“I can’t live here,” she shrieks.
We know, I want to tell her. I keep calm because the last thing I need is a woman having a meltdown, a panic attack, or God knows what she’s going to do. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you, sweetheart. You can rent a house—”
“No,” she interrupts me, again. “I’m already paying for the unit. I’ll make this work.”
Mane and I look at each other. Didn’t we just say the place isn’t available?
“You can’t,” Manelik argues.
“Oh, I will. You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?”
“Clearly, we don’t”—I try my best not to laugh, and I end up choking—“know sh-shit.”
“You listen.” She pokes me again. “I’m a New Yorker and an ER doctor. I’ll survive this place.”
Mane shrugs. “If you’re sure. I’ll get our lawyer to amend the contract.”
“Bad idea,” I sing under my breath.
“This is on you for not telling us when you found out.”
Oh, fuck. I know the meaning of those words. I’m her designated babysitter. “Well, Dr. Hottie. If you’re sure you wanna stay, it’ll be my pleasure to move your things.”
She gives me a suspicious glare. “Thank you?”
Mane pats my shoulder. “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck,” I tell him, moving my attention toward the hottie. “You should go out with me.”
“No, thank you.” She leaves, and I stare at her round ass. I’m looking forward to tapping that.
“You know you want to,” I argue, following her.
She looks over her shoulder, glaring at me. “I’d rather get caught naked in the middle of the subway.”
“Ooh, how did you know public sex is my favorite?” I grin and wink at her.
This round goes to me. May the games begin.
Chapter Five
Nathalie
I hate to admit it.
Amber was right. There’s a reason why this place is free.
No one should live in this glorified playroom.
Who are you kidding, Nat? You bulldozed your way into the apartment. In theory, they weren’t planning on letting you stay.
This point goes to Dr. Hottie.
Damn it, that guy got under my skin.
And let’s highlight that he’s not just any guy. He’s Fisher Hannigan. Better known as the keyboardist of the band Too Far From Grace.
He does not affect me. The man is just like his father. He’s a philanderous, arrogant playboy. If he thinks I’m going to fall for him, he has another thing coming.
Is he attractive?
I don’t see the appeal.
I’m not into tall guys with broad shoulders, bulging muscles under their too-tight-to-hide-them t-shirts, and dreamy blue eyes. He could be Richard Madden’s doppelgänger. Again, not my type.
It doesn’t matter that he plays for one of my all-time favorite bands. Do I want to call Tracy, Christina, and Amber to tell them that I met Manelik and Fish? If I was twenty, sure. We’re too old to lust over a bunch of cocky musicians. Plus, they’ll jump on a plane, and the last thing I need is for them to find out that I live in a…what is this place? A playroom?
I can’t be living here, but if not here, where?
The bed is comfortable. The bathroom downstairs has the basics. There’s a bathroom in the medical practice that has a shower. It’s right by the entrance of the backroom. I don’t even have to go too far to take a quick bath. If it weren’t for the noise coming from the bar, I’d be sleeping like a baby. Tomorrow I’m connecting my computer to the wi-fi and ordering noise cancelling headphones or earplugs. I should check the noise ordinance for this town. Maybe I can get them to shut down the bar by ten.
Since I can’t sleep, I pull out my phone and notice there’s a text from my mother. She wants me to come to dinner next month with Frank.
I’m guessing the bastard hasn’t told his mother that we’re no longer together.
How is Mom going to react?
She’s going to tell me to suck it up and go back to him.
I recall Dad’s indiscretion with one of my brother’s friends—while having an affair with my nanny. Mom forgave him because that’s what men do. Those were her exact words. I can already hear her lecture about my immaturity and lack of commitment. I’m too young and stupid to have a serious relationship.
I choose to ignore her. Instead, I google the history of Luna Harbor. I find a few websites, including the one for Too Far From a Bar. The secret venue where people can find their favorite artists. If it has a website that pops into the search right away, it’s not a secret, is it?
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I fall asleep. It’s only for a few minutes because suddenly I’m woken up by the loud screech of a guitar followed by a much louder drum solo.
“Shut up!”
I put the pillow on top of my head, hoping it’ll be enough to make the noise go away. It isn’t. This can’t be happening to me. I’m waiting for Ashton Kutcher to barge into the room and say, “You got Punk’d.”
He doesn’t, but the music gets louder. Instead of returning the U-Haul, I should drive back to New York.
But what’s going to happen to my future? I’m going to be my mother’s puppet for the rest of my life? That’s not going to happen. This is me taking charge of my destiny. These people aren’t going to win.
I call the police. Unlike in New York City, it takes forever for someone to answer. “9-1-1 What’s your emergency?”
“I want to report a party.”
“A party?” The sleepy man on the other side groans.
I check the number I dialed. Usually, the operators are alert—not sleeping on the job. They ask questions, verify your number, and ask for an address—unless it’s on the screen. This guy isn’t doing anything.
“Hello, I need help with this party,” I insist.
“Are you serious, lady?”
“As serious as a heart attack. I finally fell asleep when these rude people woke me up with their noise. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning, and someone is playing loud music next door.”
“What a coincidence. I was sleeping too until you called.”
Is this man for real? “This is 9-1-1, right? For emergencies?”
“Yes. I’m Sheriff Nicholson.”
“Well, I need to file a formal complaint against my neighbor who’s playing loud music and disrupting my night.”
“Who is this?”
“Dr. Nathalie Brennan.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he says, annoyed.
“I just arrived earlier today. I’m the new doctor.”
“Ah, Dr. Westbrook mentioned something about it as he was leaving town. Well, if you’re staying at the Inn, I recommend you call the Cantús.”
“I’m in my apartment,” I argue.
“Are you sure you’re calling the right place? We don’t have apartment buildings in this town, ma’am.” His voice changes from annoyance to anger.