Thank God, I’m far too old and cynical for it to head toward my face, coloring it with embarrassment.
I’m not so sure the opposite direction it decides to flow is much better.
That damn robe with its damn feathers loosely tied over a barely-there slip underneath doesn’t help.
“Morning,” I mutter as I force the door closed.
“Monday’s are my day off. Hence the imbalance in our usual tête-à-tête,” she says as she matches my stride down the hall to the elevators. “Instead of two ships passing in the night, it seems we’re on the same wavelength.”
“Lucky me.” It comes out as more of a grumble than anything, which for some absurd reason elicits tinkling laughter from her.
Not an unpleasant sound, especially on a Monday morning.
“So, do you have any big plans for the holiday?”
I have no idea what holiday she’s referencing, but I do know opening the door by asking is a bad idea.
“No.”
“Oh?” She says, her eyes for some reason scanning me up and down. “Well, that is a surprise.”
“As it turns out, I don’t have a date either,” she says, a frown coming to her face.
Now, it’s my turn to be surprised. Honey Dewberry without a date (no matter what the occasion)?
I’m not dumb enough to look her up and down, wondering why. The last thing my blood flow needs is that bit of acceleration. She seems like the social type who’d be able to snag a date no matter what the occasion, though I’m still lost as to what holiday she’s referring to.
Honey’s frown disappears as quickly as it came and she brightens back up. “Other than work of course. Would you believe it’s one of my busiest nights of the year?”
I blink at that.
Once again, my mind races, wondering what “one of her busiest nights” entails. While I’m still debating the wisdom of inquiring about it, the elevator arrives and the moment has passed.
We don’t have the car to ourselves, and I decide ignorance is bliss.
As we ride down, I focus straight ahead, but I feel Honey’s eyes on me the whole time. In my periphery, I can see that it’s matched with a smile of amusement, as though she isn’t quite done with me for the morning. I have no idea what’s on her mind, but it’s damn well making it difficult to shift my focus to ABC the way I’m usually able to.
Or Emily.
I allow everyone, including Honey, off first, then follow.
“So I was wondering…” She begins as she once again matches my pace. “If you aren’t busy—”
“Miss Honey!”
We’re both caught off guard by Giorgy, the doorman with the heavy Russian accent. He has a grin plastered on his face as he waves Honey down.
“Good morning, Giorgy!” she sings.
“Good morning, Miss Honey. You have package!”
“A package?”
“Yes, yes, I go and get.”
“Imagine that,” Honey says, her cheery attention turning to me.
By the time I realize that I’m caught in the middle of this, he’s back, struggling to carry a large pink box. That’s enough to pique my interest and I take a more discerning look.
It’s an entire case of Veuve Clicquot Rosé.
On a Monday morning.
“Ah yes, my champagne! I plum forgot about it!” Honey chirps next to me, as though this is a perfectly expected delivery.
“I get cart for you to take up,” Georgiy says. “I would take up for you, but I cannot leave desk.”
“Of course,” Honey says with understanding. “I’ll just get my coffee first, and then come back down for it.”
“Nonsense,” I say before I can stop myself.
Dammit.
“There’s no point in making a trip just to bring the cart back down. I can carry the box for you. We live right across from each other.”
“Oh,” Honey says, for once speechless, no flirtatious remark on the heels of it. She stares wide-eyed as I bend slightly to lift the box from where Giorgy set it down on the counter.
“Is heavy,” he warns with a frown.
I grunt in agreement. There must be twelve bottles in here which is definitely no joke.
Still, I can certainly manage carrying it back up to Honey’s apartment without much exertion. I suppose it’s a good thing I go to the gym every morning.
“And thus Clark Kent becomes Superman.”
My eyes flash up to meet Honey’s and they get caught in her gaze. Like the thick, sweet liquid of her name, I find myself sinking into those dark brown irises that stare back at me so admiringly.
That rekindles the flow of blood through my system, this time singed with something fierce and hot.
Why are men such suckers for flattery, especially when doled out by women who look like Honey?
“Lead the way,” I urge, even though I no longer feel the weight of the box in my hands.
“Of course!” she says, perking up. She turns to thank Giorgy one last time before quickly heading back to the elevator.
I follow that silk and feather dream, feeling like an unsuspecting sailor being lured in by a siren. Fortunately an elevator arrives as soon as we get there and we enter, having the car to ourselves.
“Are you planning a party?” I ask mostly to avoid any segue into some awkwardly provocative banter.
“Now there’s a suggestion,” she says, giving me a daring smile. “It’s quite fortuitous, all the more so since you were the one to help me carry it up.”
I’m sure there’s some meaning there, but hell if I can figure it out.
“It’s a signal to the universe!” she announces.
Whatever that means.
I have a feeling I’ve inadvertently stepped in it.
In what? I’m not sure.
We arrive back on our floor and I once again accompany Honey down the hall.
“This is me,” she says with a teasing wink as we arrive at her apartment.
Very funny.
When she opens the door, the weight of the box in my hands is once again forgotten. It’s vastly overshadowed by my curiosity at what lies behind that door.
Despite living right across the hall, I’ve never gotten so much as a glance into Honey’s
