Chapter 7
“Are you following me?” I demand, the words shooting from my mouth like darts aimed at his smug face. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat an accusation.
Jake’s brows knit together as he stares at me, looking genuinely confused.
“I didn’t even know you were in town until the interview.
” He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against his doorframe with that easy confidence I used to find attractive.
Now it just makes my skin prickle with irritation.
“You were at the supermarket, too.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to deny it, daring him to pretend this is all some harmless overlap. First the grocery store. Then Lantern Bridge. Now this apartment building. It’s too much.
“Piggly Wiggly?” He lets out a laugh that bounces off the narrow hallway walls. “Yeah, it’s like the only supermarket around here.” His shoulders lift in a careless shrug. “Where else am I supposed to go, the Gas-n-Go for five-dollar bread and questionable milk?”
Now that I think about it, my accusation sounds ridiculous. “You must move,” I tell him. A strand of hair falls across my face, and I blow it away with an angry puff.
Jake looks at me like I’ve just suggested he sprout wings and fly to Jupiter.
His mouth opens, closes, then opens again, as if he’s searching for the right response to my insanity.
“Again,” he says, voice careful, “why would I do that? This place is within walking distance of Lantern Bridge. That’s why I moved here.
” He gestures vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall.
“Five minutes on foot. Ten if I stop for coffee.”
I open my mouth to protest, to tell him that my mental health might actually depend on him disappearing from my zip code, but he’s already retreating into his apartment. The lock clicks behind him.
Frustrated beyond words, I curse loudly, hoping the thin walls carry my profanity straight to his ears. I slam my own door hard enough to rattle the hinges and lean against it, sliding down until I hit the floor.
There is no way—absolutely no possible way—I can live next door to my ex and boss.
Hello, work-life balance? Isn’t there something in HR about a supervisor living too close to their co-worker?
Some rule about maintaining professional boundaries?
I should check the employee handbook, highlight the relevant section, and slap it on his door with industrial-strength adhesive.
I push myself up off the floor and begin pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Maybe if I pace faster, Jake will magically disappear from my life forever. Maybe this is all an elaborate prank. Is someone trying to play a trick on me?
Only the hum of my refrigerator answers me.
The sun sinks behind the mountains, taking with it any hope I had for solving this nightmare today. I can’t focus on unpacking, can’t concentrate on picking out curtains or arranging my furniture. All I can think about is the awful, inescapable fact that Jake lives next door.
I toss and turn all night, trying to convince myself I can handle it.
When morning comes, harsh light streaming through my still-curtainless windows, I stare at my reflection while brushing my teeth, watching foam gather at the corners of my mouth.
The truth glares back at me from bloodshot eyes: there’s no way I can survive living this close to Jake.
Work, maybe. Wendy can keep me sane, and keeping things professional in the office is, technically, doable.
But being neighbors? That isn’t just crossing a line, it’s stepping on a trip wire and watching my world erupt, the blast radius scattering everything I’ve built until there’s nothing left but Jake-shaped debris.
I spit into the sink, rinse, and grip the edges of the counter so hard my knuckles bleach white. There has to be a way out of this. I perch on the edge of the bathtub, tapping my foot against the tile in a restless rhythm when it hits me.
I have to move. Yes. That’s it. There has to be another vacant apartment in this building.
My hope rebuilds with each step down the stairs as I rehearse my plea to the landlord. A fresh start? A mysterious allergy to leather jackets? Neighbors who snore through walls? Something, anything to get me out of this mess.
When I reach Mrs. Thompson’s door, I knock with more confidence than I feel, secretly praying she’ll offer a solution before the words “please” and “I’m desperate” have to come out of my mouth.
“Come in,” Mrs. Thompson’s voice calls, muffled through the wood.
I open the door and find her sitting behind her desk.
She’s a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair yanked into a tight bun and reading glasses perched halfway down her nose like she’s in the middle of judging something.
Her office is small and cluttered, the air faintly scented with coffee and old newspaper, and beneath it all a stubborn hint of cinnamon.
She doesn’t even look up when she says, “Have a seat,” gesturing to a well-worn couch by the wall.
