My Hottie Neighbor

"Hey! Stop kicking that door!" a man called out to Nathalie. She turned around to see him standing a few feet behind her, holding an umbrella.

"I can kick my own door if I want to!" Nathalie shouted back, clearly not in the mood to be told off.

"If it's your own door, then why don't you just go inside?" the man asked, sounding amused.

"Because my keys are inside, and I don't know anyone in this stupid town. The only people with spare keys are too far away, it's too late, my car keys are inside, and—"

"Okay, I get it," he interrupted her rant. "Come on. Follow me."

Before Nathalie could question his intentions, he walked over to the door of the apartment next to hers and she heard his keys clanging. Of course, he had his keys. Not everyone was as unfortunate as she was. Nathalie hesitated for a second about following a stranger into his house, but it was cold, and she was wet—and she didn't need any more convincing.

"You're dripping wet," the man commented as Nathalie stepped into his small hallway. "I'm going to get you a towel."

He wasn't wrong; Nathalie was drenched and shivering. With a sigh, she placed her grocery bags on the mat and removed her shoes, not wanting to tread dirt into his apartment. She shrugged off her light jacket and dropped it by her shoes. Her dress was soaked too, but she obviously couldn't take that off.

"Getting naked already?" he quipped.

Nathalie looked up, taking in the man properly for the first time. She hadn't really looked him in the eye before, and now allowed herself a cursory glance. He seemed to be in his late thirties with messy brown hair. He was wearing a suit, complete with a tie, though it was slightly damp and muddy. Despite that, he looked good. His black shoes were muddy too, and he had left footprints in the hallway, so she guessed she needn't have worried about her dirty shoes. Even though his suit concealed much, she could tell he was quite well-built underneath. Her eyes traveled back up and she noticed his dark green eyes appraising her as well. They twinkled with amusement when they met her gaze.

"So you think I'm hot," he said with a smirk. "Right back at you, door kicker."

"I don't think you're—" Nathalie started, then laughed. There was no point denying it; he was just teasing her. "Thanks for the compliment."

"No problem." He smirked again. "You do know I can see your bra, right?"

Nathalie cursed and looked down, realizing he was right. Her yellow sundress wasn't meant for rain. No wonder he'd invited her in—she must have looked quite the sight.

He handed her the towel and laughed when she held it in front of her chest. "How about you take a hot shower and get into some dry clothes while I open up a bottle of wine?"

What was happening?

"What did you buy anyway?" he inquired, moving over to her grocery bags and peeking inside. He was much closer now, and Nathalie felt a little uneasy with him near her see-through sundress. "Oh wow," he commented. "Were you going to cook this late at night? A gourmet meal, no less?"

Nathalie couldn't help but smile at that. "It was meant for tomorrow, actually."

"I'm hungry now," he replied.

What was this guy's deal? He invited her, a complete stranger, into his apartment, complimented her and pointed out he could see her bra, and now he was implying she should cook for him?

"I'm really grateful that you got me out of the rain," Nathalie told him, making sure the towel stayed in front of her. "Really grateful. But I need to call a cab and get a hotel room for the night. I'll call my friend tomorrow to get my spare keys."

"No need for that," he said with a smirk. Why did men with such arrogant smiles always seem so appealing? "There's a spare bedroom here. I'm sure I can find you a shirt to sleep in. You can save yourself the money and the trouble. Plus, I could use some company."

Nathalie gave him a curious glance. He kept teasing her and making insinuations about the night, but that last remark felt genuine. Why would he need company from someone he'd just met on the street?

"Okay," she decided. She really didn't feel like aimlessly searching for a place to stay. Funds had been tight for a while, and she wasn't even sure if her credit card would cover a hotel room. Her new job started in a week, so money was still a concern.

"Okay?" The man's smile turned genuine, brightening his face. Nathalie noticed just how piercing his green eyes were, accompanied by charming dimples.

Nathalie shrugged, considering her options. "I figure this is as good a way as any to meet my new neighbor," she decided. "Point me to the shower, will you?"

"My pleasure," Ethan replied smoothly.

