Shoot him some air pistols and blow off the imaginary smoke.
I sigh and sag against the wall when the doors mercifully slide shut.
But dang, he was good-looking.
Tall—really tall, actually—with dark hair and thick eyebrows, eyes so blue I could distinguish their color from across the lobby, almost thirty feet away. His hair was windblown, sculpted cheekbones red from the cold. Dark gray wool jacket with the collar pulled up. Black scarf. Jeans and dress shoes. I didn’t need long to get the full rundown on his appearance.
Good-looking men never take long to drool over.
And just as the door shut in his startled face, I saw the traces of a shallow cleft in his chin.
Damn him, I’m a sucker for those.
“Huh.”
That face.
That handsome, bewildered face.
It’s the last thing I see when I close my eyes that night and, let’s face it, pass out in the middle of my bed.
4
Brooks
Weekends are for: alcohol, hook-ups, sitting on my ass.
And exercise.
On days I run, when I’m finished, I take the stairs to my apartment, skipping the elevator so by the time I reach my floor, I’m panting like I’m on my last breath, almost collapsing when I shove through the door exiting the stairwell, practically falling into the hallway.
Stumble.
Panting like a goddamn dog, like I’ve just come from a one-hundred-degree room, wearing thirty layers and running backward on a treadmill.
Feebly grasping toward the direction of my apartment, I sound like I’m breathing through a metal lung and—
“Yikes,” a voice says. “Dude, are you okay?”
“Jesus Christ!” I shout, startled that anyone is standing in the hallway. No one is ever in the hallway, so this pleasant female voice takes me by complete surprise.
I wipe the sweat dripping down my brow and into my eyes, glancing up into the curious eyes of—
“You.”
Just that one word is an accusation, delivered in a special tone reserved for shock and disgust, for when I’m feeling both at the same time.
Her.
It’s the little shit from the lobby—the one who wouldn’t hold the friggin elevator for me and let it slam in my face.
Okay fine, elevator doors don’t slam. They slide closed slowly. But she punctuated the whole thing with air guns, so that whole “Oh no, I’m meltinggg!” bullshit was just that—bullshit.
She wasn’t melting. She’s perfectly intact, staring at me as if I were heaving, hunched over, and nearly hyperventilating in the hallway of our apartment complex.
I squint up at her.
This—she is why I’m swearing off women—women like her.
“You? Huh?” Dawning registers on her face. “Oh you mean meee.” Her nose turns up. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“I think I’m your neighbor.”
“Hmm.” She taps her chin, thinking. “Which one?”
“The one that lives here?” I point to the door behind me—the gleaming number 2045 that matches her gleaming 2042. The cream doors exactly identical, save for the gold addresses affixed to the centers.
Gold doorknobs.
Gold peepholes.
The place is classy as fuck, and some days, I cannot even believe I live here. Not after the lifetime of shitholes I had to live in growing up, digging myself out of the poverty hole my parents dug us into by never having jobs.
I’m fucking proud of how successful I’ve become, proud to afford this place.
Except now I have this lippy troll glaring at me from across the carpet of this gilded hall as if I’m the dickhead in this scenario, not her.
“Huh. Didn’t realize I had one.”
“You didn’t realize you had a neighbor?”
That’s a giant load of crap if I’ve ever heard one. The hallway is full of doors and she didn’t realize she had a neighbor? Now she’s just being difficult. I know I’ve played my music a little too loud on occasion, and even though she’s across the hallway and we don’t share a wall, there’s no way she hasn’t heard it at least once through the door.
Not unless she’s a hermit who never comes out, which I highly doubt.
This girl is polished, poised, and sassy. Definitely comes off as a bit of a snob, and from the way her eyes keep roaming up and down my sweat-soaked body, no doubt she’s judging me. Finds me lacking, I’m sure. Not sure how I feel about that—the blue gaze a twinkling gleam I’ll catalogue as toying with me.
She’s amused, teasing me like a mouse to a cat.
I hate cats.
I’m more of a dog person, and why the hell am I even thinking about that right now when it’s not the point?
The girl—this young woman—is watching me, and it’s obvious she knows my thoughts have strayed. She seizes the opportunity to bail on an introduction.
“Well, nice to meet you. Bye.” She tries to slide inside her apartment, but I stop her.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast.”
She sighs, sagging against the doorframe. Crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Ugh, fine.” Instantly, a disgruntled censure commands her voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t hold the elevator for you the other night. I was busy and had stuff in my hands.”
Busy?
Stuff in her hands?
Little liar. “You weren’t holding jack shit!” Meanwhile, I had a cumbersome box full of crap from the office! “If you’re going to lie, at least put some effort into it.”
“Fine. I might have been a teensy-weensy bit drunkish.” She regards me again, tilting her head. “What was in that box you were carrying anyway?”
“Mail. Packages. Work stuff I had sent to myself.”
“What kind of work stuff?”
I narrow my eyes, patting at the perspiration on my forehead. “Are you always this nosey?”
“Actually—no.” Her smile is crooked and cute and oddly enough, I believe her. “Normally I don’t care a fig about what other people are doing.”
A fig?
I shift inside my sneakers, legs cooling off. “I’m working on a project and thought I’d bring some of it home.”
“What’s the project?”
Nothing you need to worry about. “It’s just a project.”
“Why won’t you tell me what it is? Is it illegal?”
“Why do you care?”
Her shoulders rise and fall in a feminine shrug. “Just curious about what my new neighbor does for a day job. There are a lot of mafia around here, you know.”
Jesus Christ. “I’m not in the mafia, and I’m not your new neighbor—I’ve lived here for nine months.”
“It’s so weird we haven’t bumped into each other.” She pauses. “So what was in the box?”
“Oh my God.” My groan is loud and dramatic as I brace my hands against the wall so I can stretch my calves while we’re wasting time blabbering out here.
“Just tell me.” Another hesitation. “It was a severed head, wasn’t it?”
A severed he—
“If you really must know, I’m one of the principal architects at Witt & Spencer and I’m working on the latest technology for a high-rise development downtown.” I’m not proud to say I puff out my chest as I deliver a line I’ve actually practiced saying in front of the mirror in my bedroom, but what can ya do.