“I’m telling you, Jasmine,”Vincent sighs, knocking his hip into my bedroom door with a box full of my brand new valuables—courtesy of Cast and his shitty attitude. “I had nothing to do with the stalking.”
“I’ll believe that when pigs fly,Vinny boy,” I sing, slapping his cheek twice as I slide past him into the obnoxiously large living room.
The apartment Cast bought for my four-year sentence at Haven University is—unfortunately—stunning. Rich. Industrial. The kind of place that saysI have money and I want you to know it,but alsoI might commit tax fraud in a leather jacket.
The walls are exposed red brick, aged and imperfect in that curated way that probably cost more than my mother’s trailer. Steel beams cut across the ceiling, matte black and dramatic. There’s a chandelier hanging over the living space—actual fucking crystal—like we’re in the kind of villain’s lair where someone pours whiskey into a glass they didn’t wash. The floors are dark concrete, polished to a mirror-sheen, and the whole place smells like sandalwood, leather, and secrets.
A massive leather sectional takes up half the living room, sunken around a low-slung coffee table made of black marble and brushed brass. Built-in shelves climb one wall, filled with books I didn’t ask for and art I’d probably roll my eyes at—if it wasn’t so damn perfect.
The kitchen is open-concept, all stainless steel and sharp edges, with a waterfall island that could double as a runway. A wine fridge I’ll never touch hums quietly beneath it, probably stocked with bottles more expensive than my entire wardrobe.
It’s all harsh lines, heavy textures, and brutal luxury.
And I hate that I love it.
“You know I only let you call me Vinny because of Willow, right?” Vincent sighed, swiping his forearm across his forehead, that lazy, boyish smile tugging at his lips. “Anyone else would’ve been punched in the face by now.”
“Physically harming an innocent girl like me?” I gasp in a flawless Southern belle accent, tossing a bag of decorative pillows onto the couch.
“There’s nothing innocent about you, love.” Landon’s voice cuts in smoothly as he nudges into the living room, arms full of a box labeled Kitchen.
“I beg your pardon,” I shoot back, still in character.
“Ooh, beg. I like that word when you say it.” Landon winks as he sets the box on the counter, clearly pleased with himself.
I groan,rolling my eyes as I pull out a black faux fur pillow. This has been Landon and my relationship for the past week while I get adjusted to Haven University. I missed Freshman Weekentirely and spent the last few days holed up in a hotel room—again, courtesy of Cast—while Landon went apartment shopping for us.
And no,that’s not a typo. I meanus.
Despite my very vocal objections—anda full rant list detailing why Landon shouldn’t live within my apartment, let alone my zip code—Cast made it clear: Landon stays, or I meet my maker at the hands of the Italian mob who thinks I’m Willow. So in the interest of keeping my life, Landon is staying with me in the smaller bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment, and not a step closer.
“Alright, love birds,”Vincent sighs, both hands on his hip as he looks around the apartment.
“We’re not lovebirds,” I snap.
Landon clutches his chest like I’ve driven a dagger through it, staggering back with dramatic flair. “Awe, Peach, you wound me.”
Vincent barks a laugh, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah, Peach—don’t wound him. Poor lad’s already hanging on by a thread.”
“Nope!” I square my shoulders, popping the P with extra venom as I scowl at them both. “You don’t get to call me Peach. That nickname is retired.”
Landon’s smile curls wickedly as he strolls over, confidence oozing from every step like heat from asphalt. “That’s right, Vincent. Only I can call my Peach, Peach.”
“I’m notyouranything,” I snarl, heat flooding my cheeks under his gaze, so I turn my attention to Vincent. “And you especially don’t get to call me that.”
“Oh, come on now.” Vincent tilts his head, his mouth tugging into a crooked smirk. “I still don’t get the Peach thing. She’s not exactly sunshine and soft fuzz.”
“She’s notyourpeach,” Landon says, his tone dipping lower. “That’s the difference.”
Before I can step back, his hand curls around the side of my neck—not choking, but firm. Commanding. His palm is warm, fingers pressing just enough to make my breath hitch. A low current of heat, and dangerous hums in the space between us.
My hands twitch at my sides, but I don’t move. Ishould. Every nerve is screaming at me to shove him off. To slap that smirk off his face. But all I do is stand there, pulse racing beneath his thumb.
“You only know me because you’re my stalker,” I say, but it comes out too soft. Too breathless.
“Nah,” he breathes, fingers flexing just slightly—just enough for the pads of them to feel the tremble running down my spine. “Anyone can stalk. Butme?” He tilts his head, that grin softening into a look of intimacy as if I am something precious . “Iwatchyou.”
His thumb brushes the base of my throat, and I feel it—the way my body betrays me, the way the breath I swallow shudders against his skin. He feels it too. I see it in the way his smile deepens, slow and knowing.
