and skipped down the steps. She was so pleased with herself that she didn't see the guy in front of her until she bumped into him. "Sorr—"
Her apology broke off when she realized it was the new downstairs neighbor.
He stared down at her, his gaze direct but his thoughts closed off. He looked like a Latin Harry Potter with those glasses, and she wanted to reach up and run her hand through his disheveled hair.
Clearing her throat, she stepped back, but not before she sniffed at him. The aroma of sweet onions clung to him. She felt a pang of hunger, only she wasn't sure if it was for food or another sort of treat.
"He's too old for you," he said, his tone heavy with disapproval.
She shook her head, confused. "What?"
He pointed at Greg's door. "He's not for you."
"No, he's for my sister, Freya, your upstairs neighbor." She made a face. "Of course he's not for me. That's just gross."
He relaxed a little, his expression softening.
Not able to help herself, she leaned in and inhaled. "Do you have food hidden on you? You smell delicious."
The corner of his mouth hitched a tiny bit. "Are you hungry?"
"I'm always hungry." As if punctuating her statement, her stomach rumbled.
"Come." He motioned for her to follow him.
She watched, dumbfounded for a moment, before hurrying to keep up with him. "Where are we going?"
"My apartment. I will make you dinner."
"Seriously?"
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Just dinner. You don't need to worry."
Bummer, because she wouldn't have minded him coming on to her. He had on jeans, just like the last time she'd seen him, but this time with worn boots and a white shirt open at the color. His coat was black velvet.
Hot.
He stepped aside to let her enter. She didn't hesitate, walking right in. She looked around as he turned the lights on, taking off her coat and dropping it on the leather couch, which was one of the few furnishings he had. "It's got a nice open feel," she said diplomatically.
"I just moved here," he explained.
"From?"
"New York." He took off his jacket and headed down the hall.
"Did you move here for work?" she asked as she followed him.
"Yes."
She waited for more, but he was obviously a man of few words. She shrugged. Whatever. He was pretty to look at and he was going to feed her. She had no complaints.
He went all the way to the back of the flat and flipped a light switch. The room lit up, revealing a modern state-of-the-art kitchen.
"Spiffy," she said, running her hand along the bar top.
"It's the reason I bought this apartment." Rolling up his sleeves, he took out a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. Then he opened the huge refrigerator and began taking out ingredients.
She perched on a high stool, resting her chin on her hands. "You aren't originally from New York."
"I'm from Peru." He pulled out a cutting board and a huge knife.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Are you married?"
He gave her a flat look as he washed some vegetables.
"I was just wondering." She shrugged unapologetically. "You want me to answer some questions?"
"No."
"I'm not married either."
"That's because you're a child."
Anna stiffened. "I am not. I'm twenty-one."
"Exactly." He glanced at her as he set a pan on a hot burner.
She frowned at him, not sure what to say. She settled on a safe topic for the time being. "You look like you know what you're doing."
"I'm a chef."
"Cool. I can't cook at all. It's amazing that you do it for a living."
He didn't say anything. She chose to believe it was because he was focusing so hard on what he was doing. He put pasta in the boiling water and then poured oil in the other pan before throwing in the stuff he'd chopped up.
He looked so cute. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his movements were all economical and efficient.
He'd treat his woman the same way. He'd focus on her like nothing else existed, passionate and single-minded about loving her.
She was going to be his woman.
Anna nodded. It was
Her apology broke off when she realized it was the new downstairs neighbor.
He stared down at her, his gaze direct but his thoughts closed off. He looked like a Latin Harry Potter with those glasses, and she wanted to reach up and run her hand through his disheveled hair.
Clearing her throat, she stepped back, but not before she sniffed at him. The aroma of sweet onions clung to him. She felt a pang of hunger, only she wasn't sure if it was for food or another sort of treat.
"He's too old for you," he said, his tone heavy with disapproval.
She shook her head, confused. "What?"
He pointed at Greg's door. "He's not for you."
"No, he's for my sister, Freya, your upstairs neighbor." She made a face. "Of course he's not for me. That's just gross."
He relaxed a little, his expression softening.
Not able to help herself, she leaned in and inhaled. "Do you have food hidden on you? You smell delicious."
The corner of his mouth hitched a tiny bit. "Are you hungry?"
"I'm always hungry." As if punctuating her statement, her stomach rumbled.
"Come." He motioned for her to follow him.
She watched, dumbfounded for a moment, before hurrying to keep up with him. "Where are we going?"
"My apartment. I will make you dinner."
"Seriously?"
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Just dinner. You don't need to worry."
Bummer, because she wouldn't have minded him coming on to her. He had on jeans, just like the last time she'd seen him, but this time with worn boots and a white shirt open at the color. His coat was black velvet.
Hot.
He stepped aside to let her enter. She didn't hesitate, walking right in. She looked around as he turned the lights on, taking off her coat and dropping it on the leather couch, which was one of the few furnishings he had. "It's got a nice open feel," she said diplomatically.
"I just moved here," he explained.
"From?"
"New York." He took off his jacket and headed down the hall.
"Did you move here for work?" she asked as she followed him.
"Yes."
She waited for more, but he was obviously a man of few words. She shrugged. Whatever. He was pretty to look at and he was going to feed her. She had no complaints.
He went all the way to the back of the flat and flipped a light switch. The room lit up, revealing a modern state-of-the-art kitchen.
"Spiffy," she said, running her hand along the bar top.
"It's the reason I bought this apartment." Rolling up his sleeves, he took out a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. Then he opened the huge refrigerator and began taking out ingredients.
She perched on a high stool, resting her chin on her hands. "You aren't originally from New York."
"I'm from Peru." He pulled out a cutting board and a huge knife.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Are you married?"
He gave her a flat look as he washed some vegetables.
"I was just wondering." She shrugged unapologetically. "You want me to answer some questions?"
"No."
"I'm not married either."
"That's because you're a child."
Anna stiffened. "I am not. I'm twenty-one."
"Exactly." He glanced at her as he set a pan on a hot burner.
She frowned at him, not sure what to say. She settled on a safe topic for the time being. "You look like you know what you're doing."
"I'm a chef."
"Cool. I can't cook at all. It's amazing that you do it for a living."
He didn't say anything. She chose to believe it was because he was focusing so hard on what he was doing. He put pasta in the boiling water and then poured oil in the other pan before throwing in the stuff he'd chopped up.
He looked so cute. His brow furrowed in concentration, and his movements were all economical and efficient.
He'd treat his woman the same way. He'd focus on her like nothing else existed, passionate and single-minded about loving her.
She was going to be his woman.
Anna nodded. It was
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