B00Z637D2Y (R) (3 page)

“Yeah. I’ve always had a way with animals. Dogs love me and I have no problem training them. I’ve even had jobs as a dog-walker and obedience trainer.” Right at home, the dog curled up on a dishtowel that had slipped from the towel bar.

“What do you do now?”

She smiled. “Not much, really.”

Messy, noisy, and lazy. Three strikes. Still… She was different and intriguing. And judging from her toned body, perhaps not lazy after all.

Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her throat. “Oh, no.”

Before he could react, she flew past him and out of the kitchen, Shit Head hot on her heels.

“No!” she yelled from the back of the apartment.

He bolted through her disaster of a bedroom and slammed to a halt just outside her bathroom. Water spilled over the lip of the tub as she groaned and jerked the faucets closed and opened the drain. “Quick! Throw me a towel from the cabinet to your left,” she said.

Weighing the cost of repairing his bathroom floor, which was just on the other side of her wall and would be damaged if the water seeped under, versus replacing his custom made shoes, he sat on the edge of her bed and untied them. Then, he carefully rolled up his suit pants.

Wringing the hand towels she’d tugged from the bar next to her, she shouted over her shoulder. “Please! Throw me a towel!”

He did better than that. He opened the cabinet just inside the bedroom door, grabbed the entire stack of towels, and pitched them to the bathroom floor before shoving them against the wall that adjoined his. Maybe he could spare his shoes
and
his bamboo bathroom flooring. The puddle had barely expanded that far. What a mess. This woman was a disaster. While she fussed over the placement of the towels, he strode back to her bedroom, past her rumpled, unmade bed, and scooped up a heap of clothes from the corner.

“What are you doing?” she practically shrieked as he dropped the clothes to the floor, and then shoved them around with his foot, sopping up some of the remaining water.

“Helping.” He then grabbed the soaked towels one at a time, and careful not to get any water on his suit, he rung them out in the tub which was half-way drained.

She sat back on her heels and brushed escaped hair from her face, and then snatched up a black lace thong from the top of the pile. “The towels were probably enough,” she said, grabbing another pair of panties from the dry section of clothes. “Now I have to wash all my clean clothes again.”

Clean? Who dumps unfolded clean clothes on the floor?
“I’m sorry. I assumed they were dirty.”

“Do you assume things a lot?”

“My assumptions are almost always correct.”

“But not this time.”

He smiled. “Clearly not.”

As she pulled another lacy scrap of lingerie from the pile on the floor—this one appeared to be a teddy type of thing—he stifled a groan at the image running through his mind of her wearing it…it and the other pieces of lace and satin clutched in her fist. Noticing his stare, she balled them up and blushed. Maybe she had some self-consciousness after all. Following a quick circle to check out the floor, her stance relaxed and she took a deep breath. “So, do you live on this floor?”

Again, she’d thrown him off balance. He’d assumed she knew who he was. Most people did—if not from business journals, then from the news outlets or tabloids. His concerted effort to refine his image and bring his name and that of Anderson Enterprises to the forefront of the business world made him a near celebrity in some circles. Obviously, this girl didn’t get out much…or she didn’t care, which puzzled him more. “Yes. I live in 1206.”

She passed him and headed into her bedroom. “Apartment 1206… Is that across the hall?”

“No.” He pointed to their adjoining wall. “It’s next door to you.”

She froze. Then her shoulders stiffened and she straightened, spine rigid.

Rigid
, his psychiatrist’s favorite word to describe him.

As a scowl darkened her face, the entire world seemed to stand still, except the dog, who nonchalantly strolled to the foot of the bed, yawned, and then lifted his leg on Michael’s thousand-dollar custom made shoes.

Chapter Two

Mia closed her eyes and counted.
Breathe in four, out eight. In four, out eight.
She wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed or mad, but once she was sure she wouldn’t go all Taz on the guy, she faced him. “You’re the asshole who keeps reporting me to the building security officer.”

