In any other situation I might find him endearing.
“I would’ve introduced myself sooner, but I’ve been out of town.”
I’m still struggling to find a foothold in this scene, so I don’t say anything.
“How are you liking it so far?” He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m still practically standing in the bushes, surrounded by enough takeout to feed a whole suburb, wearing a very thin, probably see-through pink floral robe with enough mud on my face to prevent my phone from opening at the sight of me.
“I’d like it better if the door didn’t lock behind me,” I finally say with a weak smile.
“Oh. Yeah. Safety feature.” He scratches his head. “Kind of like a hotel. I mean... it’s usually a good thing.” He gives me a quick once-over. “Though, maybe not in this case.”
I wince. “Yeah. Maybe not.”
He’s smirking now. “It’s in the welcome email—did you read the welcome email?”
“Of course I read the welcome email,” I lie.
“There was no welcome email.”
Crap.“What—?”
“I’m just teasing.” He chuckles.
“This isn’t funny.” I cinch the robe tighter and reach down to grab the bags.
“Oh! Here, let me...” He moves toward them, and I instinctively flinch at his closeness—which tips my balance again, and I lean, having to put a hand down on the ground to keep from falling.
He stands, bags in one hand and offering me his other one to steady me.
“It’skind offunny,” he quips.
I look at his hand and decide it would be better if I didn’t fall over again, so I take it to stand back up, quickly dropping it as soon as I’m upright.
“It would be funnier if it were happening to someone else,” I volley back at him, trying to emote, but without the use of my eyebrows it’s not very effective.
“You’ll laugh about it one day,” he says. “When people ask us how we met, I’ll tell them the story of the half-naked woman stalking me in the bushes.” He looks down at the bags. “Oh my gosh, is this MingHin? I love this place.”
He’s acting like we’re old friends. What the heck?
“I amnotstalking you!”
He squints at me. “Aren’t you, though? A little bit stalking?”
“They left my food at the gate,” I say, as if the explanation will help any of this. “I was halfway through a facial, and I’m trying new things, so I ordered all of this food I’ve never heard of, and then it came but not to my door, and I didn’t think it would be any big deal if I—” I wave a hand in the direction of the gate.
“Hid in the bushes in your bathrobe.”
I ignore him and hold out a hand to take the bags.
He extends one toward me but keeps the other two. “I can help.” Then, in a fun way, he adds, “Looks like you’ll need the other hand to keep things... you know.”
I stiffen again, pulling the robe tighter with my free hand. “And nobody is going to ask how we met.”
He gestures to the walkway back to my apartment. “They will if we become friends.”
Before I can stop myself, I make the connection between my experience and my assumptions and blurt out, “You probably have enough femalefriends, huh?”
He holds eye contact for a long beat, then raises an amused brow. “Did you say you’re ‘trying’ new food?”
