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I reach for the handle of the front door and turn. Nothing. I try again, rattling it slightly. Still nothing. A dark chuckle comes from behind me and I sigh, letting my forehead bump against the wood as I sag in defeat.
I’ve locked myself out.
CHAPTER TEN
Flynn
IDON’TSAYa word. I don’t even breathe. Instead I lean against the wall and watch as Blondie realises she’s locked herself out of her apartment. I’m guessing a rule-breaker like her didn’t bother to bring her keys with her—after all, where would she put them if she’s not wearing pants?
I can tell by the style of the lock that there’s an automatic dead bolt installed. The desire to laugh bubbles up inside me.
Blondie turns, barely able to raise her ethereal blue eyes to mine. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” It’s a total lie and I can barely choke the words out without snorting. After her high-and-mighty display a second ago, it’s more than a little fun to see her toppled from her pedestal.
“Someone has a master key, right?” Her eyes are pleading.
“Yes, the office manager starts work at ten a.m. on Sunday mornings.”
“Of course you would know that,” she grumbles. “What about security?”
“They don’t have access to it, because they’re usually contracted through a third party. It’s too risky to give them the master.” I cross my arms. “Your options are to ask security to call the office manager and wake them up. They’ll probably charge a penalty to the person who owns the apartment,ifyou can get a hold of them. Otherwise you can call a locksmith and have the locks changed.”
“I can’t do that.” Blondie bites her lip.
“Midnight emergency callout won’t be cheap.”
“It’s not even my apartment. Will they let me do it without the owner here?” She swears and scrubs a hand over her face.
“You don’t have a great track record with locked doors, do you?” I can’t help it, the jab is wide open and I take it. To my surprise, Blondie isn’t pissed. Instead, she laughs so hard that tears form in her eyes.
“I really don’t.” She sags back against the door and shoots me a black, sooty stare. “I don’t suppose you’d mind having a misbehaving, anti-responsibility, potty-mouthed guest on your couch tonight?”
The universe is determined to test me, I’m sure of it. But I’m not about to let her sleep in the hallway.
“Come on.” I motion for her to follow. “Let’s get inside before you give the guys watching the security cameras too much of an eyeful.”
“What were you doing out here so late, anyway?” she asks. “Or did you really come out here to tell me off?”
“You think I’m some cave troll who waits around for people to break a rule so I can yell at them?” When I glance at her mischievous grin, I shake my head. “Don’t answer that.”
Actually, I was about to go for a walk—I do that sometimes when I’m feeling cagey and stuck. On a Saturday night, South Melbourne is bustling. I like to wander along Clarendon Street, enjoying the lights and the sounds of life around me. As much as I say I want a quiet, work-focused existence, sometimes the silence becomes too much.
I open the door to my apartment and hold it for Blondie. I try not to look at her incredible bare legs as she pads into my space—a space where no woman has come since my last failed attempt at a long-term relationship two years ago. My place is spare—less “design-y” than the apartment she’s staying in. It’s like me—functional, to the point.
Gabe would probably say it needed a bit more personality, but frankly I don’t spend enough time here to warrant finding a designer I would trust enough.
“It’s very...white.” Blondie bobs her head. “Minimalist.”
“I’m sure you’ll find my couch more comfortable that the hallway floor,” I say drily.
“I’m afraid to touch anything.” Her laugh sounds a little tight—like she’s nervous being here. It’s a far cry from the feisty woman I’ve encountered thus far. But I guess there’s a difference—here, she’s on my turf. Under my roof. “It’s so pristine. Do you really live here?”
“Of course I live here.”
She turns to me, subtly tugging down the hem of her jumper but all it does is draw my attention to her slender thighs. Her white-blond hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head and a few tendrils have escaped around her face and down the back of her neck. I’m struck by how beautiful she is—even while looking like sin and smelling like cocktails.
Ishouldn’tbe attracted to someone like her. She screams party girl, wild child. She’s a sexy hot mess of a woman and fucking hell, it’s got me all knotted up.