I sink into the squeaky cushions, and they exhale dust and resignation like they’ve heard every desperate request this building can produce.
“I was wondering if there are any other units available that I might be able to move to,” I say, folding my hands neatly in my lap to keep them from betraying how badly I want this.
Mrs. Thompson arches an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with your current one?”
“Well...not really.” How can I explain the situation without sounding like a lovesick teenager? “I’m not comfortable in my current unit.”
She finally looks up, and the glare she pins on me makes the hair at the back of my neck rise. I shift on the couch. “Uncomfortable how?” she asks. “Something wrong with the apartment? Mold? Leaks? Ghosts with boundary issues?
“No, the apartment is fine,” I say quickly. “It’s just...my neighbor. We have a bit of, um, history, and it’s—awkward.”
Mrs. Thompson chuckles. “Ah, young love.” Then she leans back in her chair, and the humor drains from her face, crow’s feet deepening around eyes that look like they’ve witnessed too many tenant-drama episodes to be impressed by mine.
My stomach bottoms out. “None at all?”
“Sorry, dear,” she says, already signing another form, pen scratching like a verdict. “This isn’t the Ritz-Carlton. We don’t have extra rooms just waiting for someone.” She doesn’t even blink. “You’ll have to make do.”
I bite my lip, ready to beg if I have to. “What about...a closet. I don’t need much space.”
She barks a laugh. “A closet? Sweetheart, our closets can barely fit a pair of boots, let alone a person with baggage—emotional or otherwise.”
Tapping my foot against the worn carpet, I manage, “So there’s really nothing?” I tip my chin up and deploy my best puppy-eyes, clasping my hands together so tightly my fingers go white. “Please,” I whisper. “I’m desperate.”
Mrs. Thompson heaves a sigh and shuffles through her forms like she’s dealing herself a particularly disappointing hand.
“There might be a unit on the second floor,” she says at last, eyes still on the paperwork.
“But it’s got questionable plumbing. I meant to fix it, but with the economy in a recession, even if the government won’t admit it…
” She clicks her tongue and flips a page.
“The budget’s been tighter than the lid on last year’s pickle jars. ”
I spring off the couch so fast it squeals. “I’ll take it,” I blurt, enthusiasm bursting out of me like I’ve been offered salvation. I’ll live with questionable plumbing. I’ll survive sewage backup. Anything is better than sharing a hallway with my ex.
She sighs again and extracts from the drawer of her desk what looks like master keys—a jangling collection that would make a medieval jailer proud. “Come with me,” she says as she rises from her chair.
I follow Mrs. Thompson up to the second floor, listening as the keys on her ring clatter with every step.
At the door, she fumbles with the bunch and mutters under her breath about budget cuts and incompetent locksmiths, until the lock finally gives and the door swings open with a long, complaining creak.
“Here we are,” she announces.
Not at all what I expected. The apartment—if you can even call it that—is at least a third smaller than my current unit.
The living room carries an overpowering smell of what I can only describe as the essence of an abandoned gym bag mixed with discount air freshener.
Dust particles dance in the thin beam of light struggling through a small window that faces a brick wall.
I can do this, I tell myself. I’d happily live in an actual broom closet if it meant not sharing a wall with my ex.
“It’s...cozy,” I offer, forcing my voice to sound cheerful rather than horrified. A quick spritz of Lysol and some scented candles could take care of the smell. Maybe. Hopefully.
“The previous tenant had unusual hobbies,” Mrs. Thompson says cryptically. “Nothing illegal. Just...pungent.”
Wonderful.
She leads me toward a narrow doorway. “Bathroom’s here.”
The bathroom looks like it’s trapped mid-renovation, abandoned so abruptly it’s as if the contractor fled the country in the dead of night.
Exposed pipes jut from the wall like metal veins, and strips of wallpaper hang in limp surrender, peeling away inch by inch, as if gravity has been winning this battle for years.
Mrs. Thompson twists the shower knob, and the pipes answer like they’ve been personally offended, clanking and wheezing, followed by a sharp thud that sounds disturbingly like a baseball bat meeting a ball. Only then does the water finally sputter out, coughing into an uneven stream.
