“I don’t know if I have any milk,” she said.
But he was already moving past her, entering her apartment uninvited. “Cute,” he said, glancing around.
Heather didn’t bother to say thank you. She already knew it was cute. Had deliberately made it so, with endless hours searching Pinterest for inspiration followed by more endless hours searching every vintage furniture shop in the city. She’d wanted a combination of minimalist and Bohemian chic, and she’d nailed it, if she did say so herself.
The walls were painted a dark teal, with plenty of original and slightly beat-up-looking canvas prints adding contrast. The area rugs were bright and slightly tattered, and intentionally so. The white couch was kept from looking stark by a handful of bold throw pillows, and a bunch of stubby pillar candles in varying heights covered her coffee table, end tables, and the windowsill.
But the real crown of the room was her window seat. An actual window seat with a view of Central Park.
Hell. Yes.
“Mrs. Calvin used to love sitting here,” he said, running a finger over the purple cushion. “Although she had an ugly yellow pad.”
“Insisted on taking it with her,” Heather said dryly.
“I’m sure you were crushed. You have no idea how many times I watched her drop a glob of cottage cheese onto the cushion before the Chihuahua gobbled it up.”
Heather refused to engage or be charmed. “I don’t think I have any milk.”
“Now, now, neighbor,” he said, turning to face her. “You didn’t even look.”
“Fine. If it’ll get you to leave . . .”
She stomped into the kitchen to look for milk.
“The other night when you were so cranky, I thought for sure you must be a morning person.” He followed her into the kitchen and leaned his forearms on her counter as she jerked open the fridge door. “I see now that that this irritable thing you have going on is more of a twenty-four/seven thing.”
“Since you remember last weekend so well, I don’t suppose you also remember that I mentioned that I’m a wedding planner, with Saturdays being my biggest days?”
“Today’s Sunday.”
“I know it’s Sunday,” she said, yanking out a carton of milk and slamming the door shut as she turned to face him. “I know it’s Sunday because I spent all of yesterday on my feet, trying to pry champagne out of drunken teenagers’ hands before they could get into a car, and then got felt up by the bride’s drunken uncle.”
He studied her for several moments, his eyes searching her face, before he rapped his palm lightly on the counter and stood up. “You know what you need, 4C?”
“Yes. Sleep.”
“Pancakes,” he countered.
“Pancakes?”
“Exactly.” He came toward her and plucked the milk from her hand, glancing down at it. “Nonfat. Not my usual jam, but I think Mom can make this work.”
“Mom?”
Before Heather could register what was happening, Josh had placed a big warm hand on the small of her back and was ushering her toward the front door of her own apartment.
“I don’t want pancakes,” she said through gritted teeth as she tried to push herself backward against his hand, to no avail. Jesus, those muscles didn’t lie—the guy was strong as an ox.
“Everybody wants pancakes, 4C.”
And apparently, just as stubborn.
“Heather. My name is Heather.”
“That’s way too pretty a name for someone as snippy as you.”
“I’m not snippy, I’m tired,” she said, meaning it. She knew she was sort of a bitch around this guy, and she wasn’t loving herself right now, but he really did have the worst timing.
Heather just wanted one good night’s sleep before she faced him again, and then maybe she could find her smile, find something nice to say, maybe even flirt.
But because she was exhausted, neither her brain nor her legs were working as well as usual, and before she knew it, she’d let herself be ushered toward 4A.
Josh shoved the door open and nudged her inside. “Mom, I brought you something sour,” he called out.
“The milk was no good?” came a female voice from the other room.