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"Wait, how do you know where I live? How do you even have my number?"
On the other end of the line, I hear a car starting up and pulling away. He's probably already on the move.
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Wait, are you really coming?" My heart suddenly races. "If you're going to do it, bring food. Real food. Not the crap they make me eat."
For a moment, Damien is silent, then says. "What are you in the mood for?"
"Pasta," I answer immediately. "And ice cream. Please don't bring anything healthy for me."
Silence again, but he eventually agrees. "Okay. Give security my information."
With my heart still racing, I cut the call and run into my bedroom.
What the hell is going on here?
Without thinking, I pull off the baggy T-shirt and the bunny shorts I sleep in. My hair is a mess, but there's nothing I can do about that.
I get dressed as fast as I can. Baggy, fashionable pants and a blue tank top that matches my eyes.
I look in the mirror and check the dark circles under my eyes. They aren't as pronounced as they could be, which is a blessing. I spray a little perfume on myself, and then the phone rings.
"Open the door," says Damien on the other end of the line.
For a second, I stop breathing, and then I run to the door.
I race through the apartment in record time, trying to calm myself before I open the front door.
For a moment, I don't believe it's going to be him on the other side. Yet, when I pull open the door, he's there. Tall and so handsome, I could cry just looking at him.
Damien's suit, tailored to perfection, straddles the line between polished professionalism and rebellious edge. He's tieless and the top button of his shirt is unfasten, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone.
What is wrong with me?
You'd think I've never seen a gorgeous man before. But Damien isn't like anyone else. He's not cocky or arrogant. He just is.
Damien steps into the apartment without asking permission. He takes off his shoes in the doorway and hands me a package that smells heavenly.
"Oh, thank god," I whisper.
He follows me as I make my way into the kitchen. Once we’re both standing in, I open the package and discover that he's brought shrimp and chicken fettuccini, a heaping bag of garlic and butter toast, and a huge carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
I moan like an org. I think I love him.
"How did you know it was my favorite?" I open the tub of ice cream and grab a spoon in one fluid motion. With one bite, the ice cream melts in my mouth.
I died in gossip hell and arose in ice cream heaven.
Damien shrugs, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I didn't know," he admits, "I just brought what I felt like eating."
I look at him, raising an impressed eyebrow as I pull out a pair of silverware. I place a plate in front of him and one in front of me, and, for a moment, I try to calm down.
After the ice cream rush disappears, I realize Damien McAllister is in my apartment.
"What are you doing here?"
"I told you. We need to talk."