“It should normalize,” she says, in the tone of someone who clearly doubts it.
Okay. Fine. Temperamental plumbing I can handle, as long as it doesn’t come with a rash that requires its own medical journal article. I gesture at the exposed pipes, eyeing them like they might twitch. “There’s no dead animal in there, is there?” I ask.
Mrs. Thompson’s lips twitch. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But the faint amusement in her eyes doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.
Just as she’s about to show me the bedroom, the one I’m already picturing as a glorified closet with a mattress jammed inside, a knock sounds at the front door. We both turn at the same time to see who it is.
In the doorway stands a tall, lean man I’ve never seen before, and for a second the stale air in this place feels…
different. His long dirty-blond hair is pulled into a small knot that bears sharp cheekbones, and a single dimple sits at the point of his chin.
A white T-shirt peeks from beneath his blazer, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms, and his blue eyes flick between Mrs. Thompson and me with undisguised curiosity.
Calling him handsome would be like calling the Grand Canyon a nice hole in the ground. A grand understatement.
“Hi, Lance!” Mrs. Thompson perks up immediately.
“Hi.” His gaze slides over me, from my messy ponytail to my worn-out sneakers, and I become painfully aware of every casual wardrobe choice I made this morning. “I see you’ve finally found a tenant for this one,” he adds, voice easy, eyes back on Mrs. Thompson.
“Well,” Mrs. Thompson sighs, the word heavy with disappointment, “I’d hoped to deter her from changing units.” She glances at me like I’m a stubborn stain. “But she seems to approve of this apartment.”
“I’ll take it,” I announce with more conviction than I feel.
Mrs. Thompson shakes her head, clearly questioning my sanity or possibly my sense of smell.
The man steps forward and offers his hand. “I’m Lance Addison.” As I take it, his cologne reaches me, expensive and clean, cedar threaded with citrus, subtle but impossible to ignore. “I live just across from you,” he adds.
“Sarah Lake,” I reply, shaking his warm hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, what drives someone to willingly move into the infamous 203?” Lance asks, and his smile is surprisingly warm in this dingy little space. “Most people last about five minutes once they see the state this unit is in.”
“Let’s just say my current living situation has… developed complications,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Complications that outweigh the questionable plumbing.”
“Ah, the mysterious complications,” he says, nodding like he’s filed that phrase under things he’s heard before. “Noisy neighbors? A ghost infestation?” His smile tugs wider, warm and wicked all at once. “Or the classic: ex-boyfriend issues?”
“Bingo on the last one,” I admit. “He lives next door. And also happens to be my new boss.”
“Ouch. Double whammy.” Lance winces with genuine sympathy, like he can feel the hit. “Though I should warn you, this place has…quirks.” His mouth twists, amused. “The radiator sounds like it’s summoning demons on Tuesday nights, and sometimes the lights flicker when you run the microwave.”
“Still better than sharing a wall with the man who broke my heart,” I say, surprised that I’m even telling him all this. But there’s something honest about Lance that makes the truth slip out so easily.
“I get it. And hey—now you’ll have me as a neighbor instead. Much less complicated, I promise.”
Mrs. Thompson cuts in with a theatrical clearing of her throat. “As fascinating as this exchange is,” she says dryly, “I need to go. Some of us have actual appointments to keep.”
I glance at my watch and realize how late it’s getting. “Shoot, I need to get ready for work.”
Before I’m even halfway up the steps, Lance calls after me, “We should go out for coffee sometime.” I pause, one foot hovering on the next stair. “You know. To get to know each other, since we’re going to be neighbors and all.”
I don’t see a reason to refuse. He seems nice enough, and more than handsome enough to make me forget about Jake for a blissful, fleeting moment.
“I’d like that,” I say.
Just as we exchange numbers, my small moment of optimism disintegrates, collapsing like wet tissue paper in a hurricane, because Jake barrels down the stairs. His eyes slam into mine, and the impact is instant, charged, like someone hooked my heart to a car battery and floored the accelerator.