Page 39 of Reluctantly Yours

“How does it look?” Chloe removes the ice pack from her forehead. Her fair complexion is no aid in disguising the red mark on her skin, though I do think the ice is helping with the swelling. I should be staring at her face, but my gaze drops to her chest. The spot where her quarter-zip tennis dress is displaying her cleavage.

She catches me looking.

“They didn’t have a sports bra in my size so I had to wear my regular bra. If Fred didn’t nail me in the head with the ball, I probably would have knocked myself out with one of these bouncing around.” She pats her chest. “Seriously, why are tennis clothes so snug? You know what I’m talking about. Those shorts aren’t hiding anything.”

Chloe finds my lap out of the corner of her eye.

“Did I say that out loud?” She clamps a hand over her mouth.

“Yes.” I hold back a chuckle, because the only thing more entertaining than angry Chloe is nervous, rambling Chloe.

“It looks fine.” I point to her head. “Your head, that is. I’m not going to comment on your breasts.”

“That’s fair. I won’t comment on your dick either.” She gasps. “Is having no filter a symptom of a concussion?”

“No,” I say, feeling my shorts grow tighter with Chloe’s innocent, yet effective dirty talk. At that moment, I’m grateful that Marcus pulls up to Chloe’s building.

Chloe moves to get out of the car.

“I’ll see you in,” I say.

“No, it’s fine. I’m good.”

“I want to make sure you get into your apartment okay.” Whether it’s because I don’t want her to pass out in her hallway or because I’m plain curious, I’m not sure.

Chloe grabs the bag with her work clothes in it and proceeds to an orange door nestled between a pawn shop and a business advertising money orders and jail bonds. I glance down the street. My attention in the car had been on Chloe. I don’t even know where we are. I haven’t seen the inside and I already hate it.

Inside the small entryway, there are four mailboxes on the wall, and a steep set of stairs leading upward.

“No doorman, I take it?”

Chloe narrows her eyes at me. She coughs and I swear I hear the word ‘snob’ under her breath. Trying to keep an open mind, I follow Chloe’s lead, up another flight of stairs, to the third floor.

After inserting the key, she jiggles the handle twice before cranking it to the right.

“That doesn’t seem safe,” I say.

“You have to know just how to jiggle it or it doesn’t work. It’s more effective than if the key worked normally. Trust me, I’ve been locked out several times. It’s the equivalent of a randomly selected password online. You know the ones where you’re never going to remember them because they’re like twenty characters long and have no relevance to you whatsoever so you immediately change it to Bobcatpretzel1997?”

What is she even talking about right now? Maybe I shouldn’t let her stay alone.

These thoughts immediately invade my brain, but I don’t voice them.

“What significance is that?” I ask.

“I had a cat named Bob, he liked to lick pretzels and I was born in 1997. I probably shouldn’t be telling you that. I use that password for everything.” She sighs, obviously disgruntled that she’s going to have to change her password now. “Okay, I made it. Thanks for seeing me home.”

Ignoring her attempt to leave me on the outside of the door, I quickly move past her. I’m only two strides in and nearly run into a brick wall. I look around. Chloe’s apartment is the smallest I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if it could technically be called an apartment, but more so a room.

“What the hell, Chloe?” I motion to the space around me. The twelve-by-eighteen room that appears to be Chloe’s home.

She closes the door and turns toward me. We’re practically on top of each other.

“I didn’t move the wall. It’s always been there.” She points to the brick wall I nearly crashed into. We would have both had facial injuries if I hadn’t stopped short. “You act like I did some kind of voodoo magic to make the walls close in on themselves. Don’t worry, your perfect nose didn’t get crushed.” She heels off her tennis shoes, then mumbles, but not quietly at all, “Maybe if you weren’t so tall and broad shouldered, you’d fit better.”

“Right, because my stature is the issue here.”

I glance around, finally able to take in the rest of her place now that I know this is all of it. A twin bed with a pink comforter with tiny flowers on it. A six-drawer dresser that also serves as a nightstand and a desk with her laptop, lamp and books on it. A folding camp chair tucked in the corner is the only seating other than her bed. On the wall opposite her bed there’s a two-foot-wide counter with a sink and one upper and lower cabinet. There’s a hot plate taking up the remainder of the counter, its cord hanging precariously close to the sink.