"Who is it?" a dark voice comes through the intercom, mixing with the honking and chatter of the busy Manhattan streets behind me.
"It's me." I say, holding the buzzer.
"Who's me?" the dark voice asks me.
I laugh. "Anna."
A chuckle of his own comes through the speaker as he says, "Of course, come on in Anna. Seventh floor."
The sound of the buzzer fills the entry way and I push my way into the lobby of the building. I am greeted by white marble floors and a small seating area. I hit the elevator button and hoist my bag onto my shoulder, aching from the long journey from the airport to the apartment on the Upper West Side. As I'm only here for a job interview and staying just two nights, I opted for a duffle bag. Which I wildly overpacked. Which I am now deeply regretting.
I step into the elevator when it arrives and press the button for floor seven, as instructed. Once the doors shut and I begin moving up, the butterflies in my belly start to flutter. Holy shit, this is happening. I'm staying with Ben, my best friend's brother and the boy of all my childhood fantasies. Well, man now. A 30-year old living alone in the Upper West with a cushy banking job, Ben grew up even hotter than teenage me could've imagined.
The elevator dings and the doors open into that gorgeous face, as Ben awaits me in the hall of the seventh floor. He's still in his work clothes; a dark gray suit, white dress shirt with a few buttons undone, and a blue tie draped around his neck.
"There she is," he says in greeting as he scoops me into a hug.
"Hi," I breathe, dropping my heavy bag to the floor. He grabs it in a swift movement and ushers me to the door on the left.
"How was the flight?" he asks.
"Long. Middle seat. Screaming babies. The whole nine yards", I complain.
"Most people wouldn't call a three hour flight from Minnesota 'long', but I take it you're in need of a glass of wine?" he says, grinning at me as he sets down my bag in the living room.
I nod. "God, yes", I moan. Then instantly flush at how sexual that sounded. I cough to cover my embarrassment, but he doesn't seem to notice. He asks if I prefer red or white and I tell him red.
"Thank you again for letting me crash here for my interview, I know Kayla must've begged you to say yes," I say, internally thankful for any coercing my best friend did on my behalf.
"She didn't have to beg a bit. I was happy to do it. I'm always happy to see you, Anna." He hands me my glass of red and turns back to open the fridge. "Make yourself at home, I'll make a quick dinner."
"Oh my gosh, you don't have to do that. Really, I can Uber Eats us something, I don't mind," I say as I fumble for my phone.
He reaches out his large hand and covers my own as he says "No I don't mind. I was wanting to make pasta anyways, and it's better made for two."
Ben gets to work on the pasta while I take a quick body shower, ridding myself of the smell of airplane and stale coffee. I return to the kitchen 10 minutes later to the smell of onions and garlic simmering in olive oil, but no Ben.
"Right behind ya", he says into my ear as his hands brush my lower back, moving me aside so he can join me in the kitchen. I blush again and look away, embarrassed by the power this man still has over my nervous system. It started in middle school. Just the sound of his voice when he walked into a room would make me sweat, let alone any actual bodily contact.
I watch him get back to work in the kitchen and we make small talk about work and my upcoming interview while he finishes dinner. Every time he looks at me, I imagine him coming up to me, grabbing my face and kiss-- Stop thinking that! I tell myself. He's Kayla's brother, you absolutely CAN NOT go there. Even though we have gone there. Once before. It was just a quick make out, back when he was a senior in college visiting us in our sophomore year apartment. We were drunk and never told Kayla, and honestly, I assume he forgot about it entirely. But I never would, even after eight years.
Topping off our wine glasses, I join him at the dining table where he set down our dinners. A gorgeous homemade red sauce dresses penne and I swoon a little. We sit at his small table, so close our knees brush and my heart beats a little faster.
I dig in and moan again at the bright and tangy taste of the first bite of sauce. The sauce is so good, I'm not even embarrassed by my reaction this time. "Damn, Ben. This is so good. Have you always been able to cook like this?"
He makes eye contact with me, smirking again. "Don't look so surprised, Anna. I'm offended." He mocks surprise and we laugh into our bowls.
