3. Lina #2
Before I can say another word, he slowly relaxes his grip, his fingers sliding off my arm with a deliberate, dragging touch that leaves my skin tingling beneath my damp sleeve.
He steps back, looking down at me with a cool, mocking amusement.
He doesn't offer to help me up or pick up my things.
He just shoves his hands into the pockets of his dark coat and watches me.
"You ruined my books," I snap, dropping to my knees to rescue my copy of a gothic novel. My fingers shake as I grab it, my stomach sinking as I see the mud staining the edges of the pages. "And you smashed my pastries. Are you always this incredibly arrogant, or is today a special occasion?"
"I don't like obstacles in my path," he says simply.
"I'm a human being, not an obstacle," I say, wiping mud off the cover with the sleeve of my raincoat.
I stand, clutching the ruined book to my chest like a shield.
I glare at him, my defiance rearing its head.
"If you don't like obstacles, maybe you should buy a private island. Or learn some basic manners."
"Basic manners do not get things done," he says.
His voice is very quiet now, very calm, but there is a weight behind it that makes my breath catch.
He takes half a step forward, closing the distance between us just enough that I have to tilt my chin up again.
"But if it makes you feel better, you may complain. "
"I don't want to complain. I want you to go back to wherever you came from," I say, my voice tight. "We don't like unpredictable, rude people in this town."
"Is that so?" he murmurs, his dark eyes holding mine.
"Yes," I say, keeping my chin high, refusing to let him see that he’s rattling me. "Now move."
He looks at me for another long, suffocating second. Then, slowly, he steps aside, gesturing toward the entrance of my building with a slight, mocking tilt of his head. "After you."
"Thank you," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
I march past him, careful not to brush his dark coat, and yank open the heavy wooden door of my building. I stomp inside, letting the door slam shut behind me with a loud, satisfying thud.
What an absolute bastard. I stand in the small, dim entryway for a moment, my chest heaving as I try to calm my racing pulse.
He was gorgeous. Absolutely, infuriatingly gorgeous.
And he knew it. Men like that don't belong in this town.
They belong in high-rise offices, looking down on everyone else.
I shake the water off my yellow raincoat, hang it over my arm, and start up the narrow wooden stairs. My knees still tremble, and the arm he gripped feels warm, almost burning. Get a grip, Lina. He’s just some arrogant tourist who thinks he owns the world.
I reach the third-floor landing, breathing a sigh of relief as I see the familiar, peeling green paint of my apartment door. I pull my keys from my pocket, searching for the brass one that opens my deadbolt.
A heavy, steady footstep sounds on the stairs below.
I freeze, my hand pausing over the lock.
The steps are slow, measured, and completely unhurried. Clack. Clack. Clack. They sound exactly like the boots of the man who just ran into me.
My stomach drops suddenly and violently.
Is he following me? My mother’s warnings, the ones I’ve spent years trying to laugh off as paranoia, rush to the front of my mind.
If anyone ever follows you, Lina, you don't go home. You find a crowd. But I’m already home.
I'm on my landing, and there are no crowds here.
I quickly jam the key into the lock, my hands shaking so badly that I miss the keyhole twice. "Come on, come on," I whisper.
The footsteps reach the top of the stairs.
I turn around, my back slamming against my door, my keys clutched in my fist like a weapon.
The tall stranger steps onto the landing. He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark coat, his face entirely expressionless. He looks at me, his eyes drifting from my white knuckles to my pale face, and that dark, heavy gaze slides down my body again, slow enough to make me shiver.
"What are you doing?" I demand, my voice high and sharp with adrenaline. "Are you following me?"
"No," he says simply.
"Then why are you on my landing?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he walks right past me. He stops at the door directly adjacent to mine, the one that has been empty for a long time, the one that belongs to the renovated apartment.
He pulls a heavy brass key from his pocket. He slides it into the lock, turns it with a smooth, metallic click, and pushes the door open.
The interior of his apartment is dark, but I can see the clean, modern lines of new furniture and the faint glow of the streetlamp from his window.
He turns back to look at me, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.
The movement pulls his coat tight, highlighting the broad, powerful line of his shoulders and the hard muscles of his chest. He looks entirely at ease, completely unbothered by my panic, and yet there is something about the way he holds himself that feels incredibly dangerous.
Like a predator that just decided to sleep next to a sheepfold.
"I live here," he says.
I stare at him, my mouth slightly open, my brain completely stalling as the pieces suddenly slam together in my head.
The mysterious Boston corporate LLC that bought the building.
The endless construction crews working at odd hours for the last month.
Maya and I had spent weeks gossiping about what kind of person would occupy the newly renovated space.
It was him.
"You're the new neighbor," I narrow my eyes.
Now I’m even more annoyed.
"John," he says, offering nothing else. No last name. No explanation. "And you are?"
"Lina," I say automatically, before I can stop myself.
"Lina," he repeats. He says my name slowly, his accent dragging over the syllables, making it sound different. Darker. He nods once, a cool, polite gesture that feels entirely empty. "I will see you around, neighbor. Try to look where you are walking."
Before I can snap a reply, he steps inside his apartment and closes the door.
The lock clicks into place with a heavy, final sound.
I stand on the cold landing for a long, silent minute, my keys still clutched in my hand. My chest is tight, my mind racing with intense irritation and a strange, visceral panic I can't explain.
He lives next door. I turn around, quickly unlock my own door, slip inside, and throw all three locks into place.
I lean my head against the wood, listening to the quiet of my own apartment.
But for the first time in ten years, the quiet doesn't feel safe.
It feels thin. Like a piece of paper separating me from a storm.
I walk over to the kitchen window and look out at the dark harbor.
I vow never to speak to him again, I tell myself, my fingers curling tightly around the edge of the counter. I don't care how attractive he is. I don't care about his voice. He is unpredictable.
He is trouble.