I Knew He Was Trouble (Sweeter Than Fiction #1)

1. Chapter One

There are very few reasons I would be okay with being woken up at four in the morning.

One: Jesse McCartney is at my door telling me I’m the beautiful soul he wants.

Two: I’m leaving for a week-long, all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.

Three: My besties wake me up to tell me that Taylor Swift dropped a surprise album overnight.

All of those are perfectly acceptable reasons—great, even. But nowhere on my list would it ever include waking up to my neighbor blaring hip-hop music for his workout session at this unreasonable hour.

“For the love of biscuits,” I groan, slapping my hands on my bed. I reluctantly push myself up from the warmth of the heavenly comforter and immediately wrap a blanket around my shoulders to stave off the chill of early fall air.

I slip on my fuzzy mocha slippers and shuffle over to my window, brush my curtains aside, and glare at my despicable, uncivil jerk of a neighbor.

I’ve despised Tyler Reed since the first day I met him. Or should I say, heard him.

Of course, he couldn’t be a normal person who goes to the gym. Nope. Instead, he works out every morning at four-thirty in his home with hip-hop music blaring before going to work. Who does that? Psychopaths, that’s who. There has to be something pathologically wrong with him that makes him choose to wake up before the roosters crow.

Did I mention Tyler’s had this routine every single morning for the past two years? Every. Single. Morning. Lucky me.

After the first month of it consistently happening, I tried using earplugs, but I actually got less sleep because of the weird feeling they gave me having something shoved into my ear canals.

I’ve debated pounding on Tyler’s door a million times, wanting to berate him for his inconsiderate nature, but something has held me back every time. I guess I’m just a kinder human than him. Or maybe it’s the fact that letting the dogs I walk use his yard as their restroom feels like a better form of revenge.

It makes me smile just imagining the confusion and disbelief written on his face when he sees all the dead spots in his front yard courtesy of dog urine. I’m not a terrible person, though…I always pick up their poop, even if the thought of him stepping in it makes me excessively happy.

The next song on Tyler’s playlist comes on, and I groan. A girl can only take so much Busta Rhymes before sunrise.

Bless his early morning, hip-hop-loving heart.

In case you didn’t know, in the South, that’s the equivalent of the middle finger, but I try not to curse…so Tyler is the lucky recipient of all my internal bless your hearts .

Tyler and I have hardly interacted in the last two years I’ve lived here. The only reason I even know his name is because my roomies and I got a piece of his mail right after we moved in that I graciously returned to him along with a loaf of banana bread—my attempt at being a kind, new neighbor.

Instead of accepting it like a normal person, Tyler told me he doesn’t eat a lot of carbs. I’m not sure I could ever trust anyone who doesn’t eat carbs.

The chorus hits, the beat pounding against my eardrums. If I’m going to survive the morning, I need a cup of coffee.

I grimace. It sounds like Tyler turned up the volume a few notches, instantly making my head throb.

Scratch that, I need an entire pot.

My barista job has made me a bit of a coffee snob, but today, I don’t care what form my caffeine comes in as long as there’s a lot of it. I trudge my way to the kitchen to get a pot of coffee brewing, my eyes only open wide enough so I don’t fall down the stairs.

I revel in the sweet silence while I wait for the coffee to brew. I can only hear Tyler’s obnoxious music in my bedroom—probably because my window is right across from his workout space—but I’m happy it doesn’t disturb my roommates’ sleep schedules.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee overwhelms my senses, and it smells like pure heaven. I grab the largest mug in our antique cabinet and fill it with the steaming java goodness before adding a splash of cinnamon dolce creamer.

I take a giant sip, ignoring the scalding sensation burning my mouth and throat. I’m too tired to care. I need caffeine more than I need my taste buds at the moment.

My steps are light and careful as I avoid the creaky spots of the wood flooring up the stairwell and down the hallway back to my bedroom. I may be awakened at this unusual hour every day, but I don’t want my three besties to suffer the same fate.

I would do anything for the girls who have stuck with me faithfully, like an old pair of jeans, for the past decade. We all met when we were sixth graders at a Taylor Swift concert. Each of us was in the front row, our moms as chaperones. We bonded throughout the concert, screaming our tween hearts out. By the end of the night, we had dubbed ourselves the Long Live Girlies , and a forever kind of friendship was born.

I run my finger along the wood frame, showcasing a picture of the four of us from that night, our arms around each other’s shoulders and giant grins pasted on our young faces. Even though she’s blurry, Taylor is mid-motion performing on the stage behind us. I’m grateful for that day—the one that forever changed my life.

We discovered that we lived within a thirty-minute radius of each other, even though we went to different middle schools, and thus began the tradition of Friday night sleepovers. And we never turned back. We even maintained our ritual during college, thanks to video calls and the group watch feature on our favorite streaming platforms. We were so set on keeping this tradition that, whenever any of us started dating, the boy quickly learned that Friday nights were off-limits. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

I’m already dreading the day my friends fall in love, get engaged, move out, and live their married lives. I’m the independent one—the girl who would rather be forever single than tied down to a person or place. Especially after watching the demise of my parents’ relationship as a child. Just the thought of marriage makes my skin itch.

