My Trainer Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #9)

Chapter One

Nicole

I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling while what sounded like an entire gym session kicked off next door. Weights clanked. Someone grunted through what I could only assume was some sort of CrossFit torture routine.

You've got to be kidding me.

I'd been up until two reviewing the Carleton campaign pitch—the presentation that could make or break my shot at senior VP, the position I'd spent eighteen months chasing. I needed to be sharp in four hours, not exhausted and homicidal.

The music got louder.

I threw off the covers and reached for the silk robe draped over my chair.

This had gone on long enough. For the past week, since the moving truck showed up next door, I'd endured mysterious banging, drilling at ungodly hours, and what sounded like furniture being rearranged every night around midnight.

Done. I was done.

My bare feet crossed the hardwood to my front door. The hallway stretched empty, bathed in soft building lights. I marched to 4B and knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked harder. The music was loud enough he probably couldn't hear anything else. What kind of person worked out at five in the morning with music that could wake the entire floor?

The same kind who moved furniture at midnight and clearly had never heard of common courtesy.

The music cut off abruptly. Heavy footsteps approached.

The door swung open, and my brain short-circuited.

The man standing in front of me was unfairly attractive.

Tall—six-four at least—with long dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that looked annoyingly good instead of sloppy.

His bare chest glistened with sweat, covered in an intricate sleeve of tattoos that disappeared into low-slung gray sweatpants.

His eyes though. Green. Intense. Currently looking at me like I was an amusing interruption to his morning routine.

"Can I help you?" His voice came out rough from exertion, carrying a hint of Boston or maybe New York.

I realized I was staring. At his chest. At how those sweatpants hung on his hips, revealing the V of muscle that disappeared below the waistband.

Get it together, Nicole.

"Yes, actually." I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly aware I was standing in a condo hallway wearing nothing but a silk nightgown and robe. "It's five in the morning."

He leaned against the doorframe, unbothered by his state of undress or the fact that he'd clearly woken me up. "Yeah. Problem?"

His casual arrogance made me want to throw something at him.

"Some of us are trying to sleep. Some of us have presentations today and need to function like actual humans, not zombies kept awake by—" I gestured at the space behind him, which I could now see was set up like a home gym.

Free weights, a bench, some complicated-looking machine. "—whatever that is."

His lips curved into what I'm sure he thought was a charming smile. "That's called exercise, sweetheart. I could show you a thing or two if you’re interested."

Heat flashed through me. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just saying." His gaze swept over me—my fitted nightgown, my hair that was probably sticking up at odd angles, my bare legs. "You look like you could use some stress relief. I'm a professional trainer. I promise to take it easy on you. Unless you like it hard." He grinned at me.

I hated that my lady parts jumped up and said hooray!

No. No. Down girl.

The audacity. Here I was, asking him to be a considerate neighbor, and he was critiquing my fitness level like some sort of sleazy pickup line.

"Let me be clear." I dropped my voice to the tone I used in boardroom negotiations when someone tried to lowball me.

"I don't need stress relief. I don't need exercise tips from a stranger.

What I need is for you to respect the fact that other people live in this building and maybe keep your workout routine to reasonable hours. "

Instead of looking chastened, he looked more amused. "Reasonable hours. Right. What time would work better for you, princess? Ten AM? Noon? When exactly do you roll out of bed?"

Princess. He actually called me princess.

"Six-thirty. Like a normal person with a normal job."

"Six-thirty." He nodded like he was filing this information away. "Noted. And what's this normal job of yours?"

"Marketing."

"Right." Something in how he said it told me he'd just categorized me completely. "Let me guess. Corner office. Designer suits. Long hours staring at spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations."

He wasn't wrong, but his tone made it sound like an insult. "There's nothing wrong with having a career."

"Never said there was." He straightened, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "But there's also nothing wrong with taking care of your body. Keeping yourself healthy. Maybe burning off some of that tension you're clearly carrying around."

His gaze dropped to my shoulders, which I knew were probably rigid. They always were these days.

"I'm not tense."

"Sure you're not." The smile was back, with an edge to it that made my stomach flip. "Look, neighbor—"

"Nicole."

"Nicole." He repeated my name like he was testing how it sounded.

"I'm Shawn. And here's the thing, Nicole.

I'm going to work out every morning at five because that's when I work out.

I'm going to play music while I do it because that's how I get motivated.

And if that bothers you, maybe you should invest in some earplugs. "

His dismissal stung. I was used to commanding respect in boardrooms full of men twice my age, and here was this arrogant, sweaty, admittedly gorgeous man treating me like I was some uptight neighbor complaining about nothing.

Which, fine. Maybe I was uptight. Maybe I did care too much about schedules and protocols and getting eight hours of sleep.

But I also had responsibilities. Goals. A life that required me to be sharp and focused, not distracted by inconsiderate neighbors who looked like they'd stepped out of a fitness magazine.

"You know what?" I stepped back, wrapping my robe tighter. "Forget I said anything. Enjoy your workouts, Shawn. I'm sure the rest of the building will love them as much as I do."

I turned to go, but his voice stopped me.

"For what it's worth," he said, and something in his tone made me look back. "You look like you could use more than just eight hours of sleep. When's the last time you did something just for fun?"

The question caught me off guard. When was the last time I'd done something for fun? I tried to remember and came up blank. Work had been consuming every moment for months. Years, if I was being honest.

But that was none of his business.

"Have a good workout," I said, and walked back to my apartment.

Once inside, I leaned against my door. My heart was racing. From anger, I told myself. From frustration at dealing with an inconsiderate neighbor who clearly thought he could do whatever he wanted.

Not from how his eyes had lingered on my mouth when I'd said his name. Not from those sweatpants hanging on his hips, or the intricate patterns of ink covering his chest and arms.

Not that.

I glanced at my microwave clock. 5:15. No point trying to sleep now, not when I was this wired. I might as well review the Carleton presentation one more time.

As I headed toward my home office, the music started up again next door. Quieter this time, but still audible through the shared wall.

I settled at my desk with my laptop and coffee. Tried to focus on market demographics and brand positioning instead of the rhythmic sounds coming from 4B.

It didn't work.

Every time I heard a weight drop or caught the low rumble of Shawn's voice over the music, I thought about how he'd looked at me. Like he'd seen right through my robe and controlled exterior to something I wasn't sure I wanted him to see.

Like he knew exactly how long it had been since someone made me feel anything other than stressed, exhausted, or professionally accomplished.

Too long.

Way too long.