“What is that? Is that your neighbor again?” Mom shouts.
I was tapping out a jittery staccato against the counter, but now I curl my fingers into a little rage ball. If junk mail wished on a star and became a real boy, I’d know exactly where to find him. I storm over to bang my fist on the living room wall, which only draws the sound closer. It becomes louder and more aggressive, as if someone is vacuuming right against the wall on purpose.
Becauseof courseJack’s vacuuming against the wall on purpose.
The only thing separating me from my neighbor’s enormous head is a few inches of prewar plaster. And maybe some wood? I don’t know, I’m not a contractor. Though I’m sure that not even a twelve-inch-thick steel panel would be enough of a buffer for my peace. Jack vacuums to irritate me.
Because he hates me as much as I hate him.
Which is a lot.
“Yes, he sucks,” I shout over the din. Her response is lost in the drone and thump of a vacuum butting up against a baseboard. “I can’t hear you! I’ve gotta deal with this. And I’ll talk to my boss. Okay? Love you. Call you tomorrow.” I end the call and pound on the wall again.
My phone vibrates, Mom texting:
I love you. You can always move back here, you know. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with that nonsense.
The place just under my ribs tightens. I don’t want to move. I’ve had six years of rental bliss in this apartment—six years of space to be myself and make my own decisions. All that changed ten months ago, when the demon moved in next door.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I announce to no one. I stormily return to my little bowl of wax and set it up on the stove in a water bath. It’s not long before the apartment is enveloped in the soothing scent of coconut.
After pouring the wax into a jar and standing up a wick, I migrate over to my built-in bookcases to dust. They’re overflowing with my favorite romance novels and a never-ending collection of to-be-reads, organized by steaminess rating. I run the duster over the spines, pausing to glance at the back cover of one I don’t remember reading. Instantly, I get sucked into the jacket copy. My jaw relaxes. My hands unclench. I deserve a break. Start a new release or lean into the tried and true? As if that’s a real question.
Book in hand, I return to my sofa and almost unconsciously bang my fist on the wall again. Jack doesn’t have the square footage to warrant that much fucking vacuuming. I should know, since our apartments are mirror images of each other.
The vacuum falls blessedly silent, leaving only the muffled murmurs of Jack’s TV.
“Dick,” I mutter, eyeing my long-forgotten chamomile tea with regret. Tugging my softest throw blanket over my lap and snuggling into my couch, I can feel tension leaking out of my body like an exorcised spirit when I open Karin Shelby’sThe Pirate Duke’s Pleasure.
Bethany advanced on the Pirate Duke, her temper sparking. “I am not interested in softening you,” she gritted out. “I rather like you…hard.”
Her words were a direct hit, landing with a cannon’s force. Ronan pulled in a bracing breath, willing his heart to slow and his manhood’s ache to subside.
The robe slipped off Bethany’s shoulders, and the moonlight through the cabin’s porthole illuminated his Venus. Tantalizing, succulent…and just as out of reach as a goddess of old for such as him.
“The man you knew is dead! Charles Hawthorne, Duke of Merrow, is no more,” he snapped.
Her cobalt eyes flashed like a tempest-tossed sea. Her hand moved down her ribs, grazing lower until it reached the juncture of her thighs.
“Bethany—” he said, her name emerging somewhere between warning and prayer. Ronan turned his back, forcing himself to reject her and their past. “You know you are a—”
“Waste of a goddamn meat suit!” Jack shouts. “Throw a strike!”
I clench my jaw, set my novel down, and bang my fist on the wall again, so hard that my hand aches. There’s an immediate bang back.
My temples throb. I just want to read my smut in peace. I’ve had the TV on mute, mostly just to make the place feel less solitary, but now I turn the volume way up and watch as Ray Liotta and Lorraine Bracco verbally assault each other inGoodfellas. How far does this TV volume go? Let’s find out, fucker.
Jack bangs on the wall, but I can barely hear it over the movie. I smile. The images on the screen are replaced with my own fantasy of marching to Jack’s door and smooshing my hand into his face when he answers, startling away that ever-present smug expression. I’d grab for his vacuum, pull it into the hall, and launch it over the stair railing.
Jack’s gray eyes would darken like storm clouds. He’d grab my arm and turn me toward him. I’d crow, victorious, hearing the smash of the thing landing in the lobby. His breathing would be labored. My chest would heave, the tips of my nipples brushing the front of his shirt with each breath. His pupils would overtake his irises, and those eyes would settle on my mouth. He’d pull me closer, wrapping muscled arms around—
A loud knock interrupts, startling me out of my awful thoughts.
Ew.Ew. I kick the novel next to me off the sofa—hard.The Pirate Duke’s Pleasureand Jack Fucking Craig have no business mingling in my rotten brain. Mom could probably tell me the exact day and time of my last date—I certainly don’t care enough to keep track—butclearlyit’s been too long.
The knock sounds again, more insistent. I’d almost forgotten that that’s what stopped the porn train from leaving the station in the first place. I stand, run a hand down my face, and open my door.
Gence Delpi, a sixty-three-year-old family man with kind eyes, silver hair, and a craggy face dominated by his bulbous nose, stands in the hall. He gusts out an exhale, as if disappointed in me, and looks past my shoulder at the TV. I understand immediately.
