by Max Monroe
Quickly, I nab my keys from the counter, sling my blazer on over my blouse, and drop my cell phone into the outside pocket of my purse.
I heft it off the counter and nearly crumple under the weight of everything I’ve got inside, but you never know what you’re going to need on the first day of work for a new company.
I have my sketch pad, pencils, fabric samples, previous blueprints, furniture catalogs for my favorite designers, lighting brochures, and one tiny bag of cashews—just to give me something to chew on if the nerves turn my stomach.
I considered packing a change of clothes, a drink, lunch, and maybe a Toyota Supra, but the limits of my shoulder strength are finite, even if the bounds of what my anxiety about the first day has pushed me to are not.
I take one last peek in the mirror to assess my appearance.
Sharp black skirt, smart white blouse—that I actually ironed—panty hose, and a black blazer with gold buttons make up my ensemble, and my eye makeup is light but striking.
It’s exactly what I wrote down when I woke up at two a.m., dreaming about my outfit, and even if I hate it, it’s all I have time for.
I take a deep breath, grip the knob of my front door, and prepare myself to face the music.
“Here goes nothing.”
My door squeaks a little as I open it to step outside, and I make a mental note to apply some WD-40 to the hinges when I get home.
The manic part of me wants to do it now, but the realistic part of me knows I don’t have time.
That’s the kind of shit that’s always making me late, and there is absolutely no room to be tardy today.
No, I think with a sardonic shake of my head. Your new boss already dislikes you enough.
I’m putting my key into the lock and turning it into place when the door to the apartment next door opens with the same squeak as mine.
Instinctually, I lift my gaze and turn to get a quick look at my new neighbor.
Time stops. Just up and fucking stops.
My breath freezes in my lungs, and I have to blink several times to understand that what I’m seeing is real.
That can’t be real. He can’t be real.
Surely, the pressure of this day is making me hallucinate or something…right?
Wrong.
I know that ass, those thighs, that brown hair, and sharp jaw. I know the expensive fabric of his suit, and I know when he turns around, those emerald-green eyes will be all too familiar.
It’s Trent Turner. My new boss.
The asshole. The prick. Here. In the flesh.
What in the actual hell?
Did I conjure him with some kind of witchcraft?
I can’t stop the little bark of discomfort as it bubbles up my throat and spills from my mouth, and nothing, it seems, can stop him from noticing it.
Poised with a smile for his new neighbor as well, he halts in the middle of his turn like he’s been shot.
Once again, our timing is in sync as we engage in some kind of shocked stare-off.
“You,” we both say and not the least bit kindly.
I look around the hall, but my mind can’t slow down enough to stop on any one object.
It’s like I no longer know where I am or what’s happening or what planet we’re on.
My mind takes off at a gallop, and my mouth follows close behind.
“What the… Did I somehow teleport to the hotel?”
Trent scowls at my ridiculous scenario but answers me anyway. “No.”
Desperate to figure out how in the hell the universe could be doing this to me, I ask him another question. “Are you a mirage?”
His scowl fades into what I can only assess as resignation. “Nope.”
It’s a full-on standoff in the middle of the hallway, and he stares back at me with the exact same irritation I imagine I’m throwing his way.
“Are you a ghost?”
“No.”
“A zombie version of someone who’s already dead but just happens to look like Trent Turner?”
He sighs and slips his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks. “How long are we going to do this?”
“For as long as it takes for me to understand what is happening,” I spit. “Why are you here? In my apartment building?”
“I live here.”
“No, you don’t.”
He can’t, because son of a wench, I refuse to let this be my reality.
“Pretty sure I do,” he responds, and that stupid, smug smile of his grates across my nerves like sandpaper.
“Nope. No way.” I shake my head manically. “That doesn’t work for me. You’re not allowed to live here.”
“Doesn’t work for you?” An annoyed chuckle escapes his full lips. “That’s rich coming from the woman who moved in to an apartment like some kind of gypsy in the middle of the fucking night.”
“Oh God. You’re my boss, and you live next door. You’re the boss next door.” I point up at the ceiling at, you know, Him, and declare, “And Emory says I’m the one with a sick sense of humor.”
“Have you had a psychotic break, or is this something you do regularly?”
I move my gaze back to his. “Huh?”
“Should I get used to waiting for you to finish talking to yourself? It could really stretch out the hours of what will already be a grueling workday.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I mock with the face of a possessed Martian, shoving past him to make my way to the stairwell. Ever since I read that taking the stairs instead of the elevator is a simple key to maintaining good heart health in Shape magazine, I’ve made sure to implement the practice.
Since working out obviously isn’t my specialty and fried foods give me life, it’s all up to the stairs to make sure I don’t have a heart attack at the age of forty-five.
Trent follows, unfortunately, every inch of his body humming with much the same energy I feel for him.
Annoyance. Loathing. Painful awareness that this is our life now.
How on earth can this be happening? The one person I can’t seem to take in stride is not only my new neighbor but my freaking boss too.
