Eddie rolled his eyes. “Like a cheap castle—no ballroom.”
Finn laughed and reached for Pru’s hand again, tugging her toward the elevator.
That’s when a whole new set of worries hit Pru. Was he going to come in?
Had she shaved?
No, she told herself firmly. It doesn’t matter if your legs aren’t hairy, you are not going there with him.
At her door, he held onto her hand while rummaging through her bag for her keys, and then opened her door like he owned the place.
But before they could get inside, the door across the way opened and Mrs. Winslow stepped out.
Pru’s neighbor was as old as time, and that time hadn’t exactly been particularly kind. Still, she was sharp as a tack, her faculties honed by staying up on everything and everyone in the building.
“Hello, dear,” she said to Pru. “You’re bleeding.”
This was getting old. “Skiing accident,” she said, trying something new.
Finn flashed her an appreciative grin.
Mrs. Winslow chortled. “Even an old lady knows her seasons,” she said. “It’s high summer, which means it was softball.”
Pru sighed. “Yeah.”
“Did you at least win this time?”
“I think the idea is to win at least sometimes,” Mrs. Winslow said.
Pru sighed again. “Yeah. We’re working on that.” She gestured to Finn at her side, steady as a rock, but looking a little hot and dusty. “I recruited a new player,” she said.
“Good choice,” Mrs. Winslow said. “He’s put together right nice, isn’t he.”
Pru’s gaze went on a tour of Finn from head to toe and back again. Nice wasn’t exactly the description she would use. Hot as hell, maybe. Devastatingly, disarmingly perfect . . .
At her close scrutiny, his mouth curved and something else came into his eyes.
“I got a little something delivered today,” Mrs. Winslow said. “That’s why I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Me?” Pru asked.
“Yes, my package came via your dumbwaiter.”
“Because, dear, the dumbwaiter is only on your side of the building.”
Okaaay. Pru gestured to her open door. Mrs. Winslow let herself in, unlatched the dumbwaiter door and removed a . . . platter of brownies?
Pru’s mouth watered as Mrs. Winslow smiled, gave a quick “thanks” and exited the apartment, heading for her own.
“Those look amazing,” Pru said, hoping for an invite to take one.
Or as many as she could stuff into her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Winslow said with a negative head shake. “These are . . . special brownies.”
Pru blinked and then looked at Finn, who appeared to be fighting a smile. “Special brownies?” she repeated, unable to believe that Mrs. Winslow really meant what she thought she meant.
“Yes,” the older woman said. “And you’re not of age, or I’d share.”
“Mrs. Winslow, I’m twenty-six.”
Mrs. Winslow smiled. “I meant over sixty-five.”
And then she vanished into her own apartment.
Finn gently nudged Pru into hers, which answered the unspoken question. He was coming in. Into her apartment.
And, if her heart had any say at all, into her life.
Finn dropped both duffel bags and the deli bag on Pru’s kitchen counter and then turned to her. “Okay, time to play doctor.”
Her entire body quivered, sending “yes please” vibes to her brain. Luckily her mouth intercepted them. “Sure, if I can be the doctor.”
His mouth curved. “I’m willing to take turns, but me first.”
Oh boy. “Really, I’m fine. I think I just need a shower.”
“Do you want something to drink? I could call down to the pub and—”
“I wasn’t talking about alcohol,” he said. “I already know you don’t drink.”
There weren’t many who would so easily accept such a thing without some sort of question. People wanted and expected others to drink socially when they did. Usually whenever she politely declined, the interrogation inevitably started. Not even one little drink? Or what’s up with that, are you an alcoholic?
Pru couldn’t imagine actually being an alcoholic and facing that kind of inquisition with class and grace, but the truth was that she didn’t drink because her parents had. A lot. They’d been heavy social drinkers. She didn’t know if they’d had an actual problem or had just loved to party, but she did know it had killed them.