He sighs as I direct him through my apartment’s parking complex.

“So, this is where you live?” he asks, leaning forward over the steering wheel to look up the side of the old industrial building-loft apartment conversion. I live on the third floor with three other roommates. The rent is great — when split four ways — but the insulation is trash, and it’s too hot year-round, which doesn’t make any sense. Still, it’s okay. And I’m not freaking out about him seeing where I live.

Not really freaking out. I mean, I’m trying, okay?

“This is where I live,” I sing-song.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Is there exposed brick in your place? Nadia has this thing about exposed brick. She was mad as hell that we couldn’t afford an older house.”

I bite back a smile. I know what he’s doing, and I appreciate it. “Do you want to see? You can tell Nadia about all of my…” I lick my lips and smile. “Exposed brick.”

He’s so excited that he misses my very obvious innuendo, and for some reason, I think that’s adorable. God, I’m a simp.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’m sure. Besides, I don’t want to carry my own grocery bags up all those stairs. Park there.”

He grumbles, but he does as I tell him, and always with a smile on his face. And, of course, he carries all of the grocery bags for me.

I unlock the front door to my building and hold it open for Darren. He stares at me. I stare back at him. He doesn’t budge.

Finally, I roll my eyes. “Jesus,” I huff and then walk into the building ahead of him.

“Thank you,” he laughs. “Oh, it’s dark in here.”

I sigh. “Yeah…my landlord keeps telling us this is mood lighting instead of just lightbulbs that need to be replaced because he’s too disorganized to do it himself and too cheap to hire a super.”

He grunts in agitation and barely suppressed worry. For me.

I can feel Darren’s agitation growing the higher we climb. I try and divert him by pointing out the industrial staircase they saved from this factory and one that had to be destroyed somewhere else in the neighborhood.

Darren grunts again, and not in the sexy way he does when I press up against him but in the way he probably does at work when he needs to discipline a teacher. When I look at him over my shoulder, he’s glancing left and right, which lets me know how pissed he is because I know what my ass looks like in this skirt. Fantastic. And Darren’s not even looking at it.

“It’s affordable,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says, still looking around. “I’m not saying anything. Just looking.”