Not to judge, but tosee.
And right now, all I see is a building that’s barely holding itself together. Of course, the cherry-red vintage truck out front is pristine. Because why bother fixing up the house when you can show off a shiny testament to misplaced priorities?
I shift my bag to one hand and grip the railing, taking the stairs cautiously. My heart slams against my ribs, but I ignore the annoying organ and plaster a professional, kind smile on my face. The platform at the top doesn’t so much as wobble in the wind, and I thank every single star I’ve ever wished on that I’m not about to fall to my death.
With a steadying breath, I knock, counting each second that passes as I wait.
And wait.
I eye the truck and check my watch. It’s just after one in the afternoon. If he’s not here, maybe he’s working. Though, judging by the state of the apartment, I’m not exactly envisioning aboardroom exec. Something more blue-collar, make-your-own-hours, type.
Raising my fist, I knock harder this time. Seconds later, a loud bang, followed by a clatter and responding groan, comes from inside and my brows furrow.
What the hell was that?
I clear my throat, forcing confidence into my voice, and call out, “Mr. Ar—”
The door flies open before I can finish. A wall of heat and bare skin greets me, the rush of warm air laced with something faintly unidentifiable and far too masculine.
I blink. Then blink again.
Shit.
He really is hotter than a whore in church.
Chapter Three
Best Landlady Ever
The woman standing on my doorstep is either a dream or a gift from the best landlady in the world.
Either way, it doesn't matter.
All I know is that she’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’m probably too damn drunk to remember meeting her.
Fuck.
Chapter Four
Who died? Oh.
The man before me grips the frame with one hand, the other braced against the door as if he might slam it in my face at any second. His barrel chest rises and falls rapidly, like he ran here.
Or maybe he’s just exhausted from carrying around so many muscles.
Messy brown hair falls to his broad shoulders, and a beard any lumberjack would envy covers what I’m certain is a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He’s built like a linebacker, with a trail of dark hair leading from his pecs to a place I absolutely refuse to let my eyes linger. Black tattoos snake over his chest and shoulder, their details impossible to make out without risking my employment—or my dignity.
As if he knows exactly where my mind is, his full lips flicker with the ghost of a smirk as he shifts his legs, widening his stance. And like the weak trollop I am, my eyes drop.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
The gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips are a problem.
Abigone.
Especially when they show off the kind of V-cut that deserves its own zip code.
My mouth is so dry, I feel like I’m choking on sand.
