I'm walking with my head down as I turn the corner to the parking garage, expecting to see the Mercedes, but pause when it's not there. Instead, leaning against the painted brick wall in front of me, stands Naz, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed.
I blink a few times, caught off guard. "Uh, hey."
"Hello," he says, pushing away from the wall to stroll toward me.
"Are we still, uh... having dinner?"
"I certainly hope so," he says. "I'm hungry, and I distinctly remember being promised you'd cook for me yesterday."
I laugh as those words strike me, but my amusement dies a harsh death when I notice his serious expression. "You're kidding."
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
No, he doesn't. I think back, begrudgingly admitting that his words had been he'd be back for dinner, not that he was taking me anywhere. I feel oddly manipulated, but it's my fault for misinterpreting. "Your house then?"
"We went there last night," he says. "Besides, forgive me if I'm wrong, but you have the noodles. So I figure, since we're already here..."
He points toward the dorms.
He wants to go upstairs?
My first instinct is to refuse, but I'm too thrown off to make up any excuses. Besides, I suspect they'll fall on deaf ears. Something tells me he'll talk his way inside eventually.
I motion behind me, stepping aside. "After you."
Somehow I'm more nervous now than I was a moment ago, as I lead Naz into the old dorms. This is my territory, my home... or as close to a home as I get. But yet I feel out of place, a stranger in my own skin, like I'm invading my own privacy by inviting him in.
Naz, on the other hand, looks at ease. There's nothing more intimidating than a man whose feathers aren't ruffled by anything. We step into the elevator and he leans back against the side, watching as I press the number thirteen button.
"Thirteenth floor," he muses. "Good thing you're not superstitious."
"Right? Especially since I stay in the thirteenth room, too."
He says nothing else as we ride upstairs, but he laughs when we reach my room tucked in the corner at the end of the hall: 1313. I pull out my key and unlock the door, pushing it open for him to step inside.
It's a goddamn disaster.
"This is nice," he says, glancing around as he pauses a few feet inside the door. He sounds genuine, but I can't imagine Mr. Fit for a King would find anything nice about a glorified walk-in closet with two little beds.
"It's tiny," I say.
He shakes his head. "It's just cozy."
"What it is is a freaking mess."
"Yeah, I won't argue that one." He glances between my side of the room and Melody's, like he's comparing and contrasting. He doesn't wait for me to tell him which is mine. Within seconds, he steps onto my side, his eyes sweeping along my things.
I just stand by the door, wringing my hands together. I don't have much, but what I have is important to me. We had sex last night, and as nervous as I'd been to have him inside of me, it's nothing compared to this. This is him getting a glimpse of what's beneath my skin.
What if he doesn't find it beautiful?
"You can have a seat or whatever you want," I mumble. "Make yourself at home, I guess."
He cocks an eyebrow. "You guess?"
"Yeah, well, I mean, I don't know what we're doing here or what you really want or..." Or what I'm saying. He has me frazzled. "I repaid you last night, you know... repaid you for everything, like you said about, but..."
"But?"
"But... I don't know."
"You don't know what to think."
I nod.
He lets out a laugh of disbelief as he steps toward me. "Is that all that was to you, Karissa? Compensation? Some sort of thank you gift? Placating me, throwing me a bone, because you thought you owed me? You felt indebted to me?"
I open my mouth to respond—to say what, I don't know—but he doesn't let me speak. He holds his hand up, resting his pointer finger against my lips. He's gentle about it, barely touches me with his fingertip, but the action silences me before I even begin.
"Because if that's all it was to you, I'll go," he continues. "I'll walk out the door right now. I don't fuck women because they owe me... I do it because I want to, because I need to, because they need me. And I don't mean that in an underhanded I bought dinner so you get naked sort of way, bartering favors like this is Basic Instinct. I'm not paying to get repaid, to get you in my bed. But if that's all this feels like to you, some sort of twisted business arrangement you're obligated to proceed with, I'll leave."
"Don't," I say quickly as he turns away. "Don't leave. I just, I don't know."
"Don't know what?"
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why me?"
He stares at me for a moment. "Why not you?"
His response doesn't answer my question, but it quells some of my anxiety, like maybe he can't see the flaws I see. Maybe what I see in the mirror, the girl my mother raised in little houses, isolated and overprotected, isn't the same woman he's looking at. Maybe one of us isn't seeing me clearly here, and maybe it's him...
Or maybe it's me.
"So you want noodles?" I ask, shifting the subject. "Like, honestly want me to make them?"
"I do," he says.
Sighing, I step over to the cabinet Melody and I share, opening it up to glance at the food. There isn't much. It's been weeks since either of us went shopping. "What flavor?"
"Whatever flavor a noodle is."
"They come in different flavors." I hold up a few packages, showing him. "Beef, chicken, shrimp…"
He grimaces. "Give me whatever your favorite is."
I grab the pink package. Shrimp.
I lead him out of my room and to the small kitchen. My pot from yesterday is still on the stove, still filled with water, the abandoned package of noodles on the counter. I discard it, rinsing out the pot and filling it with fresh water before setting it back on the stove to boil.
There's nothing in here except for an old stove and a sink and a mostly empty refrigerator, a few pots and pans in the cabinets that have been collectively donated. I wait for him to comment on it but he doesn't, instead leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.
I can feel him watching as I wait for the water to boil, feel his eyes glued to me as mine are glued to the pot. I know the saying—a watched pot won't boil—but I can't seem to look anywhere except for at it. As soon as it starts bubbling, I toss the noodles in, feeling silly as I clear my throat. Am I seriously doing this? "We just have to boil the noodles for a few minutes."