I dress quietly, so as not to wake her, then head downstairs to chat with the building manager about getting her back into her apartment. Next, I duck into my favourite café and order us some breakfast—two coffees, bagels and those sweet Danishes with the strawberry jam in the middle.
By the time I make it back, I find Blondie sitting upright in my bed. Her hair is a fluffy, tangled cloud.
I set the coffee cup next to her. “There’s breakfast out here, if you’re hungry. Security is going to come up with the building manager in an hour to help you into your apartment.”
Blondie eyes me with a whole lot of suspicion. Then she wraps the sheet around her and gets out of bed. “Thank you.”
“Why are you looking at me like you’ve caught me snooping in your drawers?”
“Because I’m confused.” She comes closer, her pale eyes narrowed. “Why are you being nice?”
Christ. What kind of losers has she dated in the past that a coffee and pastry is considered a big deal?
“I thought you might be hungry. I know I am.” I shrug. I’m not going to turn this into a thing—Blondie has walls higher than I’m willing to climb. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to screw her and then shove her out of my apartment. “It’s nothing.”
She picks up the coffee and pads out of my bedroom, still wearing the sheet and letting it trail behind her. I shake my head. I was going to wash it anyway, but it still makes me laugh.
“So you’re a genuine nice guy, Mr. Suit.”
“It’s not self-proclaimed, so it must be true.” I follow her and reach for the double-shot latte sitting on my kitchen table. I rarely eat at home, but there’s something nice about sitting here with her, enjoying the sunshine streaming in and taking a moment to relax. “And I really don’t like the whole Mr. Suit thing. Makes me sound stuffy.”
“Youarestuffy.” She smirks. “Remember the whole rubbish chute conversation?”
“I’m considerate of my fellow residents.”
“Stuffy,” she repeats as she rummages through the white paper bag stamped with the Wooden Llama cafe’s logo. “Ooh, what flavour pastry?”
“Strawberry.”
She plucks one out and bites into it with a blissed-out expression. “My favourite.”
Somehow, I’d known that when I ordered them. Which is crazy, since I don’t know a damn thing about her—not her name, nor her profession. Only that when she cried out in the throes of sex, it was the best sound I’ve ever heard.
“I want to know your name.”
Blondie stiffens on the other side of the table. “I thought we weren’t doing names.”
“A name now isn’t going to change anything, but two people who’ve had sex are past the point of using pseudonyms,” I point out. “At least, that’s how it’s always been in my experience.”
“You really don’t know how this whole casual sex thing works, do you?” She wrinkles her brows. “The rules don’t include pastries and names.”
“Then whatarethe rules? Enlighten me since you think I enjoy them so much.” I roll my eyes and fish out a pastry for myself. It’s heaven on my tongue, and a rare treat. I don’t usually eat things that are quite so nutritionally devoid.
You reallyarestuffy.
“No follow-up calls unless it’s booty related. No deep and meaningful conversations. No romantic dates.” She ticks the items off her fingers. “No introductions to friends or family. And definitely no commitments.”
“Who made these rules?”
“Me.” Her stare is direct and unwavering. “It’s for both our protection.”
“Ah, like an emotional condom.”
In spite of herself, she snorts. “I like that.”
“Look, Blondie. I’m not trying to drag you into something you’re not comfortable with. But I didn’t want you passing out on my floor because there’s literally nothing to eat in this apartment, hence me buying breakfast. And I stopped by the concierge desk because I was walking past it and you were sleeping pretty heavy.”
Never in my life have I needed to justify a kind deed. She’s an enigma...a damaged one. I shouldn’t be intrigued, but I definitely am.