Page 59 of Bronx

“You keep your house at a certain temperature for a plant?”

“It makes her happy.”

“Your aunt?”

“No, the plant.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, that’s what my Aunt Sloan told me to do. She basically decorated this entire place for me, including the plant, and knows what she’s doing. If she tells me to put the plant there for better Feng Shui and keep the house at 73 degrees so it can thrive, then that’s what I’m doing.”

“It sounds like you’re close to your family?” I ask, curious to learn more about him.

“I used to be,” he says, almost wistfully.

When Bronx stands and walks toward my direction, oh my God, it’s almost as if my body has a visceral reaction to him. But he made his intentions clear after that kiss. He wasn’t going to do it again. It was a mistake. Which is fine by me because he’s simply a means to an end. A guy I’m using to find my brother and nothing more.

No matter what my fluttering stomach may believe, this is neither a friendship nor a relationship. This is a business deal. Not to mention that I’m fresh out of a really bad relationship with a man who treated me like trash for a year. Clearly, my instincts about men are all wrong, and I shouldn’t listen to them and neither should my traitorous vagina.

She doesn’t get a vote.

Never mind that I can feel her warming with need inside of my panties, and my backstabbing breasts are on high alert too; doing their best to poke through the shirt that I’m wearing and bear witness to the fact that I shouldn’t be in the same living space as this man.

It’s too late now, though.

I’m here.

And we’re definitely in the same space.

I hold my breath as Bronx stands in front of me and reaches above my head. The tatted skin of his hard chest, barely inches away from my face.

“Just getting a drink,” he says carefully, as if I’m a five-year-old. He reaches above the fridge, into a cabinet, and lo and behold, there’s another bottle of whiskey.

While I know he uses it to numb the pain of his injury, I wish he wouldn’t drink. Alcohol and I don’t mix. We have a tumultuous history. When people I cared about would drink it, they would hurt me the most.

“Do you eat or drink anything besides whiskey?”

I try holding my breath as he reaches over my head again for a glass.

“I tried to take you out for real food, but you see how that turned out.”

“What do you have in here?” I try clearing the frog in my throat. “I could whip us up something if you’re hungry.”

“I rather have cake,” his voice rumbles.

Why does everything he says to me sound like it’s dripping in sex?

“Um, okay.”

“My kitchen is fully stocked. There’s measuring bowls, spoons, a mixer and cake pans in that cabinet over there,” he points. “I had my girl make sure to buy me everything that would be in a normal kitchen, even though I rarely cook myself.”

“Your girl?” I question, feeling a pang of unwarranted jealousy.

And then I feel silly after he explains.

“Her name’s Francisca. She cleans the house, buys me groceries, stuff like that.”

After Bronx pours himself a glass of whiskey, he doesn’t exit the kitchen area, but instead leans against the counter opposite me and drinks… shirtless.