“No problem. It wasn’t the nicest way to wake up, but I suppose I deserved that one.”

“Indeed. But thank you anyway.”

“You’re welcome, and thanks for the bread. It was great. And if another loaf happens to make its way over here, that would be okay.”

“I’ll see what I can do. And hey, where’s my sweater?”

“Do you know how expensive those are?”

“Pffft, I want my sweater!” I cried, slapping him in the chest.

“Well, as it happens, I did bring you something—a sort of thanks-for-kicking-my-door present.”

“I knew it. You can drop it off later.” I walked across the hall to let the guy in. I directed him toward the kitchen and turned back to Simon. “Friends, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

“I can live with that.” I smiled and closed the door.

As the maintenance guy went about fixing the problem, I wandered to my bedroom to check on Clive. Just as I entered, my phone buzzed. A text from Simon already? I grinned and flopped down on the bed, snuggling a still-freaked-out kitty to my side. He began to purr instantly.

You never answered my question…

I felt my skin heat up as I realized what he was referring to. I was suddenly warm and a little tingly, like when your foot falls asleep, but all over. And in a good way. Damn, he gave great text.

About whether I’m f**king anyone?

Jesus, you’re crass. But yes, friends can ask that, can’t they?

Yes they can.

So?

You’re kind of a pain in the ass. You know this, right?

Tell me. Don’t get shy on me now.

As it happens, no. I’m not.

I heard a thud from next door, and then a slight but constant banging on the wall.

What the hell are you doing? Is that your head?

You’re killing me, Nightie Girl.

As soon as I finished reading, the banging resumed. I laughed out loud as he thumped his head against the wall. I placed my hand on the wall over my bed where the thumping was concentrated and chuckled again. What a strange morning…

Chapter Ten

I SAT IN MY OFFICE, gazing out the window. I had a list of things to do in front of me—and it wasn’t a small list either. I needed to run by the Nicholson house. The renovation was almost complete. The bedroom and bathroom were finished, and just a few details remained. I needed to get some new sample books from the design center. I had a meeting with a new client Mimi had referred to me, and on top of all that, I had a folder full of invoices to go through.

But still, I gazed out the window. I might have had Simon on the brain. And for good reason. Between the pipe explosions, the head banging, and the constant texting all day Sunday asking for more zucchini bread, my brain simply could not expunge him. And then last night, he brought out the big guns: he Glenn Miller-ed me. He even knocked on the wall to make sure I was listening.

I put my head down on the desk and banged it a few times to see if it helped. It had seemed to help Simon…

That night I went straight to yoga after work and was climbing the stairs to my apartment when I heard a door open from above.

“Caroline?” he called down to me.

I grinned and continued up the stairs. “Yes, Simon?” I called up.

“You’re home late.”

“What, are you watching my door now?” I laughed, rounding the last landing and staring up at him. He was hanging over the railing, hair in his face.

“Yep. I’m here for the bread. Zucchini me, woman!”

“You’re insane. You know this, right?” I climbed the last stair and stood in front of him.

“I’ve been told. You smell nice,” he said, leaning in.

“Did you just sniff me?” I asked incredulously as I opened the door.

“Mmm-hmm, very nice. Just get back from a workout?” he asked, walking in behind me and closing the door.

“Yoga, why?”

“You smell great when you’re all worked up,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at me like the devil.

“Seriously, you pick women up with lines like that?” I turned away from him to take off my jacket and squeeze my thighs together maniacally.

“It’s not a line. You do smell great,” I heard him say, and I closed my eyes to block out the Simon Voodoo currently making Lower Caroline curl in on herself.

Clive came bounding out of the bedroom when he heard my voice and stopped short when he saw Simon. Unfortunately, he had little traction on the hardwood floor and skidded rather ungracefully under the dining room table. Trying to regain his dignity, he executed a difficult four-foot leap from a standing position onto the bookshelf and waved me over with his paw. He wanted me to come to him—typical male.

I dropped my gym bag and sauntered over. “Hi, sweet boy. How was your day? Hmm? Did you play? Did you get a good nap? Hmm?” I scratched behind his ear, and he purred loudly. He gave me his dreamy cat eyes and then turned his gaze to Simon. I swear he cat-smirked at him.

“Zucchini bread, huh? You want some more, I take it?” I asked, throwing my jacket on the back of a chair.

“I know you have more. Simon says gimme it,” he deadpanned, making his finger into a gun.

“You’re oddly into your baked goods, aren’t you? Support group for that?” I asked, walking into the kitchen to locate the last loaf. I might have been saving it for him.

“Yes, I’m in BA. Bakers Anonymous. We meet over at the bakery on Pine,” he replied, sitting down on the stool at the kitchen counter.

“Good group?”

“Pretty good. There’s a better one over on Market, but I can’t go to that one anymore,” he said sadly, shaking his head.

“Get kicked out?” I asked, leaning on the counter in front of him.

“I did, actually,” he said, and then curled his finger to get me to lean in closer.

“I got in trouble for fondling buns,” he whispered.

I giggled and gave his cheek a light pinch. “Fondling buns,” I snorted as he pushed my hand away.

“Just fork over the bread, see, and no one gets hurt,” he warned.

I waved my hands in surrender and grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard over his head. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he nodded.

I handed him a bottle of Merlot and the opener, then grabbed a bunch of grapes from the colander in the fridge. He poured, we clinked, and without another word, I started making us dinner.

The rest of the evening happened naturally, without me even realizing it. One minute we were discussing the new wine glasses I’d purchased from Williams Sonoma, and thirty minutes later we were sitting at the dining room table with pasta in front of us. I was still wearing my workout clothes, and Simon was in jeans and a T-shirt and his stocking feet. He’d taken off his Stanford sweatshirt before draining the pasta, something I didn’t even have to ask him to do. He’d simply wandered into the kitchen behind me, and had it drained and back in the pot just as I finished the sauce.