Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
IRIS
I limp across the marble floor, trying to ignore the echo of my own footsteps and the existential ache in my toes. The scents of lavender and expensive cleaning supplies linger everywhere, making my nose twitch at the intensity.
I’m so distracted by the symphony of my little agonies that I almost miss the man-shaped shadow waiting at the elevators. Almost, but not quite.
It’s Hunter. My new smoking hot neighbor. Oh goody.
He’s standing dead center in front of the mirrored elevator doors with his gym bag hanging from one hand, black and battered.
I notice his fitted black tee stretched across his muscular chest, his loose-fitting gray gym shorts, and barely resist the urge to fan myself.
There’s a dark patch at his collarbone, sweat still drying, and his hair is wet, combed back from his forehead in dark, glossy lines.
He looks like he stepped off a magazine cover.
It’s entirely unfair that he can look like a Calvin Klein billboard model after working out while I am actively falling apart in business-casual polyester.
His eyes flick down my body, and I swear my legs almost give out. I try to act normal, but my voice comes out a little breathless. “Hey.”
He doesn’t smile. Not exactly. His mouth twitches, like he’s thinking about it. “Long day?” His voice is way too deep. Why is that hot??
“You have no idea,” I mutter as we stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the elevator, but there are at least three feet between us.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open with a whoosh. Hunter gestures, barely, for me to go first. His hand is massive, veins raised, a light sheen of post-workout sweat catching the fluorescent lobby lighting. I step in, my knees suddenly weak and not just because of the heels.
It’s just the two of us in the mirrored, brushed-steel elevator. The doors close, and now I’m trapped in a chrome shoebox with the only man who’s ever managed to make me forget how to speak.
He hits the button for our floor without asking, then leans against the rail with easy, contained energy.
The elevator hums to life, and with nothing else to do, I sneak a glance at him in the mirror.
His arms are still crossed, forearms bared, and I can see the faintest outline of a tattoo wrapping around his left bicep.
My brain goes full monkey mode, wondering what the rest of him looks like under that shirt, and it’s a minor miracle I don’t trip over my own feet.
The elevator quickly moves up to the second floor and dings as the doors slide open.
I start forward, but Hunter beats me to it, placing one massive hand against the door so it won’t close.
As I slip past him, his fingers brush mine, just for a split second.
An electric buzz ricochets from my hand all the way up my arm and slams into my chest.
“See you around,” he says, low and quiet.
“Uh-huh,” is all I manage as I stumble down the hallway, struggling to get my apartment key in the lock. My hands are shaking a little, so I have to try twice before it actually turns. I can hear his heavy footfalls behind me and his unhurried pace as he walks past.
I duck into my apartment, close the door, and press my back against it. Through the wall, I hear Hunter’s door open and shut with a soft, decisive thud.
For a second, I just stand there in the darkness, hand pressed to my chest as my heart pounds double-pace.
My brain is a mess. I replay the moment in the elevator, the sound of his voice, the static jolt from his fingers brushing mine.
I can still feel the heat, the way the touch lingered just a heartbeat longer than it should have.
I’m starting to think that living next door to Hunter Hartwell is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.
I’m never late. I’m the kind of person who sets alarms for her alarms, who triple-checks the time and lays out her outfits with military precision the night before.
But I forgot to plug my phone in last night, and it died sometime in the middle of the night, so instead of waking to my favorite song, I snap awake to sunlight stabbing through my window and the horrifying realization that I have exactly nine minutes to get my shit together and make it to work.
Cue the panic.
I rocket out of bed, trip over my own pajama pants, and stub my toe so hard on the bed frame that I actually see stars.
There’s no time to wallow. I brush my teeth with one hand while wrangling my hair into a ponytail with the other.
I barely have time for a swipe of mascara.
I pull on my gray suit and matching three-inch pumps.
By some miracle, I get out the door fully dressed, clutching an armful of folders, my half-zipped purse, and an emergency I keep hidden in the refrigerator for days just like this.
