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For the next while, Devra turned her attention to uncovering any pain points in Squally’s latest modifications. Just as she was on the verge of entering a flow state, the curtains gave a not-so-subtle flutter in her periphery. Then again, a few minutes later. Setting her teeth, Devra concentrated on the output of her debugging software.

She tried to ignore the pull, but the drapes kept moving, beckoning her to the window. She knew she shouldn’t fall for their ploy, but at the same time…one peek couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?

One tiny peek. In fact, it might help. Because this time, she’d peer into his house and see his actions as they were, rather than through the distorted lens of the curse. His unpacking boxes would just be a man moving into his new place. His listening to music would just be a man enjoying a pleasant tune. He might not even be home. He was probably at work—although his hours appeared to be irregular and difficult to predict. Or maybe he’d finally hung curtains of his own. Then this entire internal debate of hers would be irrelevant. So it definitely wouldn’t hurt to check.

Stepping over to the window, she pulled the curtain aside slowly, like peeling the tape off a present without wanting to tear the wrapping paper.

At first, she didn’t see anything, and it was that nothingness that struck her.

He’d taken the nutcracker statue down. He’d taken it down for her?

Her heart did a shimmy, which turned into a startled leap when a body popped into the lower window frame before disappearing again. And then again, horizontally. There and then gone.

To get a better view, Devra rolled her office chair over to the window and stepped on top of it.

Bradley was doing push-ups in his living room. Up and down. Up and down. The imagery was delightfully repetitive, unthreatening, mundane even. Just an ordinary man going about his un-serial-killer-like business, exactly what she needed to convince herself to close these curtains for good.

But as the push-ups kept coming, tens turning into twenties turning into thirties, the less mundane and more stare-worthy the sight became.

Bradley was wearing the same form-fitting white tee from last night, which cut his arms at the thickest bulge of his triceps. Triceps that were straining under his body weight but refusing to buckle. The man did not slow down. His powerful arms pumped, up and down, again and again, like he was moving to the tick of a metronome. His house was so close to hers she could see the circles of sweat forming between his wide shoulders and down his long spine, disappearing into the exposed sliver of smooth skin where his shirt was riding up.

When Bradley finally collapsed, Devra assumed the show was finished. But he rolled over and started doing sit-ups, his face contorting in a seductive expression of effort and determination every time his elbows met his knees. A loose strand of blond hair fell in front of his eyes, those pale watery-blue eyes that mimicked the surface of a frozen lake. She couldn’t look away.

After an impressive number of reps, he stopped, and Devra held her breath. He stood and removed his shirt in one smooth movement, like in a beach scene of a romantic comedy. He used his shirt to pat dry his forehead and tossed it aside in the manner of a male dancer casting aside his tear-away pants.

What happened next would have been boring, surely, with him moving about the kitchen, preparing a shake and frying some eggs, except he was doing it all without a shirt. And his abdomen was defined by six solid ridges and a smooth V that disappeared down into his pajama pants. For an instant, she wondered what it would be like to touch those ridges. To run her fingers along them like piano keys. Or to feel them pressed up against her—

The buzz of her phone yanked her attention away from the window. She stepped down from the chair and touched the screen open.

What about you, sweetheart? Anything new happening?

A smile crept over her lips.

Actually, I have a new neighbour.

She peered back up and—

“Shit.” Devra flung herself away from the window, her foot catching on a roller of her office chair, her phone sliding halfway across the room as she fell flat on her ass.

He hadn’t seen her, had he? Watching him through the window? She’d promised him less creepiness today. Not more.

After a few calming breaths, she gripped the windowsill and slowly pulled her eyes high enough to risk another peek. Bradley waved at her through the window.

Devra ducked below the frame. Then she smacked herself in the forehead, knowing the ducking itself was a bigger confession of guilt than simply being caught looking out her window. She could’ve pretended to be plugging in a lamp or some other logical excuse for being crouched on the floor. Too late now. Popping her head up again, she gave a casual salute, trying to pretend the last few seconds hadn’t happened.

Bradley just smiled. He was either incredibly oblivious or incredibly forgiving—and with her changing impression of him, she was leaning toward assuming the latter. He put a hand to his eye, miming a telescope, and rotated the other hand like a crank. The gesture confused Devra until he extended three fingers, dropped his hand, and then extended a single finger…

He was doing charades. A movie. Three words in total. Acting out the first word.

Devra stood up, dumbfounded for a good ten seconds before some innate competitive instinct had her blurting, “The Lion King!”

Bradley cupped his hand around his ear.

“The Lion King,” she shouted again, which was pointless given the two walls between them. Rushing to her desk, she jotted the answer down on a pad of paper, brought it back to the window, and held it up to the glass.

Bradley clapped his hands together in delight. He started another charade. This one was trickier. Maybe the first had been a warmup, a test run, and now that he knew what she was capable of, the real challenge began.

“Puss in Boots,” she said, before writing it down and pressing it to the window. Then A Man Called Otto. Inception. And Magic Mike, during which his thrusts made her laugh so hard a tear rolled down her cheek.