I refuse to let Daisy help me carry anything down to the car, but she insists on at least bringing down some of the stuffed toys. So that’s what she does while I tried to lug the giant cot box into the lift and out to my car, having left the biggest, bulkiest item for last.
I’m still struggling with it in the foyer of my apartment building when an amused, American-accented voice calls out, “Do you need a hand?”
I turn to face the owner of the voice. I recognize him as our upstairs neighbour, though we haven’t really spoken, except to nod at each other in passing.
He’s dressed in what appears to be part of a firefighter’s uniform. A tight black t-shirt and industrial cargo pants in that tell-tale mustard yellow colour, which are grease stained, hard-worn and insanely masculine, with thick red and grey suspenders hanging in loose loops from his narrow hips.
This man is incredibly attractive. He’s got to be at least ten years my senior with his silver fox beard sharply trimmed, accenting his angular jawline and making those steely grey eyes pop. He has crow’s feet beside those intense eyes, belying how often he smiles, and dark hair atop his head, which is cropped neatly at the sides, but longer on top and wavy, with the most beautiful curl dangling over his forehead. This man is sin personified. I can’t help the way I take in those broad shoulders, the tapering of his form to his slim waist, and those thick, strong thighs.
I want to climb him like a tree.
“No,” I tell him, “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
He comes to help me anyway, tucking his just-retrieved mail into the rear pocket of his pants before he lifts one end of the ridiculously heavy box like I might lift a pillow. The casual display of strength throws me off for a moment too long while I can’t help imagining what it might be like to be handled by someone so strong.
These musings distract me so much that I miss him asking a question and Daisy has to say my name to get my attention.
“Sorry,” I apologise, feeling my cheeks heat. Stupid pasty complexion. “What was that?”
“I asked whether you’re moving out,” he says, sounding just as amused as he did a few moments ago. Once again, I’m enamoured by his accent. It doesn’t sound overly regional so, with my not-exactly-vast knowledge of American accents, I guess maybe he’s from California? Maybe? “Y’know, ‘cause we’re carrying this thing out instead of in.”
“Oh,” I heft my end of the box to try and redistribute the weight, “No. I threw a shower for her in my apartment. I didn’t think this part of the plan through.”
“Ironic,” Daisy taunts.
“Shut up,” I respond.
Sexy Fireman’s eyes seem to light with understanding as he looks between us. “Siblings?” he questions.
Considering Daisy and I look nothing alike, and the age gap often throws people off, I’m impressed and I tell him so, craning my neck to look back over my shoulder as I back my end of the large box through the door that leads to the parking lot outside the complex.
He chuckles, “Well, it’s like that between my kids.”
Some part of my stomach drops a little as he mentions having kids, because that usually means a partner of some description.
Not that I should care if he’s involved, considering I’m not single.
Focus, Connor.