“No rush. I think I’m about finished with the disposal. Go relax or something.”
I smiled wistfully at the idea of relaxing. “No time. I need to take a shower and get this cake baking.”
“Then go take a shower, I’ll be a few more minutes.”
“Thank you, so much, for—”
“Stop thanking me. Instead I’ll take the ruined cake—the cake I ruined—and we’ll call it even.”
“You have a deal.” My eye caught the time on the wall clock hanging over the table. I needed to hurry. Darting from the kitchen, I made for my bathroom, swiftly undressing as I shut the door behind me. When I was in my birthday suit, I reached into the shower to turn on the water.
Nothing happened.
I stared at the inactive showerhead and frowned. I’m ashamed to admit it took me a full ten seconds to realize nothing was happening because Matty had obviously turned off the water to the apartment in order to fix the dishwasher. Sighing when I couldn’t locate my bathrobe, I pulled an oversized towel from the rack and wrapped it around myself, then speed-walked to the living room. All the while making a mental list of the things I needed to accomplish before leaving for Ashley’s party at 4:00 p.m.
“Hey, Matt,” I called, “Did you turn the water off?”
“Who’s Matt?” a voice at my left asked, making me jump and crouch into a fighting stance as my eyes flew to the source.
And then I saw him.
I saw Greg.
He was . . . here.
Standing in the entranceway to the apartment, a small duffle bag on his shoulder. His day-old scruff was gone. He looked exhausted, but happy.
My confused heart stuttered then leapt, beating excitedly before my confused brain could figure out what was going on.
We stared at each other for several seconds, his grin growing wider, until I finally managed to breathe out, “Oh my God!”
“No, darling. It’s just your husband.”
Not giving me three seconds to recover, he dropped his bag to the floor, crossed the room, and wrapped me in his arms.
I returned the embrace as I was too stunned to do anything else but sputter, “How-when-how . . . ?” And, inexplicably, my eyes stung.
Greg backed me against the wall in the living room and kissed me, groaning when his mouth met mine. Meanwhile, my eyes were wide as I watched him, blinking away the unexpected rush of liquid emotion, unable to process the truth of his presence, here, home, and not off the coast of South Africa on an oil rig.
“Stop staring and kiss me, would you?” His hand fisted in my hair and he tugged, angling my head back, then bending to bite my neck, sending wonderful sensation shivers racing over every inch of my skin. “Ah, you’re delicious.”
I shook my muddled head and placed my hands on his shoulders, pushing him away so I could see his face. I needed to see he was real and not a figment of my imagination.
Before I could speak, Matty’s voice carried to us as he exited the kitchen. “Yes, sorry about the water. I’ll run downstairs and turn it back . . . on.”
Greg stilled then tensed. I watched as he twisted and glanced at Matty over his shoulder. Still feeling astonished and confused by the sudden appearance of my husband, I stared at his neck and jaw for a long moment. I blinked, half expecting him to disappear. When he didn’t, I peeked around Greg’s large frame to where Matty was suspended just inside the kitchen.
I sensed Greg stiffen further and straighten. He turned from me to face our neighbor. “Who the hell are you?”
Matty’s eyes were wide, clearly confused, and more than a little concerned when they met mine briefly, then flickered back to my husband’s. “Uh, I’m Matt.”
“Mat? As in, a small rectangular piece of carpet made for the express purpose of cleaning dirt from one’s shoes?”
Greg’s impolite words and clipped tone pulled me from my stupor and I smacked his shoulder. “Greg!” I pulled my towel tighter and walked around my rude husband to stand in between the two men.
“Oh, you’re Greg,” Matty said, sounding less confused, but more wary.
“Yeah. I’m Greg,” he growled, making no attempt to disguise his hostility; but then, he never did.
“Greg, this is Matthew Simmons. He is our next door neighbor.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” I ground out, “that is so.”
Matty, holding a kitchen towel, gave his palms another wipe before reaching out his hand to Greg. “Nice to meet you . . . ?”
Greg made no movement to accept the handshake, instead opting to narrow his eyes threateningly. “Why don’t you have a shirt on, Matt?”
Matty’s eyes widened and he dropped his hand as he glanced at his bare chest. “I, uh-I was just—”