As Nathalie stepped into the bathroom, she noticed its oddly unused appearance. There were no toothbrushes, no wet towels on the floor, no shower gel—nothing that indicated anyone actually used this space. It was furnished with a shower curtain, but that was all.

Ethan left momentarily to fetch her a towel and some shower gel, promising to leave some dry clothes on the hallway side table and to stay in the living room while she showered. Once he departed, Nathalie quickly peeled off her wet dress and discarded her underwear, letting the hot water wash over her chilled body. It was a welcome relief after the unexpected events of the day—a day that had gone far from her plans. It was only her second day in town after her big move, and she was already finding herself in unusual situations.

Reflecting, Nathalie wondered what she was doing here, in a stranger's apartment—a man considerably older than her, by about fifteen years she estimated—and whose name she didn't even know. Part of her realized she should probably just head to a hotel, but curiosity kept her in place. She had moved to this town to truly start living, and perhaps tonight was a chance to do just that. She had a list of things to do in her first months, and meeting new people was high on it. Having a one-night stand was another. Why not achieve both in her first week? It was efficient, in a way.

When she felt warm, clean, and dry, Nathalie exited the shower to see what clothes Ethan had left. She quickly pulled them into the bathroom to change there instead of the hallway. The selection was... minimal—a large men's shirt and boxer shorts. She wasn't sure how to feel about it. While the ensemble wasn't revealing, it certainly wasn't the most flattering. Part of her was relieved that there were no women's clothes in the apartment, suggesting the absence of a wife or girlfriend, yet she had hoped for perhaps some yoga pants or an old dress. No such luck—baggy shirt and boxers it was.

Or perhaps just the shirt... She smiled at the thought, discarding the boxers. The shirt was long enough to cover her adequately, but she was sure Ethan would notice eventually. Was she interpreting the situation correctly? Surely her staying over implied they'd end up together? Nathalie felt a flutter of nerves but choosing the shirt-alone option felt like a bold, unspoken move. It gave her a confidence boost.

Taking a deep breath, Nathalie walked through the hallway and into the living room. The sight stopped her short. The room resembled her grandmother's home—a large cuckoo clock, heavy dark wooden furniture, a color palette from the seventies or so. It didn't scream "hot bachelor in his late thirties."

"So..." Ethan smirked from his seat on the couch, turning off the TV. "That took you long enough."

"How old are you?" Nathalie asked, frowning as she looked around. "Eighty?"

He grinned. "This is my parents' house. I have one week to clear it out before the new renters move in."

"Oh. Did they..."

"Die?" he finished. "Dad did. Mom moved in with my sister. She insisted I take care of the place, and honestly, she's right." He looked her over and smiled. "Right now, I'm very glad she insisted."

"I'm sorry about your dad," Nathalie said, suddenly feeling awkward standing there without underwear.

"He'd been sick for over a year. It's for the better." He got up and stretched. "Now it's my turn for a shower. I can't wait to get out of this suit." He brushed past her toward the hallway and chuckled when she tensed up.

"Don't get shy now," he murmured. "And don't think for a second that I didn't notice you're only wearing a shirt. Don't you dare put anything else on."

"Okay," she managed to reply.

"And for the record..." Ethan moved closer, brushing his lips against her neck, making her shiver. "I'm still hungry."

Before Nathalie could respond, he moved away and closed the door behind him. "My name is Ethan, by the way," he called out just loud enough for her to hear, "not that you care."

"Nathalie!" she shouted back with a roll of her eyes. "Not that you asked."

He laughed and started singing, "Sweet Nathalie..."

"How original!" she shot back, heading to the kitchen. She decided to see what she could put together. She was a bit hungry, though admittedly more nervous than anything else.

"How original," Nathalie muttered before heading to the kitchen. She decided to see if she could whip up something to eat. She was slightly hungry, though her nerves overshadowed her appetite.

Ethan took his time in the shower and changing, longer than Nathalie had anticipated. She suspected he was giving her ample time to explore the fridge and unpack her own groceries. Cooking was a skill she adored, a shared passion with her mom, and she mused on what her mother would think if she could see her now—preparing a meal for a man she had only just met and in whose kitchen she stood half-dressed. It would definitely raise eyebrows.

