Vincent kept staring at her while she kept blabbering. "She's definitely a chatter box." He huffed.
"I usually forget to turn the stereo on while I'm working," she went on cheerfully, making him notice a tiny dimple that winked off and on beside her mouth. "So it's nice to hear you play."
She held out the pretty red plate with a small mountain of chocolate-chip cookies heaped on it, covered by clear white plastic wrap. "I brought you some cookies."
He glanced down at them, then he looked at her with a weird expression.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why did you bring me cookies?"
"Oh, well, I was baking them. Sometimes I cook to clear out my head when I can't seem to concentrate on work. Most often it's baking that does it for me. And if I keep them all, I'll just eat them all and hate myself." The dimple kept fluttering. "Don't you like cookies?"
"I've got nothing against them."
Well then, enjoy." She pushed them into his hands. "And welcome to the building neighbor. If you need anything I'm usually around." Again she gestured vaguely with pretty, slim-fingered hands. "And if you want to find out who's who around here, I can fill you in. I've lived here for more than a year now, and I know everybody."
"Well, I won't be needing anything from you or anyone else." He stepped back and shut the door in her face.
Jade stood where she was for a moment, she was stunned speechless by the abrupt dismissal. She was fairly certain that she'd lived for twenty-four years without ever having a door shut in her face, and now that she'd had the experience, she decided she didn't care for it at all.
She caught herself before she could pound on his door and demand her cookies back. She wouldn't sink that low, she told herself, turning sharply on her heel and marching back to her own apartment.
Now she knew the mysterious Mr. Mysterious was insanely attractive, built like a god and is as rude as a cranky two-year-old who needed a swat on the butt and a nap. Well, that was fine, just fine. She could stay out of his way. She didn't slam her door—figuring he'd hear it and smirk with that go-to-hell mouth of his. But when she was safely inside, she turned to the door and indulged in a juvenile exhibition of making faces, sticking out her tongue and wagging her fingers from her ears. It made her feel marginally better.
But the bottom line was the man had her cookies, her favorite dessert plate, her very rare animosity. And she still didn't know his name. Vincent didn't regret his actions. Not for a minute. He calculated his studied rudeness would keep his beautiful blonde neighbor with the turned-up nose and sexy blue eyes out of his hair during his stay. The last thing he needed was the local welcoming committee rolling up at his door, especially when it was led by a bubbly motormouth blondie with eyes like a fairy. Damn it, in New York, people were supposed to ignore their neighbors. He was pretty sure it was a city ordinance, and if not, it should be.
Just his luck, he thought, that she was single—he had no doubt that if she'd had a husband she'd have poured out all his virtues and delights. The fact that she works from home and would therefore be easy to trip over whenever he headed out was just another black mark. And another fact that she made, hands down, the best chocolate-chip cookies in the known universe was close to unforgivable. He'd managed to ignore them while he worked. Vincent could ignore a nuclear holocaust if the words were pumping. But when he surfaced, he started to think about them lying in his kitchen on their chirpy red plate. He thought about them while he showered, while he dressed, while he eased out the kinks brought on by hours sitting in one spot with posture his late grandmother had termed deplorable.
So when he went down for what he considered a well-earned beer, he eyed the plate on the counter. He'd popped the top, took a thoughtful drink. So what if he had a couple? he mused. Tossing them in the trash wasn't necessary—he'd given perky Jade the heave-ho.
She was going to want her dessert plate back, he imagined. He might as well sample the cookies before he dumped the plate outside her door.
So he ate one. Grunted in approval. Ate a second and blew out a breath of pure appreciation. And when he'd consumed nearly two dozens, he cursed like a damn drug, he thought, feeling slightly ill and definitely sluggish. He stared at the near-empty plate with a combination of self-disgust and greed. With what scraps of willpower he had left, he dumped the remaining cookies in a plastic bowl.
He was going to walk around the block a few times before he headed to the club.
When he opened the door he heard her stomping up the stairs. Wincing, he drew back, leaving his door open only a crack. He could hear that mile-a-minute voice of hers going, which had him lifting a brow when he saw she was alone.
"Never again," she muttered. "I don't care if she sticks bamboo shoots under my nails, holds a hot poker to my eye. I will never, ever, go through that torture again in this lifetime. That's it. Over, done."
She'd changed her clothes, Vincent noted, and was wearing snug black pants with a tailored black blazer, offsetting them with a shirt the color of ripe strawberries and long dangles at her ears.
She kept talking to herself as she opened a purse the size of a postage stamp. "Life's too short to be bored witless for two precious hours of it. She will not do this to me again. I know how to say no. I just have to practice, that's all. Where the bloody hell are my keys?"