Awakenings and French Songs

Chapter 1-2

I’ve never in my life been so glad to see my apartment building. It took forever to get an Uber, and for a second, I’d contemplated walking, but my knee-high platform boots are made for looking hot on a dance floor, not for trekking miles and miles in the dark. The elevator is broken as usual, so I sit on the stairs, pull down the zippers, and free my poor feet before walking upstairs. I wiggle my toes and glare at the boots. They pinch something fierce, but they add four well-needed inches to my height, so I endure them. Also, my legs and ass look amazing in them.

I jog upstairs with the offending footwear in my hand. Once I’m a floor up, someone else enters the building and walks up the stairs, and when my key is in the lock, my neighbor emerges on our floor.

He rubs his eyes, but his face breaks out in a smile when he sees me. “Hiya, Iggy!”

“Ronan! You’re out late.”

His chin is covered in a five-o’clock shadow, his ocean blue eyes are tired, and it looks as though he’s run his hand through his dark brown hair repeatedly because it sticks out every which way. He’s still hot as f**k, though. Tall—of course, everyone is tall next to me. Slender and wiry, and with an ass that fills out every pair of pants he owns and looks like it would fit perfectly in my hands. Sadly, I’ve never tested the theory.

“Late shift. I had to cover for a coworker since no one else could do it.”

“Really? Where’s Emery?” Emery is his daughter. She just turned eleven but is way too mature for her young age. She’s fearless, smart, and never stops talking.

“Maya’s mom agreed to a sleepover, even though it’s a school night.”

“That’s nice.”

He nods. “Hey! Happy birthday! I thought the shenanigans would last all night long.” He eyes my boots and waggles his eyebrows as he unlocks the door to his apartment across the hall from mine.

“Eh.” I shrug.

“Uh-oh. Did something happen?”

“Eh,” I repeat, not really knowing how to voice my emotions. Talking about my feelings has never been my strong suit.

“You…” He opens the door and nods in the direction of his home. “You wanna come in for a cup of tea before bed? And tell me all about it?”

His offer unravels the knot of dissatisfaction in my stomach, as though I’ve waited for it all night long. “I’d love to. I’ll just dump the boots and peel out of these pants and I’ll be right over.”

“Great. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just walk in when you’re done.”

I nod. “I’ll only be a sec.”

Inside my apartment, I drop the boots. Then I step into the bathroom, where I wiggle out of the pants and throw the see-through T-shirt into the hamper before I wash the yucky staircase floor grime off my feet.

When my club wear is replaced with warm socks, a plain tank top, and my favorite sweats, I let out a happy sigh. A few years back, I would rather have died than be seen wearing sweats. These days, I’m pondering whether sweats would be appropriate to wear for a night on the town. Maybe by the time I’m forty, it’ll be the only thing I ever wear.

“Let’s not exaggerate, Iggy,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror and stick out my tongue.

I grab my phone and jam it into my pocket, but with my hand on the door handle, I hesitate. I fish out my phone and toss it on the kitchen counter. I can survive without that thing for an hour or so, can’t I?