Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER One - Samantha
CHAPTER Two - Jackson
CHAPTER Three - Samantha
CHAPTER Four - Samantha
CHAPTER Five - Samantha
CHAPTER Six - Jackson
CHAPTER Seven - Samantha
CHAPTER Eight - Samantha
CHAPTER Nine - Samantha
BONUS SCENE - Jackson
- Before You Go...
- Acknowledgements
© 2016 by Veronica Larsen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing by Lea Burn, Burn Before Reading
Interior formatted with Scrivener for Mac version 2.5
Published by Veronica Larsen
Cover design by Goudy Designs
Publication date: June 27th 2016
For anyone whose sarcasm is often lost on others.
I get you.
CHAPTER ONE
Samantha
THE FLURRY OF EXCITEMENT that tears through me when I catch sight of my new apartment building is short lived. Thunder crashes overhead, just as the cab comes to a stop. Of course, the sky would choose this precise moment to open up and unleash hell. Rain pours down so hard, it's as though someone stands above Manhattan just dumping giant buckets of water over the city.
My first thought is of my hair. My typically unruly curls are now a sleek mass of straight hair after a hairstylist tamed them into submission just two days ago. The rain will undo all of it, of course, but I might as well embrace this. Graduation is over with now. It's time to face the real world. In my hand, an active call illuminates the screen of my cellphone. It rings for the seventh time before my sister's voicemail cuts in. "You've reached and missed Delilah. You know what to do."
I groan and hang up. Who leaves voicemails anymore, anyway? She hasn't answer a single one of my texts all morning. The last time I saw Delilah was after my graduation, right before she peeled away in her car to head back to the city, unable or unwilling to stay a minute longer. I told her my flight was for this morning and she said she'd be home. But my sister's so absentminded, I wouldn't be surprised if she forgot what day of the week it is.
The cab driver eyes me in the rearview mirror and shakes his head. I'm sure he's not looking forward to getting out of the car to help with my luggage. I pay and as he counts the bills, consider telling him I can get the bag myself, but he gets out of the cab before I can say anything. This buys me a few seconds to gauge the distance between the curb and the front of the apartment building. Just a few seconds and I should be under the awning, which will provide much-needed coverage while I figure out how to get inside.
Bracing myself, I open the cab door and dart out of the car to meet the driver. We do a quick exchange of the luggage before we both take off running. He goes back to the driver's side and I sprint to the front of the building.
I'm under the awning in just under five seconds, but it doesn't matter. I might as well have stood in the rain for hours because I'm soaked all the way through.
The front doors are locked. I know they are, yet I still pull on them and hear them rattle. The keycard I need to gain access is in my sister's possession—a sister who still hasn't answered her damn phone. My best friend, Grace, I could surely count on, except for the fact that she doesn't move in until tomorrow.
Cupping my hands, I peer through the glass and into the building's lobby, hoping to catch sight of someone who could open the door. The place is empty. It's just before seven in the morning so that's to be expected, but it still sinks my spirits. My body is heavy from fatigue after the red-eye flight. I was looking forward to taking a nice, long shower, but I guess the universe misunderstood my wish.
Another call to my sister goes to voicemail. Accepting defeat, I plop down on top of my luggage and ignore the subtle slushing of liquid beneath me.
Cars rush past, splashing more water onto the sidewalk, as I stare out down the road. Foot traffic is scarce on this block, this time of morning, but I spy a figure moving in the distance. It's a man, jogging up the hill toward me. I watch him bob up and down, growing closer and closer. He's the only other person outside in the storm. And unlike me, he doesn't seem to mind the rain at all, even wearing only a t-shirt and shorts. His pace is steady, like someone who's not at all rushing to get out of the rain.
As he gets closer, I begin to appreciate the way his wet clothes cling to his body, his shirt like paint over the grooves and valleys of his chest and abs.
I mean, wow.
He's a sight for sore eyes. A lean, impressive tower of a man, with a face that could probably bring back my third-grade stutter.
I can't help but stare. And seeing as he's staring right back, I figure he approves. His grin matches my own as he slows to a walk, and I desperately hope he isn't going to stop in front of me. But of course, that's exactly what he does. Staring is one thing, but I'm not mentally prepared to engage another human being in conversation. I need to wind up for stuff like this. I need at least a five-minute warning.
He looks down at me with smiling eyes the shade of some Caribbean seascape, tilts his head and says, "Morning," in a breathy voice, before running his hand through his wet hair to comb it back. His chest still heaves from exertion and rain falls over him but he doesn't seem to care. And me? I'm still staring.
"Can I get through? You're blocking the door," he says.
I jump to my feet.
He moves under the awning, still dripping wet, and pulls a keycard from his pocket. I nearly sigh in relief at the sight of it. He watches me, seeming amused by my desperation, but I can't even begin to play it cool.
"Oh, thank God. You can let me in."
"Now, wait a minute," he taunts, keycard hovering just inches from the security pad and its blinking red light. "Can I get a name, at least?"
