late, Miss Maddox,” the doorman’s voice answered through the tiny speaker, “but there’s a man here to see you. He says you’re expecting him.”
No. Freaking. Way . There was no way he’d come here. He had no idea where she lived.
“A Mr. William Anderson.”
She was glad she had released the talk button because a startled gasp erupted from her.
“Shall I send him up?”
Oh, God. She should meet him down in the lobby, not let him come up to her apartment. Shaking, she pushed the button. “No…?” Shit, that came out like a question. “No,” she said more forcefully. But then she imagined Will and her having an awkward discussion about Sparkle Jeans in front of the doorman and quickly changed her mind. She pressed the button again. “Um. Yes. Tell him to come up, but give me ten minutes please.”
She stared at the speaker for a moment, and when the doorman didn’t respond, she decided that silence was affirmation.
Right. Get dressed. See what he has to say. Send him away. Three easy steps to peace of mind and no additions to the daily Claire-ism tally.
She trotted back to the bathroom, nearly slipping on the trail of water she’d left behind. She ran a brush through her dripping hair and wrapped another towel around it to dry it out. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and shook her head. No makeup, wet hair. Could it be worse?
Knock, knock, knock.
Yes, it could. What did he do, vault up the damn stairs like Superman? She snatched her bathrobe off the hook on the door and pulled it on. The silky fabric stuck to her wet shoulders. She leaned over and untwisted the towel from her hair.
Knock, knock.
“Give me a minute,” she called, straightening up and giving herself a head rush. That had sounded really pissy. So what? It was an odd time to just drop by. He was supposed to wait in the lobby for ten minutes before coming up.
She strode to the door, catching the back of a chair for support as she slipped on the water from before.
Knock, knock, knock.
“I said, hold on!” She jerked the door open to find Will right outside with a smile on his face. Dang. Those dimples. Claire gritted her teeth. She was supposed to be mad.
All manner of pissy remarks about intruding on her privacy popped through her head, but just the sight of him made them wither. Instead of a pithy greeting, she just stood there, staring at the big, handsome man filling her doorway.
…
Will knew he shouldn’t have surprise-attacked her like that, but he wanted to see her. No. He had to see her and clear up the unfortunate occurrence at the restaurant. And then it dawned on him maybe she wasn’t alone. Shit. He looked past her into the apartment, but saw no signs of anyone else. “Did I interrupt something?”
“A bath.”
She looked fantastic in the bathrobe with her wet hair dripping on the floor. Delicious. He placed a hand on the doorframe and leaned closer. “Alone?” God, he hoped so.
“How was your date?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“What do you want, Mr. Anderson?”
Well, there was some ice water in all the wrong places. The use of his formal name caused his stomach to churn. He’d overstepped the boundaries. “I wanted to talk to you. I told you I don’t date, and that’s true. You are the first woman I’ve asked out in over eight months. I just wanted you to know that.”
Completely flustered, she shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked over her shoulder into her apartment. “Well, you caught me at a really bad time.”
His brow furrowed. This was a nightmare. He’d interrupted…something. His chest filled with a concoction of guilt and jealousy—both volatile alone, but immobilizing together. “You’re not alone. I didn’t mean to…” God, what a fuckup he was. Of course a beautiful woman like this wouldn’t be sitting home alone. He took a step back. “I’m really sorry. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”
He took off toward the elevator. He
No. Freaking. Way . There was no way he’d come here. He had no idea where she lived.
“A Mr. William Anderson.”
She was glad she had released the talk button because a startled gasp erupted from her.
“Shall I send him up?”
Oh, God. She should meet him down in the lobby, not let him come up to her apartment. Shaking, she pushed the button. “No…?” Shit, that came out like a question. “No,” she said more forcefully. But then she imagined Will and her having an awkward discussion about Sparkle Jeans in front of the doorman and quickly changed her mind. She pressed the button again. “Um. Yes. Tell him to come up, but give me ten minutes please.”
She stared at the speaker for a moment, and when the doorman didn’t respond, she decided that silence was affirmation.
Right. Get dressed. See what he has to say. Send him away. Three easy steps to peace of mind and no additions to the daily Claire-ism tally.
She trotted back to the bathroom, nearly slipping on the trail of water she’d left behind. She ran a brush through her dripping hair and wrapped another towel around it to dry it out. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and shook her head. No makeup, wet hair. Could it be worse?
Knock, knock, knock.
Yes, it could. What did he do, vault up the damn stairs like Superman? She snatched her bathrobe off the hook on the door and pulled it on. The silky fabric stuck to her wet shoulders. She leaned over and untwisted the towel from her hair.
Knock, knock.
“Give me a minute,” she called, straightening up and giving herself a head rush. That had sounded really pissy. So what? It was an odd time to just drop by. He was supposed to wait in the lobby for ten minutes before coming up.
She strode to the door, catching the back of a chair for support as she slipped on the water from before.
Knock, knock, knock.
“I said, hold on!” She jerked the door open to find Will right outside with a smile on his face. Dang. Those dimples. Claire gritted her teeth. She was supposed to be mad.
All manner of pissy remarks about intruding on her privacy popped through her head, but just the sight of him made them wither. Instead of a pithy greeting, she just stood there, staring at the big, handsome man filling her doorway.
…
Will knew he shouldn’t have surprise-attacked her like that, but he wanted to see her. No. He had to see her and clear up the unfortunate occurrence at the restaurant. And then it dawned on him maybe she wasn’t alone. Shit. He looked past her into the apartment, but saw no signs of anyone else. “Did I interrupt something?”
“A bath.”
She looked fantastic in the bathrobe with her wet hair dripping on the floor. Delicious. He placed a hand on the doorframe and leaned closer. “Alone?” God, he hoped so.
“How was your date?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“What do you want, Mr. Anderson?”
Well, there was some ice water in all the wrong places. The use of his formal name caused his stomach to churn. He’d overstepped the boundaries. “I wanted to talk to you. I told you I don’t date, and that’s true. You are the first woman I’ve asked out in over eight months. I just wanted you to know that.”
Completely flustered, she shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked over her shoulder into her apartment. “Well, you caught me at a really bad time.”
His brow furrowed. This was a nightmare. He’d interrupted…something. His chest filled with a concoction of guilt and jealousy—both volatile alone, but immobilizing together. “You’re not alone. I didn’t mean to…” God, what a fuckup he was. Of course a beautiful woman like this wouldn’t be sitting home alone. He took a step back. “I’m really sorry. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow. Good night.”
He took off toward the elevator. He
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