got them as a gag gift," I added quickly. Liar. You bought them online and couldn't wait for them to come.