Chapter 2
Samantha
The wine bar was getting louder as happy hour turned into actual night, and I was feeling pleasantly buzzed when Jenna finally called it quits around eight thirty.
"You going to be okay getting home?" she asked as we stood on the sidewalk outside.
"It's three blocks. I'll survive."
She hugged me tight. "Text me when you get there. And stop overthinking the hot neighbor."
"I make no promises."
The walk home sobered me up enough that I was only slightly tipsy when I reached my building. The lobby was empty, the elevator working for once. I hummed along to the terrible muzak as it climbed to the third floor.
My key went into the lock easily enough. Turning it was another story.
I jiggled it. Tried again. The key turned halfway and stopped.
"Come on," I muttered, applying more pressure.
The key snapped off in my hand.
"Are you kidding me right now?" I stared at the broken piece of metal in my palm, then at the half still stuck in the lock. "No, no, no."
I tried to pull out the stuck piece with my fingernails. No luck.
"Dammit." I leaned my forehead against the door. Of course this would happen on a Friday night when locksmiths charged double. Triple, probably.
"You okay?"
I turned to find Brandon standing in his doorway, arms crossed, watching me with those unreadable sexy eyes.
"My key broke off in the lock."
He walked over, inspecting the damage. He was close enough that I could smell his spicy aftershave. It made my wine-addled brain go fuzzy.
"You need a locksmith," he said.
"I know. I'm calling one now." I pulled out my phone and googled emergency locksmiths, wincing at the prices that came up. "This is going to cost me a fortune."
"Come wait in my place. No point standing in the hallway."
I hesitated. Going into his apartment felt unwise, especially after two glasses of wine had lowered my inhibitions.
But standing in the hallway for however long it took a locksmith to arrive felt worse.
"Okay. Thanks."
His apartment’s layout was the mirror image of mine, but that's where the similarities ended.
Where my place was full of plants and throw pillows and framed photos, his was nearly bare.
A couch. A coffee table. Boxes still stacked against one wall.
No bookshelf, which made sense given last night's incident.
"Sorry about the mess," he said, gesturing vaguely at the boxes. "Still getting settled."
"You should see my place when I'm moving." I sat on the couch, keeping to one end. "It takes me weeks to unpack."
He opened his fridge. "Want something to drink while you wait? I've got beer, water, or..."
"What's the or?"
"Wine. Red."
"I've already had two glasses tonight, so I should probably say no."
"But?"
"But I'm going to say yes anyway."
He pulled out a bottle and two glasses. Not the cheap stuff either. I watched him open it with practiced ease, pouring generous amounts into both glasses.
"You a wine guy?" I asked as he handed me one.
"Not particularly. But I know good wine when I see it."
I took a sip. It was good. Better than what Jenna and I had been drinking. "This is really nice."
"Seemed like a wine kind of night." He sat on the other end of the couch, maintaining a respectful distance.
We sat in silence for a moment. I was aware of how quiet his apartment was compared to mine. No TV, no music. Just us and the muffled sounds of the building settling around us.
"So," I said, because the silence was making me nervous. "You’re a technology consultant."
"Yeah."
"Like setting up senior citizens on the interwebs so they can play Mah Jong online?"
"I wish." He took a drink. "More like cranky CEOs who want to rule the world electronically.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah, ew. What about you? How'd you end up as a counselor?"
"My brother died three years ago. Overdose." The wine made it easier to say. "I was in grad school for psychology, but after Jake died, I switched my focus to addiction counseling."
His expression shifted. Not pity, which I appreciated. Something more like understanding.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Me too." I traced the rim of my glass with one finger. "He was twenty-two. Had his whole life ahead of him. And I didn't even know he was using until it was too late."
"That's not on you."
"I know. Logically, I know. But it doesn't always feel that way."
Brandon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My partner died two years ago. Different circumstances, but I get it. The guilt."
"Partner?"
"Work partner." He paused. "We were close. Like brothers. And when he died, I blamed myself for not seeing it coming."
I wanted to ask what happened, but his body language said the subject was closed. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.
"Is that why you're here?" I asked instead. "Fresh start?"
"Something like that."
We fell quiet again. This time it felt less awkward, more weighted. Like we were both carrying things we weren't ready to put down yet.
"Can I ask you something?" I said after a minute.
"Sure."
"Last night. The woman who was here. Was that your girlfriend?"
He blinked, surprised. "You heard that?"
"Walls are thin."
"She's not my girlfriend." He took a long drink. "She's a client."
"A client."
"Yeah. And she's not happy with some decisions I made regarding her case."