"That smells amazing," Ethan remarked as he strolled back in, wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants. Nathalie couldn't help but notice how every man seemed to own a pair, as if it were the universal choice for maximum allure. Not that she was complaining; Ethan's well-toned, tattooed physique was worth appreciating.

"Fifteen more minutes," Nathalie called out as she peeked into the oven before returning to the stove to stir the pan. "I found some puff pastry in the freezer and have sausages for pigs in a blanket. There's also fried chicken and baked potatoes..." She trailed off as Ethan moved closer, pressing against her back, his presence a deliberate distraction.

"You're a blessing," he murmured, kissing her neck and letting his hands glide up her thighs. He chuckled when she shifted, slightly uneasy but intrigued. "You've been waiting for this since you stepped in here."

"Well..." she felt breathless, struggling to form a complete thought as his hands inched up, beginning to lift the shirt. "No," she decided, pulling it back down. "First, food."

"Then sex?" Ethan suggested, sounding a touch disappointed even as he had been the one to insist she cook, though not in so many words.

"Food first," she reiterated. "Go sit on the couch so you won't distract me."

Ethan grunted. "Where's the fun in that, Nathalie?"

The way he said her name was like a promise, and while part of her wanted to surrender to the moment right there, right then, she fought the urge. She needed to maintain some level of dignity and find out more about Ethan before letting things progress.

"How old are you?" she asked.

He perched on the table adjacent to the kitchen, his feet on a chair. "Do we really need to compile a whole list of facts about each other before deciding to sleep together? I know nothing about you beyond your name and address—it doesn't bother me."

"I need a little more." Nathalie flipped the potatoes in the pan and asked again for his age.

"How old do you think I am?"

She eyed him critically. "Thirty-eight."

He smiled. "Thanks, Nathalie. I'm forty-one."

Damn, older than she thought.

"And you—how old are you?" Ethan queried.

"How old do you think I am?" She countered, raising an eyebrow.

"Fair enough," he conceded, appraising her with a gaze that sent a shiver down her spine. "Twenty-seven."

"Not sure if that's an insult or a compliment," she replied, accustomed to others assuming she was older. "I'm twenty-four."

"Seventeen years between us," Ethan mused. "That's quite a gap. I could have been your father."

"Yeah, if you'd knocked up your high school girlfriend," she teased. "Please don't tell me you want me to call you daddy."

"I'm relieved to hear that," he says with a shudder, looking much younger with that expression of distaste. It was hard to believe this man was actually 41—he must have good genes. "I've already got a girl in my life who calls me daddy."

Nathalie's mind raced with possibilities. Was he some kind of pervert? Married, perhaps? Was he looking for a quick escape before returning to a family? Or did he simply enjoy the thrill of casual encounters?

"My daughter," Ethan clarified, chuckling at her startled expression. "I'm happily divorced, if you're wondering. No girlfriend, just a sweet little girl I co-parent. I hope that's enough personal information for you, because that's all you're getting. Let's skip exchanging all the boring stuff. Does it really matter what my job is or where I live? This is just a night of fun between two strangers. Why ruin it by getting too personal?"

"Okay," Nathalie agreed, feeling excited by the prospect. She knew enough to feel assured she wasn't being naive. At his age, it made sense that he'd have a child. She noticed no wedding ring or its absence marked by a tell-tale band of pale skin, so she decided he was likely telling the truth. If not, well, that wasn't her concern.

Ethan walked over to the window, closing the curtains and turning on some music she didn't recognize—it might have been something from his younger days. Seventeen years was a considerable age difference, after all. Her mom was only three years older, while her dad was just six years his senior. He was indeed closer in age to her parents than to her, yet here they were.

Stop thinking about your parents and enjoy the moment, she scolded herself. He's attractive, and he wants you. Just savor this experience.

"A gift from God," Ethan repeated as Nathalie placed the food on the coffee table in front of the couch, handing him a plate. "You truly are the best stranger I've ever invited into my parents' apartment."