What was he doing here?
“Um, hey, Des. Did you need something?” I buzzed back, my brow furrowed in confusion.
“I have your jacket! You left it at my place after the movie a few weeks back. I was in the neighborhood so I figured I’d swing by and return it to you.”
I glanced at my watch — it was 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night. Maybe he really had been in the area, but it seemed unlikely. Guys who looked like Des didn’t spend their free evenings playing errand boy for former girlfriends. Then again, I could be totally overthinking things. I’d had too much wine to judge properly.
I sighed and buzzed him in.
“Hey, babe.” Desmond leaned down and kissed my cheek as soon as I pulled open the door. “Nice jammies.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face. My makeup was long gone and I knew that my eyes were still puffy and red from earlier.
I nodded, but didn’t explain the residual traces of tears.
“Here,” he said handing over my jacket.
“Uh, thanks,” I repeated, feeling awkward. Southern hospitality practically demanded I let him in, rather than leave him standing on the stoop like a stranger, but I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. I was half-inebriated, braless, and feeling vulnerable after the day I’d had, so a visit from an ex was probably not the greatest idea. As I deliberated, I watched a delivery man walk through my hall toward Mrs. Johansson’s apartment next door, the brown bag in his arms wafting the deliciously greasy aroma of lo mien noodles and egg rolls.
My stomach growled loudly.
“Hungry?” Desmond asked, arching one eyebrow in the direction of my stomach.
“No,” I lied, trying to conceal the Pavlovian response I was having to Mrs. Johansson’s takeout. It was a miracle I managed to hold in the long tendrils of drool threatening to leak from my mouth.
“What’d you eat for dinner?”
“Um.” I winced. “Stale microwave popcorn?”
“Babe.” Des shook his head. “My idea of gourmet may be macaroni and cheese, but even I know that popcorn is not a meal.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Desmond kept talking.
“And no, Doritos and wine don’t count either.”
My mouth snapped closed. The delivery guy, now empty handed, smiled at me as he headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall.
“Come on,” Des said, edging inside my doorway. “I’ll make you something.”
“My cupboards are empty.”
“Well, then I’ll order you something.” He grinned at me, stepping further through theentry so I had no choice but to move back a step — it was either that or initiate a sumo-wrestler-esque chest bump standoff, which I was in no way prepared for seeing as I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Listen, Des…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I also didn’t want to lead him on. His smile slipped a little. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—”
“Hey, it’s cool,” he said, holding both hands up in a gesture of surrender. “No worries.”
“Thanks for the jacket,” I told him, meaning it. “And I’m sorry.”
“Come ‘ere, Kincaid.” He smiled sadly as he stepped forward and pulled me into an embrace. It wasn’t one of seduction, but of sheer comfort. Of friendship.
What a freaking good guy, I thought, bringing my arms up to return his light hug. I cursed my own inabilities to date him, but hoped that one day we could, at the very least, be friends. A warm, happy bubble of contentment rose within me at the thought.
Unfortunately, that bubble burst when a familiar icy voice shattered the silence and stopped my heart — for the second time today.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”