I waited for him to elaborate. He didn't.
"What kind of boring tech stuff do you do that gets people that angry?" I tried to keep my tone light.
"The complicated kind." He met my eyes. "I can't really talk about it. Client confidentiality and all that."
I laughed despite myself. "I get that. I have the same issue with my work."
"Exactly." He shifted on the couch, angling toward me. "So you understand why I can't give details."
I did understand. But that didn't make it less frustrating.
"Fair enough," I said.
"Tell me about our neighbors," he said, clearly changing the subject. "Anyone I should watch out for?"
"The guy in 2C smokes a lot of weed, but he's harmless. Mrs. Kim in 1A will try to feed you constantly. Mr. Coolidge on the fourth floor plays violin at odd hours, but he's actually really good, so it's not terrible."
"And you?" He was watching me over his wine glass. "What should I know about you?"
"I work too much. My cat is judgmental. And I'm terrible at small talk."
"You're doing fine right now."
"That's the wine talking."
His mouth curved into an almost-smile. "Maybe."
The air between us shifted. Charged. I was suddenly aware of how we were sitting, bodies angled toward each other. How his eyes kept dropping to my mouth when I talked.
"Brandon..."
"Yeah?"
I didn't know what I was going to say. Something about boundaries, probably. About how we were neighbors and getting involved was a bad idea.
But then he set down his wine glass and moved closer. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body.
"Tell me to back off," he said, voice low.
"I should."
"But?"
"But I don't want to."
His hand came up, fingers brushing my jaw. The touch was light, tentative. Asking permission.
I leaned into it.
He made a sound in the back of his throat, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "You're trouble."
"Right back at you."
We were inches apart now. I could could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. His breath ghosted across my lips.
"Samantha..."
My phone rang.
We both jumped. I grabbed it off the coffee table, seeing the locksmith's number flash on the screen.
"Hello?" My voice came out breathier than I intended.
"This is Dave's Locksmith. I'm outside your building."
"I'll be right down."
I hung up and looked at Brandon. He'd moved back to his end of the couch, jaw clenched.
"Locksmith's here," I said unnecessarily.
"Yeah."
I stood, legs shaky. From the wine or the almost-kiss, I wasn't sure. "Thanks for the wine. And the company."
"Anytime."
I made it to his door before I turned back. He was still on the couch, watching me with a hungry expression.
"Brandon?"
"Yeah?"
"That thing that almost happened..."
"Yeah?"
"We should probably not do that."
"Probably not."
Neither of us moved.
"Because we're neighbors," I continued.
"Right. Neighbors."
I gripped the doorframe. "So we're agreed. That was a one-time moment of weakness."
"Agreed."
I nodded and left before I could change my mind.
The locksmith was a middle-aged guy with a tool belt and a bored expression. He had my lock drilled out and replaced in twenty minutes, charged me an obscene amount of money, and left me with two new keys.
I let myself into my apartment and immediately went to the wall I shared with Brandon. Pressed my palm against it.
On the other side, I heard him moving around. Water running. The creak of what might have been his bed.
I backed away and went to my own bedroom, where Pepper was curled up on my pillow, judging me.
"Don't look at me like that," I told her. "I didn't do anything."
She meowed, unimpressed.
I got ready for bed on autopilot. Washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed into sleep shorts and a tank top. But when I finally crawled under the covers, sleep was impossible.
All I could think about was Brandon's hand on my face. His thumb on my cheekbone. The way he'd looked at me like he wanted to devour me but was holding himself back.
I rolled onto my side, staring at the wall.
This was a bad idea. He was too vague about himself, and I'd promised myself I was done with men who had secrets. Jake had hidden his addiction. My ex had hidden a whole other girlfriend.
I didn't need another person in my life who couldn't be honest with me.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Jenna: Did you make it home okay?
I typed back: Yes. Also almost kissed the neighbor.
Her response came immediately: TELL ME EVERYTHING.
I smiled and started typing out the whole story. By the time I finished, I felt marginally better.
Jenna's advice was predictable: Jump him. Life's too short.
I set my phone down without responding. Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one who'd have to see him in the hallway every day if things went south.
I was still awake an hour later when I heard his door open and close. Footsteps in the hallway. The elevator ding.
Where was he going at midnight on a Friday?
None of my business, I reminded myself.
But I got up anyway, going to my front door and looking through the peephole. The hallway was empty.
I went back to bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling.
This was going to be a problem. I could already tell.
When I finally fell asleep sometime after two, I dreamed about almost-kisses and all the things I'd told myself I didn't want.