I rush out my front door and run face-first into something large, warm, and unyielding. The impact sends papers and folders tumbling through the air in a perfect reverse snowstorm. Thank God, I haven’t opened my emergency energy drink yet.
Hunter’s arms instantly close around me, steadying me with a grip that’s firm but not rough.
My brain short-circuits. His hands are huge, splayed across my shoulders, and his chest is right there, right in my line of sight, and it takes a good second before I realize that it’s not his usual gym clothes or battered T-shirt but an actual uniform—a red polo shirt with “WHFD” embroidered over the heart in bold white letters, and black tactical pants.
“Shit, sorry,” I blurt, trying to step back, but he doesn’t let go right away.
“Careful,” he says. His voice is the same as ever—low, barely above a growl—but there’s something softer at the edges this time. A small smile teases the edge of his lips as he stares down at me.
I look up and meet his eyes. They’re brighter today, less guarded. “Thank you,” I tell him and force myself to take a step back.
He grunts out a reply I don’t quite understand and finally lets go, and I nearly lose my balance again, knees a little wobbly from the whole episode.
I crouch to scoop up my fallen folders, mortified, but before I can grab them all, Hunter kneels beside me and gathers half the papers in a single sweep.
He moves efficiently, stacking them and straightening the edges.
I can’t help but notice his hands again—broad, strong, careful with the paper.
“Thanks again,” I mutter, feeling my face go red-hot as I try to smooth the crumpled edges and not stare at the way his biceps flex under the sleeve of the polo.
He offers me the stack of folders. As I reach for them, our fingers brush, and I get a rerun of the electric current from last week’s elevator incident.
My brain is still focused on his muscular chest. “You’re a firefighter?” The words come out before I can stop them.
He nods, still crouched at my level, so we’re eye-to-eye. “Yeah.”
“That’s—wow.” I sound like an idiot, but my brain has shut off the filter. “I mean, I guess it makes sense. You have that… firefighter vibe.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I try to dig myself out. “Like, you know. Calm under pressure. Good with emergencies. Strong arms. I mean, obviously, you’re strong, but—” I cut myself off before I start listing additional attributes that make me sound like a stalker or something. “Never mind. Sorry.”
He smirks down at me and stands, which is less standing and more unfolding, and helps me up with one hand under my elbow. His touch is surprisingly gentle.
We both start toward the elevator at the same time, and this time he doesn’t bother to keep a three-foot buffer between us.
I can smell him now—not cologne, but something clean and sharp, with a faint note of smoke that I decide is either the world’s best marketing ploy or just his entire lifestyle.
The elevator arrives, and we step inside together. There’s a brief moment where he stands behind me to let me in first, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating off him.
I mash the “L” button because my hand is shaking and I don’t trust myself not to hit the emergency stop. The doors close, and now we’re sealed in, just like before. I risk a glance at his reflection in the mirrored wall, and he’s looking straight ahead, jaw set.
I can’t handle the silence, so I open my mouth and say, “Do you have a shift today?”
He nods. “Yeah. Twenty-four on, forty-eight off. I’m headed in now.”
We reach the ground floor, and the doors part with a pneumatic hiss. I start forward, and Hunter follows me out of the elevator.
As we cross the lobby, I half expect him to walk in the opposite direction, but he falls in beside me. We walk in silence for a few steps before he says, “Where do you work?”
I almost drop my folders again. He’s never asked me a single personal question before, so the fact that he wants to know anything about me is weirdly flattering.
“The Hartmann Group. I’m a secretary there. It isn’t glamorous, but it pays the bills.” I try not to sound defensive, but maybe I do, because he gives me a quick side-eye like he’s reevaluating his entire mental file on me.
He gives another one of his grunts that I don’t completely understand.
We reach the front doors, and the humid blast from outside makes me instantly sticky. I pause, wondering if I should say goodbye, but he beats me to it.
“Have a good day, Iris.”
He says my name. First time. It’s the softest thing I’ve heard all week, and for some reason, it lands right in my chest and just stays there, humming.
