Glancing over my shoulder, I see him jogging toward me, tie loosened and collar unbuttoned.
“Go away,” I snap, quickening my pace.
He catches up anyway. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he says, voice maddeningly even. “Spilling coffee on your boss on your first day isn’t a great look.”
“Oh, you don’t say?” I glare at him, heat rising in my cheeks. “Thanks for that brilliant insight.”
Jake grins, dimples appearing like they’ve been summoned by my distress. “Still fiery, huh? I’ve missed that.”
“Well, I haven’t missed you. Goodbye.” I wave dismissively and march forward.
To my complete frustration, he follows behind me, and when I tell him to leave me alone, he says, “I live this way, too.”
He follows me all the way, and at my apartment door, I fumble with my keys, fingers clumsy with leftover adrenaline. I turn, ready to deliver one final dismissal, and my mouth goes slack. Jake is standing in the doorway directly across from mine.
“You’re the jerk with the ugly sofa?” I say.
His lips curve into that infuriating smirk I used to dream about. “Well, well. If it isn’t my passive-aggressive Post-it neighbor.”
Chapter 7
“Are you following me?” I demand, the words shooting from my mouth like darts aimed at his smug face. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat an accusation.
Jake’s brows knit together as he stares at me, looking genuinely confused. “I didn’t even know you were in town until the interview.” He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against his doorframe with that easy confidence I used to find attractive. Now it just makes my skin prickle with irritation.
“You were at the supermarket, too.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to deny it, daring him to pretend this is all some harmless overlap. First the grocery store. Then Lantern Bridge. Now this apartment building. It’s too much.
“Piggly Wiggly?” He lets out a laugh that bounces off the narrow hallway walls. “Yeah, it’s like the only supermarket around here.” His shoulders lift in a careless shrug. “Where elseam I supposed to go, the Gas-n-Go for five-dollar bread and questionable milk?”
Now that I think about it, my accusation sounds ridiculous. “You must move,” I tell him. A strand of hair falls across my face, and I blow it away with an angry puff.
Jake looks at me like I’ve just suggested he sprout wings and fly to Jupiter. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again, as if he’s searching for the right response to my insanity. “Again,” he says, voice careful, “why would I do that? This place is within walking distance of Lantern Bridge. That’s why I moved here.” He gestures vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall. “Five minutes on foot. Ten if I stop for coffee.”
I open my mouth to protest, to tell him that my mental health might actually depend on him disappearing from my zip code, but he’s already retreating into his apartment. The lock clicks behind him.
Frustrated beyond words, I curse loudly, hoping the thin walls carry my profanity straight to his ears. I slam my own door hard enough to rattle the hinges and lean against it, sliding down until I hit the floor.
There is no way—absolutely no possible way—I can live next door to my ex and boss. Hello, work-life balance? Isn’t there something in HR about a supervisor living too close to their co-worker? Some rule about maintaining professional boundaries? I should check the employee handbook, highlight the relevant section, and slap it on his door with industrial-strength adhesive.
I push myself up off the floor and begin pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Maybe if I pace faster, Jake will magically disappear from my life forever. Maybe this is all an elaborate prank. Is someone trying to play a trick on me?
Only the hum of my refrigerator answers me.
The sun sinks behind the mountains, taking with it any hope I had for solving this nightmare today. I can’t focus on unpacking, can’t concentrate on picking out curtains or arranging my furniture. All I can think about is the awful, inescapable fact that Jake lives next door.
I toss and turn all night, trying to convince myself I can handle it. When morning comes, harsh light streaming through my still-curtainless windows, I stare at my reflection while brushing my teeth, watching foam gather at the corners of my mouth. The truth glares back at me from bloodshot eyes: there’s no way I can survive living this close to Jake.
Work, maybe. Wendy can keep me sane, and keeping things professional in the office is, technically, doable. But being neighbors? That isn’t just crossing a line, it’s stepping on a trip wire and watching my world erupt, the blast radius scattering everything I’ve built until there’s nothing left but Jake-shaped debris.
I spit into the sink, rinse, and grip the edges of the counter so hard my knuckles bleach white. There has to be a way out of this. I perch on the edge of the bathtub, tapping my foot against the tile in a restless rhythm when it hits me.
I have to move. Yes. That’s it. There has to be another vacant apartment in this building.
My hope rebuilds with each step down the stairs as I rehearse my plea to the landlord. A fresh start? A mysterious allergy to leather jackets? Neighbors who snore through walls? Something, anything to get me out of this mess.
When I reach Mrs. Thompson’s door, I knock with more confidence than I feel, secretly praying she’ll offer a solution before the words “please” and “I’m desperate” have to come out of my mouth.
“Come in,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice calls, muffled through the wood.
