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I follow him to the elevator and climb in next to him. I don't prepare myself for what it will be like once the metal doors close because this is the first part of the building thathasn'tbeen like a five-star hotel.
Hotel elevators are designed with luggage in mind, so their interiors are usually pretty spacious. This one isn't. Brett and I are standing closer than ever, alone in a sixteen-square-foot box.
And in this tight little space together, I have never been more aware of a man's body beside me.
Every breath that enters and exits his body. Every blink of his long-lashed eyes. Every subtle movement of his lips and the bobbing of his Adam's apple when he swallows. I'm aware of every little thing he does.
This is going to be a long day.
As we reach the door to Bash’s condo, Brett pauses, his hand resting on the handle. Before he turns it, he looks down at me, giving me a sheepish smile.
"Sorry for what you're going to see on the other side of this," he says. "My brother is in charge of his own decorating."
I shoot him a smirk. "I get it. Champagne and roses. Fur rugs and crystal chandeliers. I'm not intimidated by those things."
For some reason, he seems to think this is funny. “Champagne and roses, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
Turning the handle, he opens the door for me, and I almost audibly gasp. The inside of his brother's apartment is nothing like the outside.
The apartment's main living room has a big leather couch, a wide-screen TV hanging on the wall, and a large stretch of soft, grey carpeting.
A signed baseball bat that should be in a display case on the wall has instead been discarded on the floor, propped up against what looks like an open bag of kitty litter. Old, half-empty beer bottles stand on the coffee table, where many moisture rings have been left on the wooden surface as the coasters go unused.
And, worst of all, a pile of laundry is sitting on the couch with at least one pair of men's boxers peeking out of the mound.
I glance at Brett.
"I'm sorry about all this," he says, carefully setting my bags on the counter before rushing to grab the laundry. "I tried to clean up as much as I could this morning, but I'm just one man."
"It's alright." I stand near the now-closed door, nervous to take another step forward. "So, this is Bash’s place?"
"And his mess," he assures me, wrinkling his nose at the underwear as he tosses it into a laundry basket. "Unfortunately, he's out of the house right now, or I'd force him to help. Then again, he'd probably just stand there and try to tell you about one of his old baseball tricks anyway, so he wouldn't be that much help."
"He plays baseball?" I ask, eyeing the discarded bat once more.
"Used to. But right now, he just owns and runs a certain Silver Coop." He winks at me, carrying the now full laundry basket in his strong arms.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Of course," he says. "I talked to my brother about us using his kitchen, and he said it's fine."
I frown. "No, I mean… are you sure this place is, uh… sanitary?"
But Brett just laughs. "Yes, everything should be fine. I spent most of my morning cleaning the kitchen this morning, but there wasn't much. Like I said, he doesn't even use it. It'll be fine."
His eyebrows raise a little as he remembers something. "Oh, and I also got all those ingredients for you. The ones you texted about. Had everything delivered a couple of hours ago. Eggs, cake flour, sugar, a bunch of fruit…."
"Thanks so much for doing this last minute," I say, my feet shifting beneath me. "I'll pay you back for the ingredients and your time—"
"Don’t worry about it. It's my pleasure." Gesturing to the open doorway to my left, he adds, "Why don't you start setting everything up while I put this away—" he shakes the full laundry basket "—and also make sure the cat is shut in her room. We don't want the winning cake flavor to be cat hair."
To my relief, the kitchen is exactly as Brett described it. With a huge fridge and freezer combo, a pair of ovens still pretty much on their factory settings, and two stand mixers, this kitchen is as good of a last-minute replacement to the Sugar Breeze's as I could hope for.
I've just finished putting on my apron and washing my hands when Brett struts into the room sans laundry basket. Standing a few feet away, he rubs his hands together excitedly.
"So, what can I do?" he asks.
"You want to help?"
