The Upstairs Crush (#1 Love Place #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

NADIA

Being a third-grade teacher the week before spring break is like trying to wrangle thirty sugar-high squirrels with nothing but your wits and a rapidly diminishing supply of patience.

I lost my voice somewhere between the morning spelling quiz and the afternoon art project gone wrong.

What started as a neat bun is now a wild tangle with at least two pencils stuck in it, and my black pants bear the battle scars of dried Elmer's glue.

The three tote bags I'm hauling might as well be filled with concrete, especially the one containing everything I've had to confiscate today.

But I survived. I only hope the security cams missed my personal breakdown in the teacher’s lounge.

One tiny mercy is that my apartment is only a two-block crawl from the school.

Of course, there’s a downside—those two blocks are basically the Appalachian Trail, especially when you’re dragging three loaded totes.

My current speed is somewhere between “retirement home mall-walker” and “zombie whose legs got chewed off.” My reward for all my hard work is my very own studio apartment in #1 Love Place, which sounds like the location for an adult hotline, but is actually a steel-and-glass “luxury” high-rise right in the heart of Worthington Hills.

I drag myself up the front sidewalk, clutching my tote bags, and praying my legs don’t fail me now.

My lungs are on fire. My calves burn. I’m limping in a way that’s humiliatingly close to a waddle.

But #1 Love Place towers in front of me, all modern glass and steel. God, I love my new apartment building.

The sidewalk leading to the main entrance is surrounded by this ridiculous, golf-course-green lawn that’s so perfect it looks fake. Seriously, there’s not a single weed and absolutely no rogue dandelions.

To the right, there’s a whole dog park fenced in with black wrought iron, and a winding walking trail lined with tiny, colorful wildflowers. A Frenchie in a neon raincoat is currently terrorizing a poodle twice his size. The poodle’s owner looks like she’s rethinking her life choices.

And then I see him.

The hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life. And that’s saying a whole lot since I once accidentally wandered through a shirtless firefighter calendar signing at the Worthington Hills Mall.

He’s tall, dark, and dressed like James Bond’s hotter, meaner cousin, but he’s totally losing a battle of wills with a twenty-pound French Bulldog in a raincoat.

The dog is platinum white, stocky, with its face set in an expression that screams, “I run this town!” He yanks on the leash so hard, Gorgeous Man sort of half-stumbles, and I realize he’s not walking his dog. This dog is walking him.

My mouth goes dry like every last drop of moisture has evaporated.

I slow down without even meaning to and stop to stare as Gorgeous Man tries to reason with his tiny dictator.

His voice is gentle, and he’s got a smile that could melt steel beams. His eyes are soft when he looks at the little one, then his gaze flickers up and snags on me, and my insides spark and stutter.

My heart does a weird little flutter, and for a second, I forget how to breathe at all.

My heart squeezes while my lady bits wake up and sing. My shy side kicks in, and I try to angle past them, keeping my head down. But my exhausted body betrays me. My tennis shoe catches on a crack in the sidewalk, and as I pitch forward, my life flashes before my eyes.

Okay, not my life, but the last thirty minutes, which was mostly glue, crayons, and a third grader named Parker trying to convince me he’s being “haunted by the spirit of SpongeBob.” I lurch, arms windmilling, at least two tote bags swinging like medieval weapons.

I’m about to faceplant straight into the hard concrete.

But I don’t actually fall. Big, steady hands wrap around my biceps and yank me upright before I can even squeak. I glance down, finding the tiny Frenchie firmly wedged between my ankles, snorting at the inconvenience I’m causing.

I blink up, way, way up, and I’m locked into the most unfairly beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen. His glasses are slightly askew, and he’s got just enough scruff to make me want to run my fingers over his jawline.

Holy. Shit. He’s hot. He towers over me, and every inch of him is sharp lines and raw power, all caged up in designer fabric with a stupidly perfect face.

His jaw is so chiseled it could probably cut glass.

His mouth is full and soft and made for sin.

I want to kiss it. He’s got a dark wave of hair, artfully messy, and expensive designer glasses. For one second, I forget my name.

“Whoa,” he says, voice all low and smooth. “You okay?”

