Even cluttered with dusty boxes, this place is gorgeous. The furniture is sleek and stylish, but comfortable. All the countertops are granite; all the tables are glass-topped. Although there are only two real rooms, they both feel huge compared to the apartment I shared with three roommates in law school. The kitchen is fully loaded and offers enough room for a dining area. The other half of the unit has a queen-sized bed, a walk-in closet with mirrored sliding doors, and a fifty-inch flat-screen smart TV mounted on the wall above the foot of the bed. Best of all, the porcelain bathtub is long enough to lie down in without concussing myself on the toilet.

I kick off my tennis shoes, feeling the cool hardwood floor on my hot, tired feet, and stow them in the entry closet. On the other side of the front door is a tiny table, just large enough for a glass key dish and a china vase holding three purple tulips. I gently stroke their velvety petals to confirm that the flowers are indeed real. Then I weave through the stacks of cardboard and slide open the door to my biggest indulgence: the small balcony.

Even when splurging, my guilty conscience has its limits. I chose a studio model rather than a one-bedroom, and I only ponied up for a furnished unit because it was cheaper than shipping my own furniture over two thousand miles. But the prospect of a balcony—of basking in the sun while I read, sipping wine on breezy evenings, enjoying what feels to me like year-round summer—had been just too tempting. I go outside and drink in the view of swaying palm trees, mansions with blue-green lawns, and Lake Hollywood sparkling in the distance. If I squint, I can even glimpse the blocky white letters of the Hollywood sign.

I spend almost half an hour just strolling around and inspecting the entire unit. Of course, I knew exactly what it looked like before mailing in my signed contract and down payment. I pored over the property management website, admiring the photo gallery, the floor plans, and the long list of amenities. But now is the first time I’m seeing it in person. All elegant and cozy. All mine.

Once again, the difference between anticipation and reality hits me—and not just with the condo itself. My landlord isn’t quite what I imagined based on Roxy’s description. But he hasn’t disproved any of that scathing story, either. It’ll take a lot to make me relax my guard with him.

Still . . . if Hayden actually shows up on Sunday, I think I just found a new yoga partner in my building’s man-whore owner.

This should be interesting.

Chapter Five

Hayden

Why in the fuck did I agree to this?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, cursing at myself for this brilliant fucking plan I hatched with Emery—the girl in 4B—who I’m most decidedly not banging. That’s bullshit right there. I should be waking up with my cock in her mouth, not because I told her we’d do yoga this morning.

Yoga, for fuck’s sake.

It’s not the best plan I’ve ever had, especially after the amount of Jack I downed last night. My head is spinning like a top as I grab my phone and dial Beth’s number. I know she’ll be up at this ungodly hour.

“Beth. Help me?” I croak once she answers.

“What did you do now, you fuckwad?”

“Jeez. Is that any way to talk to your favorite brother?” I cradle my phone between my shoulder and chin and head into the kitchen to fire up my espresso machine. Make it a double. Why in the fuck had I thought it was a good idea to drink so much last night? Oh yeah, because Hudson laid out all my demons, examining each one in the harsh light.

“You’re my only brother. Now get on with it. I have yogurt smeared into my couch, and I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

I should ask why her kids are allowed to bring yogurt into the living room, but I know from past experience that she lets those rug rats get away with anything, so long as they bat their little eyelashes at her. My niece and nephew are three and four years old. To say they’re a handful would be a huge underestimation of their abilities.

Instead I rub a hand through my sleep-styled hair and lean my hip against the counter. “Do you know of a good yoga place I can take my friend Emery this morning?”

“Friend?” she asks, choking on the word.

I grit my teeth and hit the Brew button on the machine. “Yeah, she’s new in town.”

Several moments of silence follow. If it weren’t for the two little voices arguing in the background, I might have thought she hung up on me. “Beth?”

“Yeah. I’m here. Sorry, just a little flabbergasted.”

“About?” I roll my eyes, knowing what’s coming.

“You have a female friend, and you’re taking her to yoga.” She enunciates each word in a tone of pure disbelief.

Precious drops of dark liquid drop into my waiting mug and I consider, briefly, licking them out rather than waiting for the cup to finish brewing.

“Yes. Why?” My tone is short, but shit—after Hudson’s pep talk, Beth’s attitude is pissing me off. Doesn’t anyone believe I can keep my dick in my pants? It only makes me want to prove them all wrong.

“Well, for starters, you don’t have female friends, and secondly, you don’t do yoga. Forgive me for being completely caught off guard here. Who are you and what have you done with my brother? Plus, why are you up so early?”

“I could do yoga,” I say, my male pride wounded. It can’t be that hard, can it?

“Of course you can, it’s a free country. I’m just confused. Are you feeling okay? Are you sick?”

My headache intensifying, I take a deep breath. “Will you help me or not?” All humor is gone from my tone. I didn’t expect a fight when I called her this morning. I called needing answers, not to play Twenty Questions. I knew Beth’s mommy friends did yoga, and I knew she wouldn’t steer me wrong. If she could focus long enough to give me the damn information.

“Take her to Deep Connections on Sepulveda.”

The name of the studio sends my thoughts spiraling—about just how deeply I’d like to connect with my new neighbor Emery—preferably my cock in her warm cunt. Mmm . . .

“Hayden, did you hear me?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it. Thanks, sis.”

“I’m on their website. There’s a class starting in forty minutes. Now, I want to hear more about this Emery.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

“She’s a lawyer.” Almost. Sort of.

“Wow. A girl with brains. That’s a nice change of pace for you. Tell me about her.”

Smirking at the memory of meeting Miss Succulent New-in-Town Brunette, I grab my cup of espresso. “I thought you had a yogurt situation to take care of.”

“What? No. That can wait.”

It’s then I notice that her kids have gone completely silent. Either that or she’s locked herself in the bathroom, hoping for some privacy while she grills me for details about my private life. Ding, ding, ding. That’s the much more likely scenario.

My gut instinct is to blow Beth off, to tell her it’s none of her business. But as I stride across my living room and sink into my favorite leather armchair, I realize that would be a dick move. Even though she’s annoying at times, Beth and I are super close. Despite being my older sister, she’s also one of my closest friends. I eat dinner with her family a few times a week. When she needed an emergency C-section with her second baby, I was the one who moved into her guest room for two weeks to help take care of her and the baby after her husband, David, returned to work. And she’s always been there for me no matter the favor, big or small.

“Hayden, stop holding out on me. There’s got to be a story here. Spill it.”

I chuckle at her desperation before taking another sip of my scalding-hot beverage. “There is. And I’ll tell it to you.”