7. Savannah
seven
Savannah
I pull into my space in the underground parking garage and cut the engine. It has been one heck of a day. My feet and lower back are killing me.
I have been up for the last forty-eight hours, and I can’t wait to crawl into bed for the next two days.
Right before the end of my shift, we received a call about a pileup on the freeway that included a bus full of fifth graders. Thankfully, most of the children are fine. Some cuts and bruises, a couple of concussions, and one broken arm were the worst of it.
I rest my cheek on the steering wheel, too exhausted to move, and stare at the row of sports cars to my right. According to the sign on the cement wall, they belong to Penthouse One.
My neighbor.
It’s been over a month since I moved into the building, and I have yet to see, let alone meet, the person who lives in the apartment next door.
I know it’s wrong to assume, but only a man would own cars like these. Flashy and expensive.
Overcompensating much? Yeah, the size of his penis.
I shake my head and chuckle at the snarky thoughts running through my brain. I blame Bradley for my pessimism. I swear he loves his ugly-ass green Ferrari more than he ever loved me.
Grabbing the small duffle bag from the passenger seat, I sling it over my shoulder and climb out of the car. My feet drag as I yawn, hit the locks on my car, and head for the elevator. It must be my lucky day because the doors are open and waiting for me as I slip in and hit the PH button.
I still can’t believe I scored a penthouse apartment for the same price I was paying at my last place.
Talia was right. As soon as I walked into the clean, modern space, I was in love. The open-floor plan and the nearly 180° glass window view of the city stole my heart. I pictured myself on a large fluffy chaise out on the balcony.
Just me, a glass of wine, and the view.
The roar of an engine pulls me from my daydreams of said balcony, and I press the door-close button. The last thing I want to do is make small talk with one of the other tenants.
The elevator doors stay open, forcing me to swipe my building access card on the pad and press the PH button again. Nothing happens.
“What the hell?” I stab the button repeatedly, cursing it to hell, as a shadow falls over me.
“You can push that button all you want, but it won’t work.”
Shivers race down my spine, and butterflies I didn’t know existed soar in my belly. Their wings dip and float to the deep timbre of the man’s voice as if it were the wind pushing them to fly.
My heart gallops at full speed, like I just sprinted the one-hundred-yard dash in five seconds flat, and I suddenly feel out of breath as I ask, “Excuse me?”
As my eyes lift to the larger-than-life figure standing at the elevator doors, a familiar pair of gray eyes collide with mine in an earth-shattering quake, shaking the ground beneath me—and possibly my life.
The saliva in my mouth evaporates, and I almost choke at the sight of Nico Romero.
Ah, hell. The pictures on the internet don’t do his good looks justice. At all.
Seconds slow as we stare at one another. Each of us assesses the other. The icy-gray hue in his irises gleams as they slowly scan me from head to toe. My eyes do the same and track every detail of this Adonis of a man.
Nico towers over my five-foot-six stature. He’s built like a beast, with broad shoulders, a slight tapered waist, and thick thighs.
He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.
He has thick, almost black hair, clipped short on the sides and long on top, golden tan skin, and icy-gray eyes that draw you in like a moth to a flame.
The thick, black stubble covering his jaw and the tattoos that peek out from behind the collar of his dress shirt only add to his sinfully sexy edge.
I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to trace each dark line with my fingers and tongue. Heat gathers between my thighs as my traitorous body reacts to the dangerous visions of me doing just that.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, the smug bastard smirks at me. That’s all it takes to remind me why I hate the man before me. He broke my sister’s heart and has probably left a trail of them across Los Angeles.
“I said the button won’t work unless you have this.
” He adjusts the gym bag on his shoulder and holds up a sleek black card.
He reaches in front of me to swipe the card over the keypad.
His delicious masculine leather scent fills my nose, and the heat of his body brushes against my skin, making me shiver.
I step back, putting space between us, and hold up my white card. “I did that.”
“That card won’t work once I call the elevator,” he says with a husky chuckle. When he presses the button for the top floor, my heart leaps.
Of freaking course he’s my neighbor.
I knew the gorgeous, reasonably priced penthouse apartment was too good to be true. Why didn’t I ask Talia who lived next door when I had the chance?
I think back on the facts I so obviously missed. The inside scoop on an unlisted apartment and the “friends and family” discount on rent. The cars. His absence. The signs were all there; I just didn’t see them.