At least he showed some smarts and kept his mouth shut, eyes flitting to the panties clutched to her chest, then back to her face, then down at Clancy who had just peed in his shoe. She almost felt sorry for the guy, but then she remembered her last phone call with Ms. Braxton. She’d been pretty sure the woman was going to fire her and kick her out because of the calls from building security. “One more phone call, and you’re gone,” Ellen Braxton had yelled. If she sent Mia packing, she’d have no place to live for the next couple of weeks and wouldn’t be able to keep working at Heart’s Home. It was the first job she’d ever loved, and she hated even the thought of losing it.

“Out,” Mia shouted from the bathroom doorway. “Get out of here. I almost lost my place to live because of you.”

“I
have
lost a place to live because of you,” he replied picking up his shoes. “I can’t even sleep as a result of your noise.”

“Out!” She gestured to the bedroom door, forgetting she still clutched a fistful of undergarments.
Perfect.
She should market this. The Panty Pointer. All it needed was a laser. No. Clearly it worked without one. His unnerving blue eyes locked on the purple thong with the bow on the back hanging from her pinky finger.

After he delivered an eye roll she probably deserved, he headed out of the bedroom.

“You don’t sleep anyway,” she shouted as he squeezed by the chair he’d stood on to remove the battery from the alarm over the front door.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was level and calm. Almost too controlled—which irked her. She wanted to crack that calm. See this perfect man ruffled.

“Oh, oooooh!” she moaned, imitating a number of women she’d heard through the walls before she’d cranked tunes to drown them out. “Ahhhh, yes,” she added with enthusiasm, pleased by the stunned look on his face.

Unfair, that’s what it was. To lie there alone every night, regretting all the crap decisions she’d made over the years, while her asshole neighbor got laid simply because he was rich. At least that’s what Ms. Braxton had told her about him. Rich, and stuck up, and the ultimate control freak who should be avoided at all costs. “Yes, baby. Mmmm. There! Oh, more!” she continued when he simply stared at her slack-jawed.

He shook his head as if to clear it, and then turned to leave.

“Hold on,” she said. “What about Clancy?”

A confused expression crossed his face as if he didn’t recognize the name.

“The
dog?”
she said, pointing to Clancy who was curled up on Gladys’s afghan in the corner. Gladys was Mia’s favorite resident at Heart’s Home. She always acted grouchy, but Mia knew it was just a coping mechanism. Maybe this guy’s calm demeanor served the same purpose. You can’t get hurt if you keep people at arm’s length. If only Mia could do that. She
should
do that, especially with attractive men. Men like Michael Anderson. “Please leave.”

His features hardened. “Come on, dog,” he muttered from the doorway.

She placed her hands on her hips. The guy was clueless. And handsome as hell. Ms. Braxton had made him out to be a horrible man—a monster, which was why she’d begun tormenting him in the first place. In her head, Mia had pictured him like an ogre in a movie—not young, fit, and friendly. Oh, yeah, she’d felt those muscles, as well as other hard things, beneath that designer suit, which was why she hadn’t connected his first and last name. This was the dreaded Michael Anderson. The Grand Poobah of “My way or the highway.”

Though, as she stood there watching him try unsuccessfully to coax Clancy by promising him treats that the dog knew would never materialize, she found herself fighting back a smile. Maybe doing it his way wouldn’t be all that bad.

Wait.
What was wrong with her? Never again would she make allowances for a man being a jerk. Just like Jason, this guy was heartache in a pretty package. Better to run him off right away while the running off was good.

She picked Clancy up and shoved him into Michael’s chest. “Maybe next time, you’ll be responsible and put him on a leash.”

His bright blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “The only thing that needs to be on a leash around here is you.”

A line like that should have been followed by a graceful exit. Maybe even a dramatic door slam, but perfectionist Michael Anderson’s grand exit consisted of stubbing his bare toe against the doorframe while balancing a dog in one arm and holding his pee-filled shoes out in front of him with the other.

As she shoved the chair aside and closed the door, Mia’s feelings ping-ponged back and forth. Hate or like. Laugh or cry. Hate and cry were in the lead. Her obnoxious, uptight, tattletale next door neighbor had gotten the last words in… and they stung.