Is the universe trying to kill me?
And, seriously? Why is he here? I know it’s an insanely nice building with apartments that require the kind of rent you need to make well over six figures to afford, but doesn’t he have some Richie Rich mansion in the suburbs he can fill with his toxic-ness instead?
Not only will I have to spend hours upon hours with him every day at work, but I will come home every night and have to deal with the fact that this prick is on the other side of my living room wall.
I will have to see him every-fucking-where, all the flipping time.
When I leave for work.
When I get home from work.
When I get my damn mail.
Jesus Christ, what if I masturbate and he hears me? I won’t survive.
The dramatic thought forces me to a halt in the stairway, and he rams right into the back of me.
I groan as the back of my shoe scrapes a blister on my heel before the day has even started.
“Could you watch where you’re going?” I snap snidely as I turn around to meet his infuriating green eyes.
“I was,” he spits back. “You’re the one who stopped in the middle of the staircase.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Yeah, well?” He raises a challenging brow.
“Just go in front of me,” I grumble when I can’t think of a snappy enough insult.
He smirks like he’s won, and I want to slap the expression right off of his handsome face.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, Greer. Handsome?
No, not handsome face. Just a face. A completely normal, nothing-to-see-here face.
By the time I make it to the bottom of the stairwell, he’s got a head start on me, and I decide to keep it that way.
There’s no upside to walking shoulder to shoulder with him all the way to the hotel.
When he rounds the corner out of sight,
I increase my pace to one slightly faster than a tortoise. In what must be a personal record, I’ve given myself plenty of time to make it to the hotel on time, but I really want to stop for a coffee at the shop around the corner first.
Nobody should go into the day without coffee.
My brother always told me that my mom used to say Quick wit is just wit with caffeine.
I had to reach adulthood to truly understand what she meant, but now, I feel like I have a really clear picture of just how smart she must have been.
The Easy Roast sign with black-and-white lettering hangs over the entrance up ahead, and I can feel my legs start to churn involuntarily.
The smell of coffee beans and fresh pastries floats down the street and into my nose, and I can’t get there fast enough.
The bright light of the morning makes the transition into the dark shop all the more troublesome, and I have to take a good fifteen seconds for my eyes to adjust before stepping up to the line of customers waiting to order their drinks.
I’m about five people away from the counter when I notice the back of a man.
A very specific man who literally won’t disappear this morning.
Hunching and leaning, I immediately become an appendage that shoots out of the back of the person in front of me. They didn’t ask for this deformity, they weren’t expecting it, but at a time like this, they have no choice.
I need camouflage, and I need it now. In a coffeehouse in New Orleans, camouflage just so happens to come in the form of a hipster guy with a beanie.
Trent accepts his coffee with a smile and heads for one of the café-style tables outside.
It’s January, but this is New Orleans, and it’s remarkably pleasant out in the fresh air.
I keep watch on him with a discreet eye as the line moves forward until, finally, I get to put in my order for a large coffee with cream and sugar and a chocolate croissant.
Carbs are my best friend today, and I’ll do my damnedest to load up on them right up front.
Until then, I’m going to hunker down in a booth in the back and wait until one of two things happens: Trent Turner leaves, or I have absolutely no time left before I’m late.
Because I won’t sacrifice my work reputation to avoid him.
No way. I’ll go Hunger Games on that bitch.
May only the best of the best survive.
Trent
Seated at a little café table outside Easy Roast, the coffee shop up the street from my New Orleans apartment, I scan the street for signs of the enemy and come up blessedly empty.
Fuck, I’d love to know who is plotting against me. It feels like I’m being sent a death sentence in the form of a snarky, sarcastic woman by the name of Greer Hudson.
First, my dad hires her.
Then, she up and moves right next door to me.
Literally. Right next to me. Her front door is right beside my front door.
How is this even possible?
The odds of that kind of clusterfuck scenario have to be insane. Surely, I’d have a better chance of getting my father to realize he’s a controlling bastard when it comes to his son. Or for Cap to stop talking about his dick like it’s an actual family member.
Dear God. If that woman is anything but the devil in disguise, the heat of lightning can strike me down right now.
I put my cup to my lips and take a sip of my Americano.
Ouch.
Fuck me, that coffee is hot.
I scramble for a napkin to keep the contents from soaking my suit and wipe the escaped scalding liquid from my lips. That she-devil has me so frazzled, I’ve apparently lost the ability to complete normal human functions like drinking hot liquids without burning my damn tongue off.
Talk about a stellar start to what should be a big, successful first day with the new team.
Just put her out of your head, you bastard, and focus on the priorities.
Work. That is the priority. Making the New Orleans project the best hotel Turner Properties has ever built. That is where my focus needs to be. Not anywhere close to Greer Hudson and her penchant for snark.
With a renewed sense of determination, I grab my phone and pull up the Uber app to call a car. It’s only ten or so blocks to the hotel, a distance I could walk if I wanted to, but because I had to stop at Easy Roast and get my shit together, I don’t have that much time.
