Wanna Bet?

Part 3

The pounding on my door cut through the EDM blasting in my ears. Mortified, I ran from the kitchen to open it. I'd been cooking and dancing and possibly even singing very loudly––whoever was outside was probably unhappy.

The apology died in my throat when I opened the door to a slightly annoyed Mang Bart and a very amused Kiko.

"Ma'am, your packages," said Mang Bart, handing me a couple of orange plastic bags.

"I'm so sorry, Mang Bart, I didn't hear you knocking." I signed his logbook, apologizing profusely while Kiko bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Next time, ma'am, answer the phone from reception too." Mang Bart left us with a harrumph, the echo of my last apologies following him down the hall.

Kiko cleared his throat. "I see we have the same taste in music."

I could feel my face heating up like an oven. Why, why did he have to look like this? Fresh off work, a training session maybe, in dark blue trousers and a long-sleeved shirt of lighter blue, made of some sort of stretchy, light knit that pulled over his chest and shoulders appealingly, the sleeves rolled up to show me veiny forearms tucked over said broad chest. The longish hair was tamed now, swept off the fine bones of his face with a little product. Leaning against my doorway, he was so close I could smell his light cologne.

"I highly doubt that," I managed to say, before my brain completely fried.

He broke into a falsetto version of Call Your Girlfriend, and god, GOD. I couldn't decide between accidentally tripping to fall into his arms or tripping straight through the hole in the floor I wished would open and swallow me.

He finished his Robyn impression with a little chuckle and a look as if to say, it's all right, Robyn rocks, we all sing our hearts out to her songs at 10 in the evening.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, brilliantly.

He cocked his thumb to his right.

I groaned. "No. Don't tell me."

"I'm afraid so, Miss Jane. I live right beside you."

"Well, that's just awesome. How'd you like my concert?"

He stuck his head closer to mine––a blessing he was so tall and that I only came up to the base of his neck, or our lips would be in dangerous proximity.

(WTF am I even thinking?)

He sniffed and his eyes drifted from mine to the direction of the kitchen. "Is that adobo?"

"Yep."

He looked delighted. "Adobo is my specialty."

Ooh, now this was a challenge. "My adobo is the best. Everyone says so."

"They say the same thing about mine."

"I boil the chicken meat in vinegar until it evaporates and the meat browns in its own juices."

He smirked. "I marinate pork belly overnight and I have a secret ingredient to make the sauce good enough to eat on its own."

I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess, pineapples?"

"No." He clutched his chest, affronted. "Gata!" Then he slapped a hand over his mouth as though he just revealed his ATM pin.

"That is not even adobo."

The look of offense on his face was hilarious. He collected himself and said, "I bet my adobo can beat your adobo."

I crossed my arms. "I haven't decided if you are worthy enough to taste my adobo."

He squeezed his eyes shut and staggered backwards. "That hurts, Miss Jane."

"Whatever, Kiko. I need to get back to my dinner."

Those feline lips stretched into a playful smile. "At least there's tomorrow's wager to look forward to."

"Don't forget to stretch,"I said helpfully, closing the door between us.