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Abort. Abort. Abort.
“I better go take a hot shower. I’m freezing. Good night, Chils. See you tomorrow.”
She pouts. “But we have an appointment scheduled for the end of the year.”
“Officially, it’s already the first. Go to sleep, sweetheart. No sleepovers, remember?” I shove her gently toward her door. She mumbles a protest, but yawns at the same time and doesn’t argue.
I almost beat up a guy or two today, and then a smile and a kiss scare the shit out of me. What the actual fuck?
* * *
I need to keep some distance. Two things made last night the worst New Year’s Eve ever. First, I felt Chils was mine—mine to protect. Fat lie.
Second, the weird, fuzzy feeling that crept over me when she stumbled into me, smiled at me, wrapped her arms around me, or later when I kissed her good night. I don’t do fuzzy.
The gym is still closed, so I go for a run. The frost prickles my lungs like a thousand little needles, but I don’t stop. Unlike other mornings when I drag my ass out early for a run, today I don’t cross paths with other runners.
The park is littered with confetti, bottles, several partygoers and some poor assholes from the clean-up crew.
My head is littered with unwanted feelings.
Fuck.
Feelings? The worst New Year's ever.
And I don’t even count the stupid bar. I need to hit Roxie’s to reinstate some balance in my life. To feel like me again. How would Chils feel about me getting a lap dance?
Why do I care?
I run faster, but the Arctic-like air makes me wheeze and I turn around before the much-needed endorphins hit.
I don’t feel any better by the time I reach my building.
“Happy New Year, Mr. Cressard.” Cesare opens the door and survivable temperatures envelop me.
“I told you to call me Dominic. Happy New Year.” I want to get out of here because Cesare doesn’t deserve my foul mood.
“If you don’t mind, my wife baked some banana bread for you.” Cesare dashes behind the concierge desk and pulls out a box.
“Thank you.” I take it and turn to leave.
“Share it with Ms. Lowe. It’s her favorite.”
That stops me. Cesare is clearly observant and noticed that we’re spending time together. But that’s not what surprises me. The woman doesn’t even know his name.
“How do you know it’s her favorite?”
“My wife sent her one after she helped me keep this job. She told me it’s the best she’s ever had.”
“Are you sure you didn’t speak to her sister?” The story prompts me to walk back to him.
“I know, those two look so similar, but only at first glance.” He chuckles. “Ms. Lowe witnessed a woman harassing me for something that was her own fault. She used to live in the penthouse. A bitter woman. Anyway, she tried to get me fired and I would have lost this job, but Ms. Lowe intervened.
“She helps everyone. Her driver sometimes sneaks in for coffee when he waits for her, and the woman really goes beyond and above helping people. You would never know by the scowl she wears on her face.” He chuckles again and then goes rigid. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t gossip about—”
“Relax, Cesare, I’m glad you told me. I think that scowl is permanent damage by now,” I joke, but it falls flat, mostly because I don’t enjoy making fun of Chils. Unless it’s to her face. I thank him again and make my way upstairs.
So, she doesn’t know the doorman’s or her driver’s names, but she still takes care of them. The woman makes sure the wall around her is impenetrable, without forming personal attachments. That’s good. Easier for me to stay on the right side.
