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Shit.

The hockey stick skittered across the linoleum as the world tilted sideways. My ass tipped damn near over my head, stopped only by my knee catching the window casing. Pain exploded through my face and shoulder as they broke the fall, my lungs struggling to regain air.

“Ow.”

Move, Graciella. Get. Up.

Nothing. Not even a pinky toe twitched.

Life Alert might have a new target audience. Because I couldn’t be the only person to discover that fight and flight weren’t the only panic responses while lying sprawled out on an ex-office-fuck’s floor.

Apparently, freezing was the third option.

A slice of light streamed through the open window, bathing the cramped living room’s mismatched furniture with an orange tinge that glinted off a collection of empty beer bottles. That probably explained why no footsteps pounded down the hall to investigate the crash. A few beats passed, and still no one emerged from the shadows. I rested my forehead on the linoleum, the faint scent of dirt and food tickling my nose as I sucked in air, finally remembering how to breathe.

People said my situational awareness was bad?

There was an active break-in at this man’s home, and he didn’t bother checking the crash in his apartment?

Not even a yell to ask if anyone was there—or a damn light flicking on.

I rolled my eyes and army-crawled forward until my legs could join the party on this side of the window. The frame dug into my hips as I wriggled. Car alarms and traffic noise filtered in from the distance, helping to hide my hiss. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, logic begged me to reconsider. To not be so impulsive.

Too bad.

Planting my feet, I rose to a crouch, duck-walking farther into the room. There was no version of reality where I left this apartment without finishing what I came here to do. This man-child stole the position I’d been working toward since I accepted the sports marketing job, and he was going to give it back.

I scooped up my partner in crime from where it’d landed near the foot of the wood and glass coffee table littered with piles of small caffeine pouch tins—there was a fifty-fifty shot they were empty—and finance magazines. My jaw ached where I bit down, staring at the cover of the Financial Times like I could set it on fire.

Caleb wasn’t even interested in public relations, hadn’t even known about the opening until I’d mentioned it two weeks ago. I shouldn’t have said anything. He’d asked me to stay the night, and I’d panicked, fed him some bullshit excuse about needing to prepare for my interview.

Creating fictional plans had seemed better than discussing why I didn’t sleep over with men…ever. Let them break my back while the moon was out? Sure. But closing my lids and falling into dreamland together?

Never.

Staying overnight implied intimacy, and intimacy led to disappointment.

Why hadn’t I told him I had a pap smear to get to?

I shook off the thought, lip curling as I maneuvered around what looked like a pile of underwear and pants, both probably dirty—it was hard to tell in the dim light of his hallway.

Pig. He didn’t have to leave his apartment to do laundry, and he still couldn’t be bothered?

I loved my little studio, but damn, it would be nice to fall asleep without staring at kitchen cabinets or being judged by a pile of dirty clothes.

He didn’t need this promotion. I did.

He didn’t deserve this promotion. I did.

I reached his bedroom door and my bravado wavered. The little voice asking, “Why didn’t you wait until he called you back to address this?” got loud. I knew where I should be, tucked in bed, contemplating whether that man with the wild hair was onto something with the whole aliens-built-the-pyramids thing. Not pressing the side of my sweaty face against a door. But here I was.

Damn it.

There was a faint thumping, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the room or my chest. My sweaty palm hovered over the knob, teeth digging into the fleshy part of my bottom lip.

Was I really going to do this? Bust in there and demand he turn down the position?

I glanced over at where I knew the in-unit washer-dryer combo hid behind accordion doors. That was all the motivation I needed. My grip tightened on the stick, and I barreled into his bedroom.