Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19157 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 96(@200wpm)___ 77(@250wpm)___ 64(@300wpm)
I hesitate. "Y-you're not coming?"
"And ruin your moment? Absolutely not. I'll hold down the fort with Mr. Whisk…um…Croissant.” Selena raises her glass in a mock toast. “Goddamn, even your cat’s a pastry, now…go get your man."
With a deep breath, I fold the card and stuff it into a plain envelope. No name, just in case I lose my nerve at the last second.
The hallway feels colder than usual when I step out, worn carpet rough against my bare feet. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that unflattering overly bright glow. This is supposed to be romantic, right? And yet everything looks straight out of a horror movie. Like, those quiet white-knuckle seconds before the jumpscare scenes.
My heart pounds so hard I'm convinced ninety-year-old Roberta can hear it through her door, where the faint sounds of a Korean drama drift into the corridor.
Eight steps. That's the distance between my apartment and his. Eight steps I've walked hundreds of times, always aware of the solid door marked 3A, always wondering what happens on the other side.
I reach Alex's door, my fingers trembling around the envelope. There's light visible underneath—a thin golden line that confirms he's home and possibly still awake.
The thought stops my breath. He's right there. Just on the other side of this barrier, probably reading or doing whatever impossibly attractive, mysterious ex-military men do on random February evenings.
What if he opens the door right now? What if he catches me?
The urge to flee nearly overwhelms me. This is insane. I'm in my pajamas, buzzed on wine, about to proposition the hottest man I've ever seen in real life with an explicitly dirty Valentine's card.
I kneel, envelope clutched in my sweaty hand.
Just do it. Two seconds of courage. Slip it under and run.
The card slides beneath his door with a soft whisper of paper against wood.
And then … movement. A sound from inside. The creak of a chair or footsteps or—
I scramble to my feet, panic surging through me.
Run. Run now. On my tiptoes.
I'm back in my apartment in seconds, door closing quickly, but softly, behind me, back pressed against it. My chest heaves, each breath burning. God, this is why I don't go on runs. I always feel like I'm about to die.
On second thought, if I do die right now, I wouldn't have to suffer the consequences of my actions.
"You did it, Em! Look at you, being all femme fatale."
"This was a terrible idea. What if he saw me? What if he reads it right now and knocks on my door?"
"Then you invite him in," she says with a wink, gathering her purse. "My work here is done. I should head out. Early shift tomorrow."
"Wait, you're leaving? After making me do this?"
"You'll thank me later." She air-kisses my cheek. "Call me tomorrow. I want all the dirty details if he responds."
And just like that, Selena's gone, leaving me alone with my panic and a cat who's looking at me like I've lost my mind.
"I have lost my mind, haven't I, Croissant? That was the mother of all bad ideas, wasn't it?"
He blinks slowly, which I take as agreement.
The next hour is torture, and I have long since sobered up. Every sound from the hallway makes me jump. I keep expecting a knock, or worse, silence that confirms he read it and is so disturbed he can't even reject me properly.
By midnight, I've convinced myself of every possible negative outcome. He'll report me to the building manager. He'll move out. He'll laugh about it with friends. He'll recognize me in the hallway tomorrow and give me that pitying look men give women who've expressed interest but aren't their type.
Best Valentine's Day ever? Really? More like worst.
I crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head while Croissant settles in the curve behind my knees. My body vibrates with residual adrenaline, making sleep impossible.
The wall between our apartments has never felt so thin. He's over there, possibly reading my card right now. Explicit details of what I want him to do to me. Either he's scandalized or he found it hilarious.
Did I really write that I've touched myself thinking about him? Did I really admit I want his mouth between my thighs?
Yes. Yes, I did.
I groan into my pillow, mortification burning through me. I want to sleep and never wake up. Tomorrow, I'll have to leave for work at 8:30. I'll have to walk down that hallway, ride that elevator, possibly bump into him. I'll have to pretend I didn't just propose extremely graphic sex acts to a man who's never given any indication he knows I'm alive.
What would Andrea and Seve at the flower shop say? Andrea would be supportive for sure, and Seve might say, "Go girl" because they've always been so nice to me.
Maybe I should start camping there until this blows over? Like maybe a month? A year? Until the day I die?