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Learn more about this second in a series story here.
Angie texted me when she turned into my complex, so I ran downstairs to meet her outside. Two nights before, I’d had this stupid dream in which Angie arrived hours late because she’d been taking the elevator up and down and wandering around my building, knocking on doors. Dreams…weird, anxious dreams.
There she was, standing by her car, adjusting her coat and looking around the parking lot. What was she thinking? My stomach took a tumble as I realized she would soon be in my home, alone with me. Stuff of dreams, indeed. Without a coat, I shivered in the evening chill.
She ducked to peer into her side mirror, checking her lipstick or something. The evening light was getting a bit too dim for that to work, so I called out to her.
“Angie.”
She stood quickly, startled.
Tucking my hands into my khakis’ pockets, I moved toward her.
“Hey,” she said as she gazed around. “This complex looks nice.”
“Wait till you view my palace inside.”
“Right here in Alabama.”
We chuckled in unison.
I held open the door into the building’s lobby, thankful that the small fake Christmas tree at the security desk was gaining life—multi-colored lights twinkled, adding extra richness to the plain silver balls that hung from the tree’s tiny branches.
“Let’s take the elevator,” I waved my arm in the direction of the steel doors, suddenly worried about what we’d say in that confined space. Angie didn’t look worried, small smile played on her lips, which shone with a rosy lip gloss. Seeing her so relaxed raised my curiosity about my own nervousness. My feelings for her galloped around my head; my heart pounded so hard in my ears, I feared she could hear it. I looked down at my chest, hoping my heartbeat wasn’t evident through my favorite polo shirt. I chuckled as I pressed the button to the third floor.
“Top floor, huh? You didn’t tell me you had the penthouse.”
“Pfft. Not even. I’d planned to say ‘welcome to my humble abode’ when I open my front door. It’s a simple bachelor pad.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
I raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Please don’t get out the white gloves!”
“Are you kidding?” She snickered. “You’ve witnessed my crazy office.”
“True. But that’s a workspace, and totally different.”
“You really are too nice, aren’t you?” Angie turned toward me, looking up into my eyes. Totally kissable, but a ding sound erased the temptation. The doors opened into a carpeted hallway, home to eight doors, eight condos. I motioned for her to step out first. She hesitated on the carpet, not knowing which way to go.
“Oh, sorry, this way.”
I led her to the last door on the right.
“End unit, nice.”
“Yeah, wait till you see the views.” I wiggled my eyebrows. She laughed, shaking her head.
“I’m nice and amusing, great,” I muttered as I keyed in the lock code. Angie looked away while I punched in the numbers. I’m reminded of the romantic gesture of a door key in a gift box, a man or woman offering an important part of their life in the form of a bland item filled with enormous promise. The key code could be shared in a less remarkable fashion, and I flushed at the idea of giving this six-digit gift to Angie. The door beeped and flashed red, much like my cheeks, embarrassment taking over my brain.
“Dang it,” I groaned, punching the code in again more forcefully. Angie was watching now with a wicked grin on her face. She had to know I was nervous as heck.
The door’s rubber seal whispered across the wood floors as Angie walked in ahead of me, on high alert I could tell. So anxious to greet Angie, I’d forgotten to switch off the turntable. Soft tones of Sinatra singing about home for Christmas greeted us.
Angie spun around as she entered the living room, still wearing her black coat, and smiled. “Old blue eyes? You did listen to me.”
“I bought it the other day at CJ’s down the street from you.”
I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek into Her Christmas Project, which should release in late July.