I muster up a smile and respond, “You too, Hunter,” and somehow, keep my knees from buckling as I walk away.
The rest of my morning is a blur of meetings, phone calls, and getting coffee stains out of my skirt, but the only thing I can really think about is the way Hunter looked in that red shirt, and the way his hand felt on my arm, and the way he said my name.
And the way his voice sent shivers down my spine.
It’s possible I’m losing my mind. Or maybe just my heart, one accidental hallway collision at a time.
I’ve been trying to cut back on caffeine, but after three consecutive nights spent tossing and turning with my brain replaying every Hunter encounter on an endless loop, it’s become clear that this is a battle I won’t win.
I surrender to the inevitable and join the morning crowd at Gobble Me Up, the building’s coffee shop that doubles as Worthington Hills’ unofficial gossip hub.
The queue is six deep, filled with a who’s-who of The One’s most annoying early risers. I wedge myself into line, trying not to yawn or make accidental eye contact with anyone who might mistake me for a “morning person.”
I’m debating whether or not to add a donut to my usual caramel macchiato when a ripple of awareness passes through me. I glance over my shoulder and, sure enough, Hunter has entered the coffee shop.
He’s not even in uniform, just jeans and a navy crewneck that fits him like it was custom-tailored just for him.
He carries himself with that same deliberate, economy-of-movement grace, but there’s something looser about him today.
He looks around the room and locks eyes with me, just long enough to send a bolt of nervous heat through my stomach.
He joins the queue behind me. For one full minute, nothing happens. He doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t say anything, in fact. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, close enough that I can feel the gravity of him. Should I turn and acknowledge him? Say hello?
When the line advances, he closes the gap, and I get a whiff of his aftershave—something woodsy, sharp, but clean. I try to focus on the menu again, but all the drink names blur together into a single block of nonsense.
The barista, Cydney, leans over the counter and gives me a look. “Ready for the usual, Iris?”
I nod, flustered. “Yeah, large caramel macchiato, extra whip. Thank you.”
Hunter, behind me, says, “And a black coffee, and a chocolate croissant.”
Cydney eyes us both with open curiosity. “Is this together?” she asks, and before I can say anything, Hunter says, “Yeah,” and hands over a twenty.
I reach for my wallet out of habit. “You don’t have to—” I start, but he shakes his head once, almost imperceptible. The message hangs between us without a word. He won't budge on this.
I let him pay. It feels weirdly intimate, and my whole body prickles with nervous energy.
We step aside to the pickup counter, where there’s even less personal space to pretend we’re not practically touching. I try to make myself small, but it’s pointless.
The silence between us is full of things neither of us is willing to say, so I break it first. “You a regular here, too?”
He glances down, almost shy. “I usually make my coffee at home, but I ran out and haven’t gotten my grocery order yet.”
Our drinks come up together. The barista sets mine down with a swirl of caramel and a mountain of whipped cream, then hands Hunter his black coffee and the croissant, already bagged.
He slides my macchiato toward me, careful not to spill. “Enjoy your coffee,” he tells me, voice pitched low.
I wrap my hands around the cup, feeling my face flush. “Thank you.” It seems like I’m always thanking him for something.
Hunter seems less guarded than usual, like the edge has worn off his usual prickliness. He glances at his watch, then at me. “You headed to work?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Trying not to be late for a change.”
He lifts his coffee in a half-salute. “See you around.”
I watch him walk away, every muscle in his back defined and purposeful. He stops at the door, turns, and gives me a real smile. Not much, just a tilt at the corner of his mouth, but it’s enough to make my insides do a victory lap.
I nurse my coffee, replaying every detail. The way he said my name. The brush of his arm against mine at the counter. The almost-smile when I confessed to my coffee addiction.
For the first time since he moved in, I feel like I’m getting somewhere. Like I’m starting to figure out what’s going on behind that bulletproof exterior.
It’s possible that I am way, way out of my league here.
But for the first time in forever, I want to see how far I can push it.