Chapter 1
"I don’t want Archie, no matter how tasty he looks."
Kat
As I leave my apartment, I make sure to slam the door extra hard, though it’s probably pointless. My insufferable neighbour seems to sleep through anything. I call up the lift, step inside, and head down to our residence’s shared gym for a morning workout before my shift. Using my card to unlock the door, I enter the vast room—not a soul in sight. This gym is one of the primary reasons I chose this building. Sure, my sprawling flat is beautifully equipped, close to the hospital, and features a concierge and a large underground parking garage, but the gym and swimming pool were what sold me. Yes, you heard that right. We have a private indoor pool, right here in Central London.
The gym is tucked away in the basement, but the generous LED lighting and vegetalised ceiling create a bright and airy atmosphere. And the equipment? Top notch. Lines of elliptical machines, rowers, treadmills, bikes, a mirrored wall lined with dumbbells and kettlebells, a cable machine, squat racks—you name it. There’s even a stretching zone complete with yoga mats, foam rollers, resistance bands, and one of those giant stability balls. Whatever you need, this gym has got it. And it’s even better at 5 a.m. when no one is using it. I grab a towel from the stacked pile near the entrance and make a beeline for the stationary bikes, but I stop dead when I hear a grunt.
He’s here.
In the corner lifting weights, his annoying set of perfectly toned abs on display and his chestnut hair sticking to his forehead, is Archie Wilcott. Of course I couldn’t be that lucky. Last workout before I leave for my humanitarian mission in Africa, and my neighborhasto be here. Why is he always up so early? Doesn’t he sleep? Or have his own private gym in his flat with the indecent piles of money he makes kicking a football around?
We acknowledgeone another with a glacial look, and I march over to the bike. The seat is glistening, and I shoot Archie a glare, my eyes narrowed suspiciously. He just grins, and my blood boils. He didn’t clean the seat.Again. Either the man doesn’t understand basic hygiene, or he’s just too used to people cleaning up after him. I pinch my lips, fully aware that he’s awaiting my next move. I could just use one of the other two bikes, but this is the newest model with all the latest features.
“Disgusting,” I mutter, grabbing a one-use wipe they put at our disposal. It’s not like I haven’t addressed this issue with him before, not to mention the signs in the gym asking people to clean up after themselves. There are fifteen. I counted when I put them up.
Placing my earbuds in, I mount the bike and start to pedal, channeling every ounce of my anger into productivity. He’s just a vile, selfish, stupid footballer who imagines that everyone is beneath him. Why did I have to get this guy as a neighbour? I finally score this perfect flat with all the luxury amenities, in a great location, and it has to come with the worst neighbour in the world. I grit my teeth, pedaling harder and harder.
“You know that thing doesn’t run on anger, right?”
I glance sideways, and there he is, drying the perspiration from his unfair torso with a white towel. I force my eyes to evade his annoying set of forest green irises.
Instead, I focus on the bike, bobbing my head as if I’m too absorbed by my music, when really, it’s my thoughts that are keeping me entertained.
He laughs, throwing his head back. “Try pairing it first. I can hear that awful workout music you listen to, but I don’t think you can.”
My eyes bulge. Crap. I feel the flush creeping up my cheeks, but I keep my head high and my feet moving, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He turns away, and I can hear him laughing all the way out of the room. I release a frustrated huff. Even if he’s gone, I can’t seem to shrug off my irritation. I move to the elliptical next, but all I can think about is him.
“This is pointless,” I mutter to myself. After wiping the machine clean, I head to the pool instead, crossing my fingers that he won’t be there. I always finish my session with a few minutes in the sauna and a swim—do I even have to explain why I’d never give this place up?—but his routine isn’t quite so consistent.
Unfortunately, as we’ve established, today is not my day. Archie is swimming obnoxiously down the middle of the twenty-metre pool like he owns the place.
I rinse off—something I’m sure Archie “forgot” to do again—and dip into the pool. He doesn’t move off to the side, staying smack in the middle lane. But since I know he’s secretly hoping I’ll ask him to move, I swim along the border with smaller strokes. I’m now at his level so I swim faster, the competitive side of me kicking in. He probably caught on, because he accelerates too. I’m now panting, trying to catch up. The fact that I have a third of the space he does doesn’t help my cause, although I’m pretty sure he only beats me with ease because he’s a professional athlete and I’m an exhausted trauma surgeon.
He stops at the end of the pool, hoisting himself out. My eyes have a mind of their own as they shamelessly roam over his dripping, muscular body like he’s a piece of meat and I’m a starving wolf. I swallow a mouthful of water instead and mentally slap myself as my rational mind takes over, reminding me I’m a vegetarian—or whatever the equivalent is when abstaining from men—and I don’t want Archie, no matter how tasty he looks.
He chuckles, as if he’d thoroughly enjoyed witnessing my struggle just now. “Nice try, Doc.”
Standing up, he stretches with a loud grunt before tapping his rock-hard abs and grabbing a towel. I briefly debate doing another lap now that I have the pool to myself, but my muscles are aching. I was swamped with back-to-back surgeries these past two weeks with little time off to make up for my upcoming absence. Instead, I grab a towel and head for the sauna, where I melt onto the wooden bench, my muscles just starting to relax. But it’s only when the door closes behind Archie as he leaves the pool area that I can finally unwind.
I suppress a yawn while dragging myself to the break room. My shift started just four hours ago, but I feel like I’ve been here for ten. I nod to two of my colleagues as they leave the room, buy a cereal bar from the vending machine, and collapse into one of the couches. Digging out my phone, I call up my bestie, Grace.
“Hey, you,” she chirps into the phone. “Ready for your big trip?”
I smile. “Couldn’t be more ready. I ran into Greg and Shauna this morning when they were dropping their kid off at daycare.”
“Ouch,” she says.
“Yeah. Even after three years, the awkwardness meter is still maxed out,” I sigh, taking a bite of my cereal bar. “I wonder how long it’ll take to dissolve. That should be the subject of research, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, a timeline on how long it takes to get over your ex would be a pretty useful tool,” she says. “Although, judging from my personal experience, the results might be a little depressing.”
I frown. “What do you mean? You’re married to him!”
She chuckles. “Yes, but we’re talking about how long it takes to get over an ex. And, well, I never did.”