If I was okay before, I am officially not okay now. My brain just turned to mush, and my lady bits are officially running the show.

I nod, but it’s a weird, stuttery bobble-head move. “I’m good,” I say, except it comes out like, “I’m guh,” because my mouth is as dry as the desert. I try to play it cool, but I’m pretty sure my face is doing that thing where I look like a Muppet.

He doesn’t let go. His hands are huge, steady, and so freaking warm. They bracket my arms like I might try to escape—which, to be fair, is not totally out of the question. Then, somehow, the universe decides things aren’t mortifying enough.

The Frenchie picks that exact moment to absolutely lose his little mind.

One second, he’s wedged between my ankles like a furry doorstop, and the next, he shriek-barks?

Screams? It’s honestly earsplitting—and right then, he launches himself after a squirrel with the force of a tiny, bat-eared rocket.

His leash rips from Gorgeous Man’s hand.

It snaps across my calves, and my tote bags fly out at warp speed.

For a second, I’m just a human windmill, flailing in slow-mo, and then Gorgeous Man’s arms catch me again.

Hard. My face slams straight into his chest, and holy fuck, he smells like expensive aftershave, fresh laundry, and oh so yummy. My hussy lady bits are doing the Tango.

Somewhere, the Frenchie is in hot pursuit, ass wiggling, leash dragging behind him. He steadies me, big hands splayed low on my hips. His mouth dips close to my ear, voice dark velvet. "Wait here."

“Yes, sir,” flashes through my mind, but I think I actually whimper a little as he lets go, gently, like I'm breakable. And then he’s gone, moving way too fast for someone in Italian leather shoes, chasing the Frenchie across the fake-perfect lawn.

He looks back once, brown eyes locked on mine, and holy hell, I feel it everywhere.

My legs? Still jelly. My insides? Melting.

I'm just standing here on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to breathe, while Gorgeous Man sprints after his demon dog.

It's honestly the hottest thing I've ever seen. His tailored suit and fancy dress shoes don’t slow him one bit as he chases down a stocky Platinum Frenchie in a raincoat.

Frenchie zig-zags across the perfect lawn with his little rear end wiggling and the leash streaming behind him like a party streamer.

Gorgeous Man finally lunges, snags the little Frenchie under one arm like a football, and straightens, muttering to the little dog the whole time.

He stalks back toward me, dog tucked under his arm, eyes fixed on mine. My heart pounds in my throat as he stalks toward me. The Frenchie snorts, totally smug, and I realize I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my mouth hanging open and two tote bags on the ground at my feet.

He stops right in front of me.

His molten dark chocolate eyes are fixed on me like I’m the only person on planet Earth.

He puts the Frenchie down but keeps the leash clamped in one big hand.

The tiny dictator immediately tries to bulldoze my feet again, but Gorgeous Man just tightens his hand on the leash and plants himself between me and the bulldog’s next attack.

He's huge. Like, blocks-out-the-sun huge. The Frenchie, meanwhile, is making little huffing noises and eyeballing my ankles, but Gorgeous Man just smiles, all slow-burn and dangerous.

"Sorry about that," he says, his voice deepening. "Salty gets, uh, passionate about his squirrel patrol." He glances down at the dog, then back at me, and I swear to God my ovaries self-combust. "I'm Jay Vale. And this little asshole is Salty."

He holds out a hand. I have to shift my tote so I don't drop it with the others, but when his palm wraps around mine, electricity flows up my spine.

"Nadia Mirewood," I manage, and holy crap, my voice is still there. "And it’s totally fine. Honestly, I’ve survived worse. You should see third graders at recess."

He grins, and it’s like the sun comes out just for me. That grin is lethal. My knees almost give out, and I hope to God he doesn't notice.

His eyes flicker over me, slow and deliberate, lingering everywhere. My hands, my chest, the wild disaster of my hair. I feel my whole face go tomato red.

"Third graders, huh? I bet they're easier to manage than this guy." He jerks his chin toward the Frenchie, who is currently doing his best to sniff his way through my dropped tote bags.

“It would probably be a close tie.” I smile up at him. Oh, man, I’m in so much trouble here.