Chapter 6
849 Words
POV: Emma
I woke up fully prepared to have a peaceful morning.
That was my first mistake.
By eight o'clock, Mrs. Alvarez had already stopped by my office with banana bread, Mr. Wilson had submitted a handwritten complaint about "an aggressive squirrel that was emotionally threatening him," and a little boy from Apartment 1C proudly informed me that someone had become famous overnight.
"Who?" I asked.
He looked at me like I'd asked whether water was wet.
"Mr. Disaster."
I sighed.
Of course.
Word traveled through this building faster than the internet.
By the time I stepped outside to sweep the front entrance, two elderly women from the neighboring building waved at me.
"Morning, Emma!"
"Morning."
"How's your celebrity tenant?"
I lowered the broom.
"...Celebrity?"
"The noodle man!"
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
It had been less than twenty-four hours.
How had people outside the building already heard?
Mrs. Alvarez chose that exact moment to appear behind me carrying a watering can.
"I might've mentioned it at my gardening club."
"You told your gardening club?"
"They asked how my week was going."
"So naturally you discussed burned noodles."
"It was the highlight."
I couldn't even argue with that.
The front door opened behind us.
Damian stepped outside wearing a navy T-shirt and dark jeans.
He looked... annoyingly refreshed.
How?
If I'd set off a fire alarm in front of thirty people, I'd fake my own disappearance.
He noticed us.
Mrs. Alvarez beamed.
"Good morning, Mr. Disaster!"
He stopped walking.
"...Please don't."
Mr. Wilson appeared from absolutely nowhere.
"Morning, Mr. Disaster!"
Another voice floated down from a second-floor balcony.
"Hey, Mr. Disaster!"
A teenager riding his bicycle past the building slowed just enough to yell, "Don't burn breakfast!"
Damian closed his eyes for one long second.
"I've made a terrible mistake."
"You made several," I said, unable to stop smiling.
He looked at me.
"I was hoping you'd be the mature one."
"I was."
"And?"
"I got over it."
Mrs. Alvarez laughed so hard she had to hold onto my shoulder.
Damian looked genuinely offended.
"I have a real name."
Mr. Wilson nodded thoughtfully.
"True."
For one hopeful moment, Damian's expression brightened.
Then Mr. Wilson continued.
"But Mr. Disaster has a nice ring to it."
Damian looked ready to negotiate with fate itself.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
He took a deep breath.
"I'm going grocery shopping."
Mrs. Alvarez gasped dramatically.
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Brave."
"It's a supermarket."
"You say that now."
He looked at me as if expecting backup.
I simply shrugged.
"They're not wrong."
He stared.
"I'm beginning to suspect all of you enjoy my suffering."
"We don't enjoy it."
I smiled sweetly.
"We're entertained by it."
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Ethan is paying for this."
"What was that?" I asked.
"Nothing."
He walked toward the sidewalk with all the confidence of a man determined to reclaim what remained of his dignity.
He made it exactly five steps.
Then he walked straight into the hanging flower basket Mrs. Alvarez had forgotten to move.
The basket swung dramatically.
A few petals landed on his hair.
Silence.
Mrs. Alvarez covered her mouth.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Mr. Wilson failed first.
A snort escaped him.
Then another.
Within seconds, the three of us were laughing so hard I had to lean on my broom to stay upright.
Damian slowly removed a pink petal from his shoulder.
"I hate flowers."
"They started it," Mr. Wilson managed between laughs.
Damian gave us one long look.
Then, to my surprise, he laughed too.
It wasn't loud.
Just a quiet, helpless chuckle.
"I suppose," he admitted, "that was a little funny."
That caught me off guard.
Most people with egos as polished as his would've stormed off.
Instead, he laughed at himself.
Interesting.
He continued down the street, finally escaping the building.
I watched until he disappeared around the corner.
Mrs. Alvarez nudged me with her elbow.
"He's growing on you."
I looked at her.
"No, he isn't."
"Mmm."
"He's impossible."
"Mmm."
"He burned noodles."
"Mmm."
"He broke a closet."
"Mmm."
"And now he's at war with a flower basket."
Mrs. Alvarez smiled knowingly.
"You noticed an awful lot for someone who isn't paying attention."
Before I could think of a reply, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was the security camera app connected to the apartment entrance.
I frowned.
Why would it—
The screen showed the front gate.
A delivery truck had just stopped outside.
Three men climbed out carrying enormous wooden crates.
One of them unfolded a clipboard and looked toward the building.
"Delivery for Mr. Damian Knight!"
I stared at the mountain of boxes.
The labels were impossible to miss.
Imported coffee machine.
Luxury espresso grinder.
Premium cookware.
Smart home system.
I looked toward the corner where Damian had disappeared.
Then back at the truck.
Oh, no.
Mr. Disaster had forgotten one very important condition of his bet.
No luxury.
And judging by the size of those crates...
Someone was about to have a very, very bad morning.
- Writer