But, for now, I’m enjoying the fact that we four girls made a pact during our senior year of high school that we would move back home and live together after we graduated college. And here we are, two years into being roommates in a quaint, historic house in Louisville, Kentucky.

I successfully steer clear of the squeaky floorboards and reach my bedroom. After settling onto my bed and taking another long drag of coffee, I grab my computer off my nightstand. Most days, I clock in a few hours for my virtual assistant job in the early morning hours—thanks to Tyler’s music. While it’s not an ideal way to start my morning, at least I can knock some hours off my workday.

I spend the next two hours getting the weekly newsletter for the author I work for scheduled to send out tomorrow morning. I also create some marketing videos for her latest books. After emailing them to her, I head to the bathroom I share with Alyssa to get ready.

There’s a faint floral perfume scent lingering in the air, letting me know she’s already gotten ready for the day. I take a quick shower and blow dry my hair before applying minimal makeup. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see the exposed red brick wall behind me and smile. It’s always been my favorite original feature in the house.

Once I look presentable enough for work, I walk to my closet to select my go-to fall outfit: a sweater, black leggings, and white sneakers.

Today, I throw on the first top I can find—a soft, cropped tan sweater with balloon sleeves—that looks great paired with my high-rise leggings.

I head downstairs and smile at Alyssa, who automatically pours a cup of coffee into a to-go mug and adds the perfect amount of creamer. She passes it across the counter to me.

“Lyss, you’re the best.” I inhale the glorious smell before taking a sip.

She waves a hand in front of her like it’s nothing. “Where are you working today?”

Alyssa is the definition of a blonde bombshell. Not a single strand of her long locks of blonde hair is ever out of place. It’s usually half up in a high pony or space buns, always wrapped in silk scarves. Today, half of her hair is up in space buns with ditsy floral print scarves tied around them, the remainder falling past her shoulders in gentle curls.

She always looks like she’s ready for a photo shoot or walked straight out of an Anthropologie catalog, but really, she’s a hairstylist. If she wasn’t one of my best friends, I would still choose to go to her in hopes that she could get my hair to resemble anything close to hers.

“I’ll be at Rise & Grind Café from eight to two, then I’ll walk Winston, Brutus, and Lilo before heading to Sunrise Springs from four to eight.” I slide my phone into my purse and put the strap on my shoulder. “I already clocked in a few hours this morning for my author assistant gig, so I should be free after my time at the assisted living facility.”

“Thanks to Tyler?”

I nod, rolling my eyes as I take a sip of coffee.

Alyssa shakes her head, her long blonde waves swishing around her with the movement. “I don’t know how you do it all. One job is exhausting enough for me. I can’t even begin to imagine juggling four of them.” She wraps her fingers around her coffee mug. “Will you finally be able to quit one soon? You have to be close to paying off your student loans by now.”

My lips pull up into what I hope looks like a genuine smile. “Hopefully.”

I hate hiding things from my friends, but I haven’t found the courage to tell them the real reason behind why I have four jobs. They think I’m simply trying to make ends meet and pay off my student loans, but I paid those off a long time ago. I have four jobs for an entirely different reason, one that I’m not willing to share with them—or anyone else—yet. Not while it still feels like an unattainable dream.

A quick glance at the oven clock has me grabbing my coffee cup and adjusting the strap of my purse. “I’ve gotta go. Will you tell Mal and Shay good morning for me?”

She nods. “Have a good day, Kels.”

I walk out the front door and down the porch steps to my car parked along the curb. Out of my periphery, I spot Tyler walking to his car. He’s wearing his stupid scrubs and a smug grin that I’d love to wipe off his face. Then there’s that rogue curl that always seems to fall onto his forehead…I’d love to cut it off while he’s sleeping.

I pick up speed, hoping he didn’t see me. But I’ve never been that lucky.

I’m fumbling with my car keys, trying to unlock my door, when his masculine voice calls out, “Stop letting your dogs in my yard.”

I press my lips together to bite back a laugh. Just yesterday, I gave all the dogs I walk an extra treat for peeing in his yard and all over his bushes. I can’t help it if all the dogs hate him, too. That sounds like a Tyler problem.

“Stop blasting your music before the sun is up,” I yell back as I finally get my car door unlocked.

Tyler’s expression falters and his brow furrows.

I roll my eyes at the audacity of that man to not even care about waking me up every morning. I don’t wait for a response and instead climb into my trusty white Honda Accord. After placing my travel mug in the cupholder, I shrug my bag off my shoulder, set it on the passenger seat, and carefully maneuver my way onto the road.

As I pass Tyler’s car, I glare at him.

“Bless your heart, Tyler freaking Reed.”