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I go full domestic goddess mode. Chocolate chips, butter, the works. I even measure the flour, which is not my usual jam. By the time the cookies are out of the oven, my apartment smells like a gourmet bakery. I don’t even wait for them to cool. I pile them onto a plate, slap on a sticky note with a smiley face, and try not to let my nerves get the best of me.

Standing in the hallway, holding my still-warm cookie offering, I instantly regret not changing my shirt. Whatever. I’m committed. I knock.

There’s a pause. And then the door swings open.

Hunter Hartwell fills up the doorway, impossible to miss, every inch of him dialed up and in hi-def. He's ditched the battered black T-shirt and worn jeans for a gray tee that clings across his chest and black sweatpants that ride low on his hips. His hair is damp like he just stepped out of a shower, darkened at the roots, drops tumbling down the curve of his neck. Soap hangs in the air, clean and sharp with a shadowy undertone.

For a beat, neither of us says anything. I wonder if he recognizes me or if he’s already wiped our earlier conversation from his memory. But then his gaze drops to the plate, and I’m pretty sure I see his left eyebrow twitch.

“Hi!” I say too loudly. “Sorry to bug you again. I just—uh, I made cookies.” I thrust the plate forward, nearly launching a few off the edge. “I mean, they’re for you. For moving in. Not that I think you can’t bake for yourself, but—oh my God, why am I still talking?”

Hunter looks at the cookies, then back at me. His expression is hard to read—equal parts suspicion and confusion.

But then he reaches out, and our fingers brush as he takes the plate. His skin is warm, rough, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm that has nothing to do with static electricity.

“Thanks,” he says. It’s almost a grunt, but not unkind. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” I say. “You know. Be neighborly.”

Another micro-expression flickers across his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it uncertainty. Like he’s not used to people bringing him things. Or talking to him. Or looking at him for more than three seconds.

I lean into the silence, hoping he’ll give me something to work with, but he just shifts the plate to his other hand and steps back.

“So, uh, is everything going okay with the move?” My mouth runs away.

Hunter’s mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but hasn’t quite remembered how. “It’s fine. Almost done.”

I nod, determined to keep the conversation alive. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to it.”

“See you around.” He steps back and closes the door with a soft click and leaves me standing there like an idiot.

I shuffle back to my apartment, the entire interaction replaying in my head on a twenty-second loop.

CHAPTER TWO

IRIS

By the time I get off work, every inch of my body feels like it’s been passed through a pasta maker. I drag myself through the glass doors of #1 Love Place, my overstuffed tote bag threatening to dislocate my shoulder, and my feet throbbing in the name of office-appropriate footwear. Lobby air conditioning hits me with an arctic slap, but it’s better than the heavy humidity outside.

I limp across the marble floor, trying to ignore the echo of my own footsteps and the existential ache in my toes. The scents of lavender and expensive cleaning supplies linger everywhere, making my nose twitch at the intensity.

I’m so distracted by the symphony of my little agonies that I almost miss the man-shaped shadow waiting at the elevators. Almost, but not quite.

It’s Hunter. My new smoking hot neighbor. Oh goody.

He’s standing dead center in front of the mirrored elevator doors with his gym bag hanging from one hand, black and battered. I notice his fitted black tee stretched across his muscular chest, his loose-fitting gray gym shorts, and barely resist the urge to fan myself. There’s a dark patch at his collarbone, sweat still drying, and his hair is wet, combed back from his forehead in dark, glossy lines. He looks like he stepped off a magazine cover.

It’s entirely unfair that he can look like a Calvin Klein billboard model after working out while I am actively falling apart in business-casual polyester.

His eyes flick down my body, and I swear my legs almost give out. I try to act normal, but my voice comes out a little breathless. “Hey.”

He doesn’t smile. Not exactly. His mouth twitches, like he’s thinking about it. “Long day?” His voice is way too deep. Why is that hot??

“You have no idea,” I mutter as we stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the elevator, but there are at least three feet between us.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open with a whoosh. Hunter gestures, barely, for me to go first. His hand is massive, veins raised, a light sheen of post-workout sweat catching the fluorescent lobby lighting. I step in, my knees suddenly weak and not just because of the heels.

It’s just the two of us in the mirrored, brushed-steel elevator. The doors close, and now I’m trapped in a chrome shoebox with the only man who’s ever managed to make me forget how to speak.