Toby grimaces at the check like its covered in the mold I’ve complained about for the last few weeks. I’ve tried bleach, vinegar and baking soda, and just about every bathroom cleaner I’ve come across, but nothing kills that stuff.
“You know, you can always do the direct debit,” he says in a thick accent that’s impossible to place.
Man, I’d love to pay by direct debit and avoid him altogether—except that would require actual funds. “Maybe next month.”
I leave before he can say anything else, my feet aching in my heels as I dart down the sidewalk. If I don’t get out of this skirt and button-down in the next five minutes, I might turn into an actual puddle.
We had two weeks of crisp autumn and then reverted to scorching summer. Even the locals say it’s never this hot in December.
The air is so thick, my lungs can barely take it in. It’s like soup.
Hot, wet, thick, soup.
Don’t even get me started on the fact that there isn’t so much as a breeze to flutter the hair plastered to my neck. By the time I make it up the stairs, there’s an actual river running down my spine, and my quads are starting to wobble.
Then I catch sight of broad shoulders encased in a black T-shirt and a tapered waist disappearing into a pair of low-slung jeans and my legs just about give out.
My neighbor, mattress guy, also known as Elliott.
How do I know his name when he’s never properly introduced himself?
Because I hear a different girl screaming it every other night.
Is he hotter than Hades? You bet. He also has a brunette pressed up against his door.
More often than not, this is how we meet. On the rare occasion when he doesn’t have a woman with him, I try not tostare directly into his beautiful blue eyes for too long, lest I fall under his hypnotic spell.
He drags a key from his pocket, fumbling as he tries to fit it into the lock.
I really hope they make it inside before he sticks his “key” in her “lock,” if you catch my drift.
He comes up for air long enough to glance down at the doorknob while she slurps at his neck so hard, he’ll definitely end up with a hickey. When I see the mark, I will absolutely be making fun of him for it. It’s the least I can do considering he never misses a chance to give me crap.
After the pissy-mattress incident was the mis-delivered menstrual cup. Most recently, we had the Thanksgiving debacle.
Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.
Those deep-sea eyes catch on me and the corner of his mouth hitches. “Loren.”
I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for him to move out of the way so I can get past. “Elliot.”
His last name is Grant—something I discovered via a phone bill delivered to my mailbox instead of his. If only it had been for something embarrassing like a subscription to “Grannies Quarterly” or a penis enlarger.
His keys land on the concrete floor.
Sighing, I bend down to pick them up and unlock the door for him.
He mutters his thanks, then he and his latest conquest stumble into the dark apartment. His hand emerges to swipe the keys, and then the door slams shut.
Unfortunately, our shared wall is paper-thin, so I get a front-row seat to every loud moan and rhythmic slam of what I assume is a headboard until I find the perfect song on my phone and turn up the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen as loud as it’ll go.
CHAPTER 6
ELLIOTT
Mom
Elliott James Grant, answer your damn phone