“What floor?” he asks politely, waiting for me to answer.
“Same as yours.” My response comes out harsher than I intended, but I’m pissed.
Mostly at myself. The one degree of separation between us has always been there. I knew that working with Talia came with the colossal risk of running into him eventually. But this?
Nico shifts his body to face me as I keep my gaze on the elevator doors. Taking a few slow breaths through my teeth, so I don’t breathe in anymore of his intoxicating scent, I silently pray for this ride to be over as quickly as possible.
I turn to face him and glare. “You’re staring.”
“Hmm” is all he says.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him run his thumb over his thick bottom lip. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?”
“She did.” Without another word, he goes back to staring at me.
The seconds drag as the blood in my veins begins to simmer. He’s barely said a word, and yet his mere presence is infuriating.
“What’s with the special card?” I can’t help but ask.
Nico shrugs with a grin, like he knows something I don’t.
I mimic him and shrug my shoulders. “That’s it? I don’t get an actual answer?”
“What kind of answer would you like?” He crosses his arms coolly. His biceps bulge against the bunched fabric of his sleeves, which are rolled to his elbow. I’m met with the perfect view of his thick, inked forearms.
Oh Goddess, help me. Why does he have to be so hot?
I force my eyes away from his arms and back to his chiseled jaw. “An honest one.”
“Because I’m special.”
I bite back my laugh at his answer. “Special? Really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” he asks.
That plump bottom lip of his pops out into a pout as his forehead crinkles. I bet that lip has gotten plenty of women’s panties to drop.
“Catching baseballs doesn’t make you special,” I quip.
“I like that you know who I am,” he says with a cocky chuckle.
I roll my eyes at his arrogance. “Everyone who’s anyone in LA knows who you are. Still doesn’t mean you’re special, baseball boy.”
Nico scoffs at my dig.
He actually is special, but I refuse to concede that to him. Nico does more than catch baseballs. Last year, he led the league in home runs and has a batting average of 0.362. If you didn’t know, that means he’s insanely good.
I know what you’re thinking. Savannah, this guy cheated on your sister and smashed her heart with a baseball bat. Why the heck do you know his stats?
Because I work with his sister, and sometimes I overhear her talking to Stacy, our head nurse—who is a diehard Evaders fan—about this stuff.
“True.” He takes a small step closer to me as his eyes search my face. Some sort of emotion flashes in his eyes.
Does he know who I am?
My pulse speeds up at the thought. Distracting myself from his closeness, I ask, “Are you going to tell me about the card or not?”
“I don’t know yet.” The jerk smirks at me.
“You’re annoying.”
Nico barks a gruff laugh at my insult, and the sound reverberates deep in my chest, making my skin pimple and my panties slick with desire.
What the hell, body? We do not like this man.
“So hostile. I guess I’m going to keep the secret of the black card to myself. For now.” I watch him slip the card into the back pocket of his snug, fitted jeans.
“Whatever.” The elevator dings our arrival, and the doors swing open.
He holds out his hand. “After you, beautiful.”
“Don’t call me that, Nicolas,” I snap, refusing to call him by his given name. I stomp out of the elevator and down the hallway to my apartment.
How dare he act all smooth and flirtatious with me?
I know the real him. He’s nothing but a playboy with a mile-long list of women willing to spend the night in his bed. I am not one of those women.
“It’s Nico, but I think you know that.”
“That’s what I said.” I press my thumb on the automatic door lock. Because, yeah, this place is fancy like that, and I love it.
“I see how it is. What should I call you if I can’t call you beautiful?” Nico calls out as I reach my door.
The anger burning me up has me reacting without thinking, and my name slips past my lips before I can stop myself.
“Savannah,” I snap. None of your damn business is what I should have said.
Why the hell did I tell him my name?
Nico slowly repeats my name to himself, like he’s tasting each syllable on his tongue for good measure. “See you around, vicious.”
My head snaps in his direction, unsure if I heard him correctly. The jack-hole smirks at me and slips into his apartment before I can tell him off.
“It’s Savannah,” I shout out into an empty corridor.
“That’s what I said,” he hollers from the other side of his door.
Dammit, he’s infuriating.
My dream of going onto the balcony to watch the sunset is dashed as I stare at my irritatingly hot neighbor’s door. I can’t go out there knowing he’s so close.
How am I supposed to live next door to that man?
More importantly, how am I going to tell my sister who my new neighbor is?