In the doorway stands a tall, lean man I’ve never seen before, and for a second the stale air in this place feels…different. His long dirty-blond hair is pulled into a small knot that bears sharp cheekbones, and a single dimple sits at the point of his chin. A white T-shirt peeks from beneath his blazer, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms, and his blue eyes flick between Mrs. Thompson and me with undisguised curiosity. Calling him handsome would be like calling the Grand Canyon a nice hole in the ground. A grand understatement.
“Hi, Lance!” Mrs. Thompson perks up immediately.
“Hi.” His gaze slides over me, from my messy ponytail to my worn-out sneakers, and I become painfully aware of every casual wardrobe choice I made this morning. “I see you’ve finally found a tenant for this one,” he adds, voice easy, eyes back on Mrs. Thompson.
“Well,” Mrs. Thompson sighs, the word heavy with disappointment, “I’d hoped to deter her from changing units.” She glances at me like I’m a stubborn stain. “But she seems to approve of this apartment.”
“I’ll take it,” I announce with more conviction than I feel.
Mrs. Thompson shakes her head, clearly questioning my sanity or possibly my sense of smell.
The man steps forward and offers his hand. “I’m Lance Addison.” As I take it, his cologne reaches me, expensive and clean, cedar threaded with citrus, subtle but impossible to ignore. “I live just across from you,” he adds.
“Sarah Lake,” I reply, shaking his warm hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, what drives someone to willingly move into the infamous 203?” Lance asks, and his smile is surprisingly warm in this dingy little space. “Most people last about five minutes once they see the state this unit is in.”
“Let’s just say my current living situation has… developed complications,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Complications that outweigh the questionable plumbing.”
“Ah, the mysterious complications,” he says, nodding like he’s filed that phrase under things he’s heard before. “Noisy neighbors? A ghost infestation?” His smile tugs wider, warm and wicked all at once. “Or the classic: ex-boyfriend issues?”
“Bingo on the last one,” I admit. “He lives next door. And also happens to be my new boss.”
“Ouch. Double whammy.” Lance winces with genuine sympathy, like he can feel the hit. “Though I should warn you, this place has…quirks.” His mouth twists, amused. “The radiator sounds like it’s summoning demons on Tuesday nights, and sometimes the lights flicker when you run the microwave.”
“Still better than sharing a wall with the man who broke my heart,” I say, surprised that I’m even telling him all this. But there’s something honest about Lance that makes the truth slip out so easily.
“I get it. And hey—now you’ll have me as a neighbor instead. Much less complicated, I promise.”
Mrs. Thompson cuts in with a theatrical clearing of her throat. “As fascinating as this exchange is,” she says dryly, “I need to go. Some of us have actual appointments to keep.”
I glance at my watch and realize how late it’s getting. “Shoot, I need to get ready for work.”
Before I’m even halfway up the steps, Lance calls after me, “We should go out for coffee sometime.” I pause, one foothovering on the next stair. “You know. To get to know each other, since we’re going to be neighbors and all.”
I don’t see a reason to refuse. He seems nice enough, and more than handsome enough to make me forget about Jake for a blissful, fleeting moment.
“I’d like that,” I say.
Just as we exchange numbers, my small moment of optimism disintegrates, collapsing like wet tissue paper in a hurricane, because Jake barrels down the stairs. His eyes slam into mine, and the impact is instant, charged, like someone hooked my heart to a car battery and floored the accelerator.
Chapter 8
Idon’t know what quickens my pulse more: the hot coal of resentment burning in my chest over a man who claimed my work as his own—even if it was to help his family—or the sick, twisted part of me that wants to see his face flicker with jealousy when he notices I’m talking to another man.
Jake strides past us like we’re air, his suit crisp and fitted across his shoulders in all the right places, his gaze pinned straight ahead with deliberate indifference. And then the scent hits me, familiar in the worst way, unwanted and instant. Armani Code. My stomach flips, traitorous, sixteen again, waiting by the door for him to pick me up for our first real date. I used to love that cologne on him. Correction: I used to love breathing it in off his neck while we slow-danced at summer concerts in the park, swaying under warm lights and pretending there was no worry in the world.
Mainly to keep myself from spiraling, I give my brain a mental slap. What am I even doing? The cologne should not matter. Theshoulders should not matter. The only emotion I’m allowed to feel toward Jake is a lifelong, ironclad commitment to loathing him until the sun burns out or hell freezes over, whichever decides to come first.
I want to confront him about the RainSafe campaign, demand answers for why my name vanished from my own creation, but Lance is watching me with those attentive eyes, and making a scene is not on today’s agenda.
Just before he disappears down the next flight, Jake’s eyes flick toward Lance, a microsecond of assessment so quick most people would miss it. His jaw tightens, barely there, almost imperceptible, but I see it, nonetheless.
Once we’re alone, Lance lets out a low whistle. “I’m guessing that’s the ex.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, already turning to bolt up the stairs, running from all the feelings I swore I’d buried four years ago.
***
