Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
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.
He hits the button for our floor without asking, then leans against the rail with easy, contained energy. The elevator hums to life, and with nothing else to do, I sneak a glance at him in the mirror. His arms are still crossed, forearms bared, and I can see the faintest outline of a tattoo wrapping around his left bicep. My brain goes full monkey mode, wondering what the rest of him looks like under that shirt, and it’s a minor miracle I don’t trip over my own feet.
The elevator quickly moves up to the second floor and dings as the doors slide open. I start forward, but Hunter beats me to it, placing one massive hand against the door so it won’t close. As I slip past him, his fingers brush mine, just for a split second. An electric buzz ricochets from my hand all the way up my arm and slams into my chest.
“See you around,” he says, low and quiet.
“Uh-huh,” is all I manage as I stumble down the hallway, struggling to get my apartment key in the lock. My hands are shaking a little, so I have to try twice before it actually turns. I can hear his heavy footfalls behind me and his unhurried pace as he walks past.
I duck into my apartment, close the door, and press my back against it. Through the wall, I hear Hunter’s door open and shut with a soft, decisive thud.
For a second, I just stand there in the darkness, hand pressed to my chest as my heart pounds double-pace. My brain is a mess. I replay the moment in the elevator, the sound of his voice, the static jolt from his fingers brushing mine. I can still feel the heat, the way the touch lingered just a heartbeat longer than it should have.
I’m starting to think that living next door to Hunter Hartwell is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.
I’m never late. I’m the kind of person who sets alarms for her alarms, who triple-checks the time and lays out her outfits with military precision the night before. But I forgot to plug my phone in last night, and it died sometime in the middle of the night, so instead of waking to my favorite song, I snap awake to sunlight stabbing through my window and the horrifying realization that I have exactly nine minutes to get my shit together and make it to work.