"My name's Samantha."
"I'm Jackson."
Another round of thunder shakes the sky and the downpour increases.
"Hey, Jackson, can we talk more inside? We're about to get swept away by the biblical flood."
His lips quirk up as he swipes his keycard through the reader, coming so close his arm brushes against my chest. There's not much room to maneuver with my bag partially blocking the door.
Wordlessly, he holds the door open for me, and when I grab the handle of my suitcase, his hand comes over mine. The unexpected touch sends a thrill through me.
"Let me get this for you."
I almost resist, almost insist I can carry it on my own. But when an insanely hot guy offers to put his rather delicious biceps to use for your convenience, it would be ridiculous to decline.
"Thanks," I say, releasing the handle. He leads the way through the lobby and to the elevator. The doors open before we reach them and an older man steps out, walking past us without even a sideways glance.
Stepping inside, I become self-conscious of my appearance. Is makeup running down my face? Is that why there's a slight smile to his lips?
He presses the button for the eighth floor and glances back in silent question.
"I'm also on eight
."
I say this coolly, but internally? I do an victory dance. A lewd one where I dry hump the air and spank an imaginary ass. Hopefully I remain outwardly unaffected. I run a finger under each eye as if to wipe away any residual moisture, but really, I want to erase the possible raccoon eyes my mascara might have left behind. My hand is clean when I pull it away, which helps my confidence.
"Who are you visiting, Samantha?"
He says my name like he's testing out how it tastes in his mouth, savoring each syllable. I make the mistake of glancing down to the front of his shorts, which are just as soaked as his shirt and clinging to him just the same way. Holy crap. There's definitely something to hang on to inside those shorts.
I clear my throat and give him a polite smile.
"No one. I live here," I say, and when his gaze moves down to my lips, I lose my nerve and start to ramble. "I'm moving in with my sister, who isn't answering her phone. It's so like her, you know? Never really paying attention to what's going on around her." Stop talking. "And I'm a little annoyed because I'm tired. I was up all night. All night." I stop, then rush to add, "I'm not a stripper."
I shift my footing, aware I've revealed way too much information.
He stares at me with those cool blue eyes that send a refreshing shiver over my body, then chuckles, filling what would've otherwise been an awkward silence.
"Do you really live here?" I ask, trying to regain my cool. "Or did you pickpocket someone for their keycard on your morning jog?"
"Hang on. You're the stranger here, and therefore, the hypothetical criminal. I haven't dismissed you as a possible threat yet."
"Really?" I gesture at myself. At my soaked clothes, at what I'm sure is an exhausted expression. "Do I really look like a threat?"
"You're right. Look at you…good God, are those freckles?"
"Are you going to ask me if they're everywhere?"
His eyes widen with humor. "Are they?"
"Yes. Yes, they are."
He half turns, laughs and looks back at me, his bottom lip slightly between his teeth. Somehow, that simple move is insanely sexy.
This is quite possibly the best elevator ride I've ever been on.
My fingers brush my cheek in a reflex. There are just a few freckles dotting my cheeks. I usually cover them with makeup because they make me look younger than I prefer.
"You're too adorable to be a murderer."
"Looks can be deceiving," I tease.
Never thought I'd want a guy to call me adorable. But Jackson? He can call me whatever he wants.
"Is that a dimple?" I ask. "See, now that's adorable."
The elevator comes to a stop and I realize I still haven't gotten hold of my sister.
"Crap," I hiss under my breath as I take hold of my luggage in one hand and pull out my phone with the other.
Jackson steps aside to let me exit first and I am acutely aware of him watching me walk down the hall. The phone rings in my ear just once then goes right to voicemail.
"Delilah, you better be home. I was stuck outside in the rain and got let into the building by a possible serial killer with adorable dimples, which just makes him all the more dangerous. You know how I feel about dimples." Jackson's chuckle fills the hall and I smile. "I'll be at the door in ten seconds. So open up before I let him murder me."
I hang up and continue on to the sound of Jackson walking behind me. I'm not sure why we aren't walking side by side. Neither of us says a word, and there's a tension in the silence, a sense of being hyper-aware of someone's presence and knowing they are hyper-aware of yours.
When I finally reach my apartment door, I rest my luggage against the wall and knock a few times.
Jackson walks past, and as he does, he says, "See you around, freckles."
I give him a playful smirk over my shoulder, mentally high-five myself for my coyness, and then knock on the door again. Jackson comes to a stop a couple doors down, fishes for his keys and opens his door. All the while, I stand outside of my new home, waiting and dripping, a puddle of water growing beneath my feet.
The bubbly sensation I had while flirting with him is dissipating, my stomach sinking at the realization Delilah's not here.
And I have no way of getting inside.
"Freckles," Jackson calls from down the hall. "Come here."
I hesitate before responding. "I'm fine, thanks."
"Come on," he says, setting a hand over his chest. "I can't leave you out here like a lost puppy. Breaks my heart."
I stare at the closed door in front of me.
