Tess nodded and did her best not to saunter to her apartment door, not to swing her hips or bounce her steps, no matter how tired her legs were, but she could feel his eyes on her, so it was hard.
Well, welcome to life. Hard.
* * *
“PIVOT.”
Tess started giggling, which was not pivoting so they could get the damn couch up the stairs. A couch she’d somehow talked him into. He didn’t plan on having company. It was just him. Why would he need a couch? A chair would have sufficed.
“Why are you laughing?” Marc grumbled, the bulk of the weight of the couch resting on his shoulder. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, that run this morning had kicked his ass—physically and emotionally and whatever feeling was ignoring your hot neighbor/coworker’s hotness.
Something akin to wanting to crawl out of one’s skin. Or sex. Sex would be good.
He gritted his teeth and Tess got a better grip on the couch. “I take it from the grumpiness you never watched Friends. You know, Ross yelling at everyone to pivot in the stairwell?”
“No, I’ve never seen it.”
“How is that even possible? I’m not sure I can trust someone who’s never seen Friends.”
“I’m not big on TV.”
“Strike two, Santino. Next up you’ll tell me you don’t like dessert and I’ll be forced to hate you forever.”
“Depends on the dessert.” Which was not sexual innuendo. And it didn’t sound like it, either. Not to her. Not to him. Nope.
“Okay, so what’s your favorite?” They got the couch around the stairwell turn.
Sexual innuendo? Oh, no, dessert. “Cannoli.”
They reached the top and Tess dropped her end. “Ooh, Santino. Cannoli. Italian. Is your family in the mafia? The Minnesota mafia. And you’re a dirty cop!”
“No. Apparently you watch too much TV.”
“No fun.”
No, he wasn’t. But she was. He’d pity invited her on this shopping outing, one he’d mostly been dreading since picking out crap and spending money were two of his least favorite things, and she’d made it fun. He’d laughed.
He was so inherently screwed.
He unlocked his door, twin urges surging through him. One was the one he should listen to. The one to tell her she’d helped, and now she could leave, because he really wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t dying.
The other was to ignore that urge. Let her come in. Comment on his apartment again. Infiltrate on some crazy chance they both knew they couldn’t let happen.
“Thinking awfully hard there for a door opening.”
“Just thinking about how I was swindled,” he lied, poorly. Ill-advisedly.
Tess laughed, picking up her end of the couch again. “Oh, my God, you did not just say swindled. Are you living on the prairie?”
“It’s a legitimate word,” Marc grumbled. He didn’t need her help to get it in the apartment, but he didn’t say anything. Except, “I could make my own damn chair for half the amount of this stupid couch you talked me into.”
Tess snorted. “Sure, Ron Swanson.”
“Huh?”
“You, sir, need an education. Friends, Parks and Rec, The Office.”
“I prefer reading, thanks.”
“Strike three. You’re out,” she puffed out as they maneuvered the couch into the apartment. They dropped it in the general area in front of the TV. “Besides, if you prefer to read, why do you have a TV?”
“Sports.”
Tess rolled her eyes. “Oh, be a little less stereotypical.”
“My e-reader is full of romances.”
Her eyes got comically wide. “Really?”
“No. I actually prefer nonfiction. Biographies and stuff like that, but that’s probably stereotypical.”
She collapsed onto the couch, throwing her arm dramatically over her forehead. “Oh, and here I got all excited you had some secret poetic side to you.” She peered out from under her arm. “You know, I should hate you for not paying the delivery fee and making me help.”
“I should hate you for talking me into a couch when I only needed a chair.”
She stretched her long legs out. She was wearing loose jeans with random rips across the thigh and knee—which actually looked like use, not some attempt at fashion. All he knew was, on more than one occasion it had given him a glimpse of skin.
On more than one occasion, he’d had to tell himself to stop staring so damn much.
“You can’t stretch out on a chair,” she was saying, folding her arms behind her head. “You can’t nap or curl up with a fascinating biography of...” She looked at him pointedly, as if he was supposed to supply an answer.
“Lyndon Johnson.”
“Ugh. Worst president ever.”
“I think worst is a bit of an exaggeration.”
“I watched this show once that gave evidence to how he was behind the JFK assassination. It seemed pretty legit.”
“Please tell me you are not serious right now.”
“Okay, this right here is another reason I should hate you—I’m lying on your couch debating about history. That is the last thing I ever want to be doing on a guy’s couch.”
“And what’s the first thing?” Danger. Accident ahead. Like a flashing sign, only he couldn’t backtrack and take back those words, so he had to stand in uncomfortable...uncomfortableness.
“Hmm.” Her smile went sly, reminding him of that first night he’d met her in the hallway. Despite bleeding and being pissed, she’d smiled as if she had the world in the palm of her hand.
She could smile like that even though it was so obvious she didn’t. He couldn’t understand that. He was having a hard time resisting it, too.
“Pizza?”
She pushed herself into a sitting position, and glanced at the door. “I never say no to pizza.”
“You can go, if that’s what you want.”
Her eyes moved from the door to him, all sly smiles and confidence gone. Just gray eyes wide and something he was having trouble resisting, too.
