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Over the course of ten minutes, my apartment went from shithole to royal shithole.
But so far, I haven’t had the patience or desire to unpack it and make it any better, and I’m not about to start now. This place was only supposed to be a stepping stone until I could find a townhouse or condo to call my own. The real estate market here is slim pickings, nothing available besides McMansions with too much space than one person needs or quaint fixer-uppers. The last thing I want is a second job in the form of a house.
Stepping over the mess, I find a pair of joggers and an old hockey sweatshirt and throw them on before heading down to grab another bite to eat. A grown man can’t live off turkey and bread alone.
It’s been the same song and dance since I’ve arrived here. I keep opening up the old fridge, expecting it to be magically stocked with food though it never is—probably because I haven’t hauled my ass to Shaw’s to pick up some basics. I’m not about to do that now, either. I just spent a full day on my feet, dealing with sprains and chest pains and influenza. I need fast. I need easy.
I open up the Uber Eats app and scroll the limited offerings which serve as a reminder that this is Sapphire Shores, not downtown Boston. The two places that deliver out here have an hour-long wait, at least.
The moaning and banging next door is rising to a fever pitch, intensifying the molten-hot jealousy already flooding my veins.
I drag my hands down my face and make the decision.
Either I sit here, starving and green with envy as some asshat rails the woman of my dreams … or I go to Ted’s.
Crappy pizza wins this battle.
Grabbing my wallet, I head across the parking lot. Only the second I open the door, I see her. She’s facing away from me, but I’d know that blonde waterfall anywhere, even when it’s tied up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a red visor and apron, her hands moving, folding pizza boxes with care, efficiency, and precision.
The second she turns and locks eyes with me, it suddenly strikes me.
Didn’t she mention something about a roommate?
Feeling a second wind coming on, I can’t help but smile.
Stassi, however, does not.
Her eyes flick away from mine, to the old guy behind the counter. He must be giving her an order, because she nods tightly and rushes to grab a red frosted plastic cup, filling it with Mountain Dew from the fountain machine.
I approach the counter, mere feet from her as she continues filling several glasses without looking up. Diet Coke. Sprite. Mr. Pibb. Sunkist Orange. Ice water. One after another.
“Hey,” I say after a quiet couple of beats. “Long time, no see.”
But Stassi doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Instead, she plants the cups on a black tray, hoists it against her hip, and heads to the dining room where a family is sitting at a booth poring over their menus. She places the cups in front of each of the diners, before asking how everyone’s doing. Her voice is as sweet as pie and she rattles off a few recommendations and specials before engaging in a bit of friendly small talk.
She can pretend I’m not here all she wants, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge and I’m not about to start.
I waited practically my entire life to have sex with this infuriating goddess—I’m sure as hell not going to let her ghost me now.
Plus I’m starving.
I observe Stassi some more, gauging the situation. Aside from her Ted’s t-shirt, she’s wearing black and white Adidas Sambas and a short black skirt that highlights her long, creamy legs … which only serves to remind me of the way those legs had felt, hooked around my hips.
Once again, I replay the whole scene in my mind’s eye, getting a thrill when I remember the way her breath shuddered as she was tight up against me. I could tell she was nervous and out of her comfort zone, but she quickly let loose, softening and unfurling and letting her guard down with every fevered kiss.
For once, I’d thawed the ice princess.
I can do it again—and I will.
I just hope it doesn’t take another twenty years.
“Can I help you?”
The male voice jars me out of my thoughts. I turn to the counter to find the old man staring me down. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s Ted. He’s got less hair and more belly than I remember from all the times we used to come here after hockey practice, but there’s no mistaking it’s him.
“You want to order something or what?” His wild-eyed stare makes me question if I’m the insane one here.
I steal a glance at Stassi, who’s still chatting with that family, tray tucked under her arm. “Uh, yeah,” I say. “I just need a minute to decide.”