All her life, she’d been told she was impulsive, flighty, reckless, and irresponsible Obviously, Michael Anderson thought so, too.
Well, screw him.
Screw all of them—especially her ex, Jason Tipton.

Slumping down on the sofa, she stared at the canvas in front of her, the fifth in a series commissioned by the owners of Heart’s Home, called “Life in the Sun.” Happiness was what it conveyed—bright, and carefree and full of joy, which was exactly what she’d been going for when she painted it. And exactly what she wanted for herself, but somehow it never happened. Without fail, she always fell short. Just like this time.

With a sigh, she pitched the rescued underwear on the sofa cushion, then walked to the wet bar and pulled her paint brushes out of the sink.

Why did the hot guy with the hard body and pretty face have to be Michael Anderson? Why couldn’t he have been some other neighbor—one who she hadn’t been warned against, one who she hadn’t intentionally baited and tormented for weeks, one who didn’t smell so freaking good. Closing her eyes, she remembered his scent—like expensive aftershave. And he felt like…

Nuh uh.
She opened her eyes and slammed her brushes down on the granite counter. She wouldn’t allow herself to do that. Not over a man who could cost her a place to live. Not for any man. Not ever again.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t call security about the music. This time wasn’t her fault, really. Unlike at night, she wasn’t intentionally bugging the guy. Ms. Braxton had told her he was never home before eight at night on weekdays. She thought she could work without disturbing anyone.

If she hadn’t dropped her wireless headphones in the toilet the day she moved in, none of this would have happened. Once she completed this series of paintings, she’d have enough cash to replace the headphones. She just had to find a way to stay there that long.

She jumped when a knock sounded on the door. Maybe the high-and-mighty Mr. Anderson had returned for something—like to sling another insult, perhaps.

Instead, she found the building super, Mr. Grant. He was a huge guy dressed in blue coveralls. She assumed the full beard was an effort to compensate for his receding hairline.

“Hi, again, Miss Mia,” he said. “I hear you had some more trouble.”

Oh, God. If someone called him, they probably notified Ms. Braxton. She’d put money on the snitch being Michael Anderson.
The jerk.
She took a deep breath through her nose and caught the faintest lingering hint of his cologne.
The hot, good-smelling jerk.
Maybe she shouldn’t have been so rude. He might have been able to help her out with Ms. Braxton. And he certainly was easy on the eyes. “Yeah. I burned some bread and overflowed the tub.”

He shook his head. “You need to stop doing this kind of thing.”

“It’s not like I do it on purpose.” She gestured for him to enter.

“It’s also not like you
don’t
do it on purpose,” he grumbled as he passed her on the way to the bathroom.

Zing!
He and Anderson should work up a duet act: How to make Mia feel like crap.

“You’re going to need a dehumidifier,” he called from the bathroom. “Looks like no harm done. Did you burn anything other than the bread?”

“Only some bridges.”

“Pardon?”

“No.”

He emerged wiping his hands on the front of his chest, keys jangling from the huge ring strung through a loop at his waist.

“Who called to report this?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. It was that uptight jackass Michael Anderson, wasn’t it?”

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but snapped it shut.

She yanked the band from her ponytail and fluffed her hair. “Of course it was. I’m probably an entry in his perfectly organized, up-to-the-minute day planner: Call and report Mia.” She scraped her hair back from her face and wound the band around once. “Make Mia lose her place to live.” She tightened the band another time with a snap. “Make her life a living hell.”

Mr. Grant simply stared at her. After a moment he shook his head. “You really don’t get it.”

Angry prickles rose on her neck. She wasn’t sure what made her madder: the condescending tone of the Super, the leash comment from Michael Anderson, or the fact she was undeniably physically attracted to her bossy neighbor and wanted a do-over.

Definitely the latter. Being hot for the control freak would result in nothing but a shit show. She’d clearly lost her last miniscule thread of common sense. Instead of responding to the Super, she slumped into a chair.

“Mr. Anderson’s not really that bad,” he said. “He’s just detail oriented. Powerful men often are.”

Oh, now the guy was a philosopher.
Great.
She buried her face in her hands. “Powerful is right. He’s powerfully obnoxious.”

“Can I give you some advice, Miss Mia?”