Once I finish putting in a request for a car, my phone starts to vibrate in my hands.
Quincy Calling.
What appropriate timing. He’s just the man I was hoping to chew out.
“Well, hello,” I say obnoxiously.
“Wow,” he replies with a laugh. “That’s some ominous tone, brother.”
“Oh, you bet,” I agree. “It goes perfectly with the doom of realizing I now live next door to my actual waking nightmare.”
“Huh?”
“Greer Hudson,” I say pointedly. “My new neighbor. As of this morning, I’ve learned that she lives in the same building as me. On the same floor. Right next door. To me.”
There’s a short pause, and the receiver scratches like he’s rubbing it with his fucking palm.
“Tell me you didn’t know, Quince.”
“I didn’t,” he responds.
“Your girlfriend’s family owns the building, and you’re the one who helped me snag this place. How in the fuck didn’t you know?” I question.
“I did. But I had no idea Greer was leasing the apartment next door.”
“For a man who should have all of the inside info about my building, you really dropped the damn ball here.”
He chuckles. “I didn’t know I was supposed to be keeping tabs on your building’s new occupants.”
“Fucking hell.” I sigh. “New Orleans is a huge city. How could this have happened?”
“Sorry, dude.”
“You don’t sound all that sorry.”
He doesn’t. If anything, he sounds amused. The bastard.
“That’s because it’s not my fault,” he retorts, but his voice never strays from his familiar, calm Quincy tone. “Why would I waste time apologizing for something I’m not responsible for?”
“Take your rationality and shove it. There’s no place for it here.”
He chuckles. “Why don’t you stay at your dad’s place? Doesn’t he have a penthouse in the city?”
I force a fake laugh from my lungs. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaking me for someone my father likes.”
“Oh, come on. Senior likes you. It’s just…tough love.”
I snort. “Hah. Well. Whatever it is means I’m not staying in his penthouse.”
“Then fucking buy a house of your own. It’s not like you’re a pauper, for shit’s sake. Why are you living in an apartment anyway?”
“Because.” I shrug. “I don’t know if I’m staying in New Orleans after the hotel is done. New York is my home base, you know that.”
Cash to spare or not, I’m not a fan of wasting money on uncertainties. And because of everything going on with my mom, my future living situation is one big fat unknown.
“New York is also where your father is.” He kindly reminds me of shit I don’t feel like thinking about right now. “Maybe it’d do you some good to get some distance.”
“Distance from my father means distance from more than just him, Quince, and you know it.”
I grew up in New York. It’s what I know, what I love, what I’m used to. New Orleans is an entirely different animal, and beyond that, it’s not where my mom is.
I know it sounds ridiculous for a thirty-three-year-old man, but being close to her is important. Especially since her diagnosis. Who knows how many good years she has left?
“Sounds like you’re stuck, then. If I were you, I’d just make the best of it.”
“Make the best of it?” I repeat on a sigh. “Why does everyone keep saying shit like that?”
“Maybe because it’s good advice.”
I snort. “Okay, Dr. Phil.”
“Yeah, yeah. My hair is thinning, and I have a mustache. Real original.”
“I don’t give a shit about your bald spot, Quince. I’m talking about your holy-Kumbaya style words of wisdom.”
“That’s right, Turn. Wisdom. Even your insults know I’m right.”
“Come on, Q.” I refuse to believe this is my reality. “Surely, they have another apartment available in the building? Or even another building with an apartment that doesn’t put me right next door to a crazy, obnoxious woman?”
“Are you saying you would actually move to another apartment, that you don’t even know if you’re going to stay in for longer than nine months, just to get fifty feet farther away from her?”
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“So, another apartment?”
“Nope,” he responds way too quickly. “At least not another apartment rented from Emory’s family. This is probably it, dude. When you signed your lease, there were only two apartments available. The one you moved in to and the one next door to yours. This is the kind of building that locals would practically sell a limb to live in. It’s rare for spots to become available. Not to mention, the whole reason you wanted it was because of its prime location to the hotel.”
Everything he says is right. I rented this apartment for a reason. And I don’t have any damn time to go searching for a new place. Not with the NOLA project demanding all of my time and energy. Losing even one day could end in delays I can’t afford.
“Great,” I grumble, smashing a piece of my chocolate croissant in between two fingers.
I stare out toward the road, my mind racing with all sorts of irrational thoughts. But when I see a Prius with an Uber sticker in the back window pull up to the curb, I throw some money on the table and pick up what’s left of my newspaper.
“I’ve got to go,” I say to Quince. “My car’s here.”
“Okay, dear. Have a good day at work. Kisses.”
“Blow me,” I say in return.
He’s still laughing when I hang up the call and cruise across the sidewalk.
I’ve got a hand on the door handle of the black car when a different hand, one with red fingernails and owned by the devil, smacks the back of it away.
“Whoops. Sorry, neighbor. This Uber’s mine.”