Page 25 of Naked Coffee Guy

Nina stares at me for a moment, her stony face studying me. Then she nods.

“There you are. You were starting to look happy for a second, which is so unlike you.”

I shoot her a look. “I’m happy. I’m just not thrilled about losing my own apartment.” I glance at Nina’s clothes forming a mountain on the couch, and her dishes from last night glued to the coffee table. I’m not happy about that, either. But I figured I’d give it some time before nagging her about it. After all, she’s saving my ass from being homeless.

Because of Mac.

How can I lust after the same person I hate? This feels complicated, and I don’t know if I like it or not.

Chapter Ten

Mac

The room still smells like her. An intoxicating mixture of lilac and sex. It’s in the blankets, the air, and the empty spot of the bed next to me.

I felt her get up when she left. Felt her eyes wander over me as she lingered by the bed. For a moment I wondered if she’d stay. I thought about rolling over and letting her know I was awake, and then asking her to come back to bed.

But I didn’t. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even. If she stays or goes, it needs to be her choice.

Just like when I undressed her. Touched her. Fucked her.

I told her I was the one in control, but the reality is, she was. Just like she’s controlled my life since the first time I laid eyes on her.

Years ago.

Okay, controlled is maybe too strong of a word, but she definitely affected it. I watched as she lugged a guitar case bigger than the small bag that presumably carried everything she owned on her way to #17 on the second floor of the Beale Street Apartments, and it was like being broadsided by a 2x4. It wasn’t so much that she was hot, though her beauty was unmatched by anyone I ever saw. Her ivory skin, eyes the color of coffee, dark hair with fringe bangs that framed her face, and those perfect rosebud lips, not to mention the slinky nature of her slender body—I could have stared at her for hours, like she was a piece of art.

It was more than that, though. It was the way she carried herself, with a brush of wide-eyed insecurity masked by complete confidence. It was the tender way she carried that guitar, as if she were carrying a small child. Most of all, it was that look of wisdom just beyond the mysterious darkness of her eyes, like she had experienced some serious trauma but still came out the other side.

That’s what penetrated me the most. I recognized that look immediately.

Like calls to like. In her, I felt a kindred soul.

This was all without speaking to her, because she walked by me without even seeing me at all. I was a smooth-faced scrawny guy, completely different than I am now; thanks to a few dedicated years at the gym and a serious break from my razor, I’m now around 100 pounds heavier than I was back then, and my blonde beard now reaches to my chest. Even I have a hard time believing we’re the same person, that scrawny kid and me, so it doesn’t surprise me that Maren has no idea who I am.

She moved into that apartment, owning nothing but her clothes and guitar. I know because the first day I came in there to check a faulty light switch—I wasn’t an electrician, but one of Benji’s buddies once gave me a crash course—I saw no couch, no table, not even a bed.

And here’s where things got weird.

I was always a shy kid, especially when it came to girls. It wasn’t any easier when I was in my twenties. I wanted to help Maren out because I knew what it felt like to have nothing. I also knew how important it was to be independent and earn your way, and I had a feeling Maren’s pride was attached to this.

So I started searching for things she could use. Many were used, like the funky orange couch that was left behind in one of the units. It was in great shape, and I had it professionally cleaned. I also went to garage sales and collected pretty dishes, an almost complete silverware set, a dining room table, and a few other items I thought she might need. I even bought a brand-new mattress set with a bed frame, using a whole month’s salary to get it.

I should have just told her that I’d found all this stuff for her. But by then, I’d pretty much amassed a household of belongings. I realized how it might look, that she’d know I was interested in her. Maybe she’d think this was creepy and weird. Maybe she’d tell me she wasn’t interested.

So I did the next best thing, I set it all up in one of the vacant apartments, making it seem like someone had used all these things. Then I slid a typed note under her door, letting her know that the tenant in #4 had moved out and left a bunch of things that were free for the taking. I gave it the feel that management was sending the notice to every tenant. But in reality, Maren was the only one who got that letter.

When I checked back later, apartment #4 was cleaned out. A few months later, when I was fixing her plumbing, there she was on her second-hand orange couch, strumming her treasured guitar, surrounded by the things I got for her—and she didn’t even know.

Was I a total wimp for not being completely outright? Sure. Did she finally have a fully furnished apartment? Yup. So, job well done. Even that orange couch looked amazing in her apartment, but probably because it was Maren sitting on it.

It took years for me to finally get to a place where I knew I had to talk with her. At least to get to know her better beyond the tenant-maintenance relationship we shared, which was putting it generously. She barely acknowledged me except for a slight head nod when she came home from work—if she saw me.

As for me, I always saw her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I finally reached a point where if I didn’t make my intentions known, I was going to explode.

But when I finally mustered the courage to walk up to her apartment, Brock was coming out.

Brock. The weasel who knew exactly how to get under my skin practically since the first day we met. And there he was, walking out of Maren’s apartment like he owned the place.