Page 4

I blink at her, and the words are tumbling out before I can think. “I mean, I don’t always keep to myself. It… it might be nice to share.”

The second they hit the air, I want to shove them back down my throat.

Fix. It. Now.

“If you do… want company. I mean—not like that, just—uh, bad Saturdays, you know? I’ve got glasses. For the wine. If you… y’know—” I snap my mouth shut, blood rushing to my ears.

Christ, why can’t I shut up?

Her grin widens as she rakes her gaze over me again. “Hmm… not so quiet after all.”

A half-laugh, half-breath snags awkwardly in my throat. But relief floods through my veins the second I spot my door—a small mercy, an escape hatch from standing here drowning in my awkwardness. If I can just get the key in the lock without dropping it, I’ll be safe. Alone.

My fingers fumble against the ridges, clumsy, slippery with nerves. Don’t say anything else. Unlock the door. Go inside. Eat the damn pasta.

She doesn’t break stride as I slow at my door, just keeps going, shoes muffled against the carpet. Panic stirs in my chest, and I scrape for something—anything—to claw back a shred of composure. I can’t let her keep walking. I can’t let it end with me looking like some tongue-tied idiot who can’t even string two sentences together.

“My name’s Noah,” I blurt out after her.

Three doors down, she finally pauses, slipping her key into the lock, her shoulder angling just enough for me to catch the curve of her smirk. “Sable,” she says, before she looks up to meet my eyes. “And I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

The latch clicks shut behind her, leaving me stranded in the hall with my mouth dry and my pulse still trying to climb out of my throat.

Smooth, Noah. Real smooth.

I shove my own door open and step into the chaos of half-opened boxes and bare walls. The takeout bag lands on the kitchen counter with a dull thud, the wine bottle rolling far enough to knock against the backsplash.

A shaky laugh escapes my throat as I tug open a cabinet, only to find it empty. Right. Haven’t actually unpacked the glasses yet. Of course. With a muttered curse, I push aside a box until I dig out two glasses wrapped in newsprint.

One for me, and one in case Sable decides—oh, stop it. What the hell makes you think she’d ever actually knock on your door?

I plate up the takeout, lean against the counter, and fork in a bite of pasta that tastes like cardboard. I chew past the too-strong garlic and the stodgy sauce, trying to focus on the meal that definitely shouldn’t have cost twenty-four dollars. But all I can taste is the mortification singeing the back of my throat. The words I’d blurted out are circling round my mind at a hundred miles an hour. And fuck—the curve of her mouth, the way her eyes burned when she looked me over. That vanilla on her skin—soft, sweet, clinging to my nose. And those jeans… the way they caught at her hips, the dip of that top…

The fork clatters against the plate as I set it down, appetite gone. I drag the wine bottle closer, tip a heavy pour into my glass, and take a heavy gulp before scraping my palm down my face.

“You’ve known her five minutes, you fucking idiot,” I mutter to the empty kitchen. “Stop acting like a damn kid.”

Chapter 3

Sable

The TV plays in the background as I sink into the couch cushions and shovel a forkful of cold noodles into my mouth.

The new neighbor is… interesting, to say the least. That look on his face. Jesus. It was like he’d been caught shoplifting candy and I’d been the officer interrogating him the whole ride up. He was nervous, twitchy, gripping that little takeout bag like it was a life raft. And yet—fuck—he was attractive. Stupidly attractive. Broad shoulders under that rumpled button-down, hair falling just a little too long over his forehead, and that nervous smile… like he was trying to apologize for existing. It could’ve been boyish if it weren’t sitting on such a distractingly good-looking man.

I jab my fork at the carton, rolling my eyes at myself. I don’t usually go for the whole awkward, deer-in-headlights thing. Confidence is what normally calls for me. But look at where that’s gotten me so far—years of disappointment and a dent in my vibrator batteries. And there’s definitely something about watching six-foot-something of tense muscle practically combust because my knuckle grazed his when I pressed the button for our floor. It was refreshing actually. A nice change from the over-slick bullshit I’m used to. So I guess that’s now permanently wormed its way under my skin.

And then that awkward, stumbling invite—if you could even call it that—‘bad Saturdays and an extra glass.’ I only mentioned it as a throwaway after a shitty night, something easy to say in whatever push-pull, teasing conversation we had going on. But the way he scrambled after it… underneath the stammering... I think he wanted me to say yes.

I stare down at the cold, greasy noodles, laying limp on the fork. I might take him up on it. What the hell would I even have to lose? He’s just a neighbour. A hot one with a nervous smile and a voice that tripped over itself like a runner on a cracked sidewalk.

My fists push into the cushions as I push up, but I only make it halfway to standing before I flop back down.

No. I can’t go. That would be insane. I literally just had another man inside me an hour ago. The thought makes my skin prickle. Connor’s sweat, his voice… the memory of it drags like grit under my fingernails. Sliding straight from that into knocking on the new guy’s door screams reckless, maybe even a little trashy.

But then the image of Noah’s face at his door flashes in my mind—nervous as hell but trying to hold it together—and my stomach does a flip. He isn’t Connor. Not even close. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

It’s only a few drinks. With a guy. With my neighbor. Totally fine.