Well, what are my choices? I don't know anyone else in the building, or even within a ten-mile radius of this building. I have no clue where Delilah is or how long it will be until she returns my call. This Jackson guy is beyond cute and seems decent enough. We are neighbors. And he did trust me enough to let me into his building.
Okay, self, you've obviously made up your horny little mind.
"I'm texting my sister, letting her know where I am," I call out to him. "You know, just in case you try to impale me."
"I'd only impale you if you wanted me to and only with things you'd want to be impaled with."
That's awful and I love it. His dark humor, the way he stands outside of his open door, arms open as if I'm supposed to rush into them after what he just said.
He's freaking custom made, just for me.
I'm heading in his direction before I fully decide what I'm going to do. We cross the threshold into his apartment, him first and me right behind. My amusement dies when I notice the guy sitting on the couch, staring at Jackson and me. His face is scrunched up in confusion. He's wearing pajamas, eating cereal, and the sounds coming from the television tell me he's watching the morning news.
"Should I…be here right now?" he asks Jackson.
It's impossible to not feel awkward as I stand in this living room, unannounced and looking at him like he just ruined my entire life. Okay, maybe not my whole entire life, but I sure as hell would've preferred to be alone with my new friend.
Jackson ignores his question. "Samantha, this is Heath. Heath, this is our new neighbor, Samantha."
"Hi," I say, with a small wave.
"Excuse my outfit," Heath says. "Jackson didn't tell me he was planning to impale anyone this morning."
He sets down his bowl of cereal and the move reveals the details of his t-shirt. Huge, block letters on it read, I have a PHD. And underneath, in smaller letters, Pretty Huge Dick.
I scratch behind my ear, silently wondering just how much sausage I've signed up for this morning.
"Ignore him," Jackson says. He walks farther into the living room, but when he notices I'm still by the door, he adds, "Come in. Make yourself at home. Do you want to change or something? You've got to be cold."
And as he says it, it's suddenly true. Outside, the rainwater didn't feel so bad. But inside, with the AC running at full-blast, my wet clothes are getting cooler by the second. I inspect my shirt to find my nipples have joined the party, poking straight through my damn bra. I cross my arms over my chest.
"That'd be great."
I clumsily search through my luggage for something to change into, then head through the door Jackson identified as the bathroom. The moment I close the door, a rush of giddiness comes over me. This time I do my victory dance, for real, spinning around in the small space.
What are the odds I'd run into such a freaking hottie and we'd hit it off so well? What are the odds he'd live just down the hall? I've had the absolute worst luck with men, so this? This is like a sign things are taking a turn for the better.
I take in my surroundings. The bathroom's small, with little to no decor aside from the navy blue stripped carpet and a blue hand towel of a different shade. I get the urge to snoop around. You can tell a lot about a person by what they keep in their medicine cabinet.
That desire is chased away by the sight of my own reflection. My makeup isn't running the way I'd feared, it's completely gone. Actually,
I don't think I wore any makeup last night when I rushed to the airport. I stare at myself for longer than usual, trying to see what Jackson might see. My freckles. My deep auburn hair, stained darker from rainwater, and pulled up in a ponytail. I guess I look sort of cute. Fresh-faced, despite how exhausted I am.
I remove my clothes and wring them out in the sink, along with my hair. After stuffing the wet clothes into a plastic bag, I pull on a fresh blouse and a pair of jeans. Suddenly energized, I give myself a final once-over before going back out to the living room.
I find only Heath, who tells me Jackson is also changing.
"Heard you got locked out," Heath says.
"Speaking of which," I say, shooting Delilah a quick text message. If it weren't typical of her to take forever to return calls and messages, I'd start getting worried.
This time, she actually responds.
[Yoga ran late. Be home in ten minutes.]
I reel back my annoyance and shoot Heath a polite smile. "My sister's on her way."
"Is she hot?"
"Uh…"
I want my baby sister nowhere near this man with a PHD.
"She's not that crazy girl from 805, is she?"
I raise a brow and he rounds his mouth in surprise.
"Oh. She is the crazy girl from 805."
"My sister's not crazy."
He shrugs. "I just know she ran off her last roommates."
It's true my sister wasn't compatible with her original roommates, but I wonder how Heath would know this. Besides, it all worked out. I had a place waiting for my move back into the city and my friend Grace happened to be looking for a place as well.
"She is hot, though," Heath says. "In an off-putting way where you aren't sure if you should fall asleep around her after sex."
"You can stop now."
"Okay." He pats the couch next to him. "Come, sit."
I hesitate for a second at his familiarity, but there's just something about him, an aura impossible to dislike. Like someone you've known your whole life and have come to terms with their obnoxiousness. Like a little brother.
I settle down next to him and we talk, surprisingly candidly, for a bit. About the storm outside. About how he just got laid off work and is now sleeping on his brother's couch. About whether or not my sister is hot. About Jackson being in the middle of his medical residency as a neurosurgeon.
You and Me Page 1
