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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.
